The air smelled faintly of smoke, underlain by an aroma earthier than wood. A shift in the wind brought a whiff of sage, along with Big Sam's clear voice, toward the three soldiers. The words he spoke were not English. Frank's skin crawled as he finally remembered the last time he had heard such speech. He sunk even lower to the ground, and gestured for his compatriots to do the same.

"What's he doing?" James asked.

Frank paused for a long moment before answering. Despite having seen such a ritual with his own eyes, he had a hard time admitting he believed in such superstitious nonsense. "Voodoo." His voice was flat and barely crept above a whisper.

Davey arched one eyebrow at Frank. "Voodoo? That's nothing but a heap of mumbo-jumbo."

"I wish that...

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