Chapter 22

The tree at their back now seemed an oak, a huge, venerable oak whose branches covered an area as large as a small village. Their feet planted, deep-rooted into the duff of old leaves and acorns, binding them to the very earth as they faced the demon-born creature as they had before—how many times? Rhys was not sure.

He heard Liam’s voice join with his, speaking English words instead of Cymric or Gaelic, but speaking with confidence and force. “I call on thee, all the gods of my people. I call on thee, my ancestors and on the fathers and sons of Coronado and of Geronimo, of Phillip St. George Cook and the first white men who settled here. I call on the spirits of this place, those known to the folk whose land this was in days of yore. Stand with me and defeat this force of evil.”