There was chanting at first. Voices from tribal choirs seemed to circle him invisibly. Hallucinations of the forest. An illusion; and he hoped that the rat was too. But they were nonetheless there. And their chorus had demanded a fight. Had demanded an end.
Gradually, the choir grew. Accompanying the humming voices were progressive drums that echoed across the air. All that, but Aden knew he was alone.
The darkness continued to worry him. If the beast was going to pounce, he knew he wouldn’t be ready. He didn’t know where. But Aden could feel it. Waiting. Stalking. Looking for the right time.
He had stopped shouting for Agapito’s name or Edgar’s. They weren’t going to come. This was his fight. So he gripped his blade tightly, leveling it to his head—preparing enough force and angle to cut through the rat’s eye with just one push.
He wheezed through the process, the beating of the drums and the humming of the
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