"Do it," Gezza said, forcing steel into his voice.
Marie's face stayed flat, unreadable. She lowered the iron cross to the floorboards (clink) and cradled the small book in both palms like an offering.
"Playbook on your chest," she said, tone flat as a gravestone.
Gezza sat up, dragged the bag closer. The zipper rasped (shrrrk) like a dying breath. He pulled the Playbook free; it vibrated, warm, almost purring against his fingers. What the hell is that?
"Lie back. You're wasting time."
He lowered himself again, spine kissing cold wood. The Playbook settled over his heart (heavy, alive, pulsing in time with his own frantic beat). He stared at the ceiling: cracked plaster, shadows writhing like smoke.
Marie began to chant (low, guttural, the same tongue that had scraped his skull earlier). The candles flared blue. The chalk circle glowed.
The Playbook burned.
Will this even work?
The thought barely formed when the floor vanished.
