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The Last Dance

“At the end of the world there will be suffering, there will be chaos, there will be death. But still, there will be dancing. Dancing is the only hope to overcome the Great Darkness. Dance, Disco Witches, dance!”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #157

THE DANCE FLOOR—9:46 PM

The five Disco Witches entered the Promethean covered in their black capes. As “Pump Up the Jam” by Technotronic blasted, they began strutting toward the center of the dance floor, their arms folded across the tops of their chests I Dream of Jeannie style. Silver silk flags dangled from their left hands while disco-ball rings sparkled on their right. Some men sniggered at the sight of Ronnie in his flowing robe, his head topped with the rhinestone-covered cowboy hat, his face, like the four others, painted with black, white, and silver semi-runic, semi-Mayan symbols, partially masking the crimson of his embarrassment.

“Woo-hoo, Ronnie! Didn’t know drag was your thing!”

“Ronnie, what are you supposed to be? A Christmas tree cowgirl?”

“Isn’t that Trey Winkle’s ex–boy toy? Someone find Trey! He’s gotta see this!”

Ruined, Ronnie thought. I’m ruined. His years of carefully curating his “hot blond jock” image lay crushed under the soles of his silver, sequined cowboy boots.

“Just ignore them!” Howie shouted over the music. “Our job is not about impressing a bunch of self-hating homo-assimilationists. We’re here to help Joe! Hold your head up. You look fabulous!”

Ronnie looked at all the gawkers, seeing neither lust nor envy in their eyes. He had become a sexless, campy part of the scenery. Even his “sexy stud sneer” could barely be seen through his makeup. What a fucked-up summer!

Surrendering, Ronnie dropped the sneer, un-sucked his gut, and allowed his perpetually flexed biceps and pectorals to relax. What’s the point? No one will ever forget this. And then it hit Ronnie—if his reputation was already ruined forever, then he no longer needed to prove himself to anybody. A wave of peaceful energy surged throughout his body while that strange prescient feeling in his stomach got even stronger than before. He looked ahead at Howie, Dory, Lenny, and Saint D’Norman. Their hats and rings shimmered in the disco lights, shoulders pulsing to the beat, strutting toward the center of the dance floor. A mischievous smile erupted across Ronnie’s face. He too began to strut like the others, rooster-flapping his black cape with his elbows.

THE JUDY GARLAND MEMORIAL PATH—9:47 PM

The path along the dunes was more difficult to navigate than Fergal had hoped. He kept getting trapped by dead ends and frequently needed to empty sand from his boat shoes. If it weren’t for the brambles and used condoms, he would have gone barefoot. Because of the darkness, he had to get extra close to any correctly shaped silhouette—whether alone or in the midst of an embrace—and whisper, “Joe? Is that you?” Awkward misunderstandings abounded, inspiring contrite apologies and the batting away of groping hands.

At one point, he was ninety-nine percent sure he saw Joe having sex with two men under a canopy of shrub pine. Enraged, he charged the m é nage. “So this is where you’ve been!” he shouted, kicking sand. “Don’t you know people are going nuts looking for you?”

The rutting triumvirate, horrified, unknotted their amorous tangle. “What the fuck?” the jock-strapped bottom cried out, throwing an empty bottle of poppers. “Back off, ya pervert!”

Fergal flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I just thought you were someone else.”

“No wonder whoever you’re looking for is avoiding you! You’re pathetic!”

Apologizing again, Fergal continued his quest, exercising more caution in his inspections of coupling men. A few minutes later he spied a discarded fanny pack and a pair of glowing white shorts on the pathway. Wasn’t Joe wearing white shorts? On closer inspection, he found the fanny pack contained Joe’s wallet and empty drug vials. Then he saw the smear of blood on the front of the shorts. His insides exploded with a dozen feelings at once, the most prominent being panic and heartbreak. The emotion he longed to feel toward Joe, hatred , was nowhere to be found.

“Vince!” his hoarse voice cried out. “Vince! I found something! Vince!”

THE DANCE FLOOR—10:04 PM

While Ronnie waited anxiously for his next instructions, Elena ran up to Howie, looking frazzled.

“Elena, my dear,” Howie said. “Thank you so much for helping!

“So, what do you need me to do next?” Elena said. “I promise not to ask too many questions. Dory already warned me.”

“Perfect!” Howie handed her a pair of very dark, vintage Chanel sunglasses caked in rhinestones. “Wear these. We don’t want you to hurt your eyesight.”

Elena, following her vow not to ask, shrugged and put on the sunglasses as Howie whispered more directions. A moment later she, the most ravishing bodyguard, began moving people away from the area where the five intended to dance.

Ronnie waved for Howie. “Can someone please give me some instruction here? Is there specific choreography? Do I chant something?”

“My dear,” Howie said, “I can’t go into great detail at the moment. Just do exactly what we do. When the twirling begins, keep your eyes focused on your nose. Never look out. Okay? First, we drink this.” He pulled five capped tincture bottles from his fanny pack, handing one to each of the quorum. “This one with the L on it is for Lenny. It’s alcohol free.”

“What is it?” Ronnie asked.

“Just a little ancient preparation to help us with the twirl. It’s fermented. Augments strength and focus.”

“Cool.” Ronnie grabbed for one, always happy to try out a new party cocktail.

“Places, please!” Howie shouted, directing Ronnie to stand exactly five feet from him, with Lenny five feet away on the other side. That’s when Ronnie noticed the giant pentagram that had been drawn in chalk on the floor. Each of them was to stand at a pinnacle.

“DJ Susan always plays it right after this song,” Howie said. “When I give the signal, then we all drink and”—his voice became almost inaudible as he mouthed the word—“ dance .”

Seconds later, layered under the end notes of Donna Summer’s “On the Radio,” the intro to Sylvester’s “Do Ya Wanna Funk” began.

“There it is!” Howie lifted his tincture to the others. “The Call to Magic!” Ronnie remained silent as Dory, Saint D’Norman, and Lenny recited the words from memory: “Covenant of the Saint, Communion of the Sacred Dance Floor, Sisters of the Twirl. Knuf annaw uoy OD? Em htiw knuf annaw uoy OD? We do!”

The four swallowed their tinctures; Ronnie followed suit. It was nothing like he had ever tasted before—fizzy flavors of flowers, musk, cucumber, cinnamon … life and death.

“Is this where we start flagging?” Ronnie’s viscera vibrated with a newfound energy.

“That’s for later.” Howie tucked his flag in his belt. “As I said, watch … then do!”

The four older Disco Witches folded their arms atop their chests again, closed their eyes, and bowed. Ronnie copied them. Then they slowly opened their arms and let their black robes fall to the floor. Beneath their robes they wore floor-length, weighted white skirts shimmering with mirror sequins. The entire dance club exploded with the light reflecting off their costumes. Their various blouses, more individuated, were equally bedazzling. The club erupted into cheers as the four kicked their black robes away from their feet, bowed one more time, focused their eyes on the tip of their noses and, one by one, began to slowly spin. After several turns, they raised their arms—their right slightly higher than the shoulder, palm up toward the ceiling, their left lower than the shoulder, palm facing down. As their turning escalated, their skirts opened up like shimmering upside-down calla lilies. Their heads were tilted slightly, as if they were listening for something, their eyelids so low they looked closed.

Ronnie watched, enthralled by the four sparkling disco dervishes. He took a deep breath, dropped his black robe and, as they had done, focused his half-closed eyes on the tip of his nose as he began to spin in place, right foot over the left. As he got into the rhythm of the spin, he lifted his right palm to the ceiling and turned his left palm to the floor, turning faster and faster. His skirt began to rise, escalating his spin as if it were being moved by some external force. This is amazing!

Wanting to see the others, he focused his opened eyes outward and promptly tumbled to the floor—just like Howie had warned. He jumped up, got his bearings, and began to turn again, this time keeping his eyes nearly closed, blurred, and aimed at his nose. As his speed increased, he began to feel small gusts of wind from the spinning skirts of his companions. He again lifted his arms: right palm facing up connects to the heavens; left palm facing down shoots energy to all of humanity. He could have sworn he felt sparks between himself and the others—like they were fomenting their own singular electrical weather system.

Sylvester’s song seamlessly mixed into Donna Summer’s “This Time I Know It’s for Real.” Ronnie heard the whoosh of the whirring strands of beads whipping off Howie’s hat, and then the clacking and buzzing sounds of all their collective spangles. It was as if a host of swarming seraphim had alighted onto the dance floor. Was that a merging with the others he was feeling? Was this what melting into the fabric of time and space felt like? Was he letting go of every pretense of being a successful gay he had ever believed and becoming part of something greater?

Then it happened. He felt his feet lifting from the floor. It was only an inch or two, but it was really happening—that same feeling he’d had as a child in his dreams, flying over Northeast Philadelphia and nearby parts of Jersey. The only things holding his body and the others aloft were energy, air, and the music. They were five paper whirly toys set loose into the cosmos and at the same time lovingly held close by the Earth.

Free , Ronnie thought. I’m finally free.

A CLEARING IN THE MEAT RACK—10:13 PM

Gladiator Glen’s hiding place was under a thicket of chokeberry. It was in a small hidden clearing several feet off the regular path on the bay side, near where the solid ground turned soft and became marsh. In the time it took to walk there, Joe’s high had severely dissipated again. While his body still buzzed from the copious quantity of drugs he had ingested, soul-crushing lucidity was catching up to him, shining a sick green spotlight on all he had lost and all those he had hurt. Meanwhile, Gladiator Glen’s attractiveness was flickering on and off like a broken lightbulb. One moment he’d be as handsome as when Joe had first seen him, and the next his muscles seemed to deflate, and his face grew jowly, his teeth twisting and yellowing. It was as if Gladiator Glen’s otherworldly beauty was evaporating from his skin with each moment Joe’s own high grew weaker. Not that any of that was giving Joe second thoughts about what he was there to do. He just needed to get totally fucked up again.

“How’s it going?” Joe’s voice twitched with desperation, annoyed at how long it was taking Gladiator Glen to move a slab of rotted plywood from atop his hiding spot and pull out a large leather backpack.

“All good here.” Gladiator Glen said, digging through the backpack. “So, you got a boyfriend?” He said the words almost mockingly—like a very large schoolyard bully. His low sonorous voice sounded much higher and far more nasally than before.

“No,” Joe said, trying to sneak a glimpse into the backpack. “You really have something that will get me high in there, or—”

“Look, I told you”—Gladiator Glen growled—“I’ll take care of you, boy. So just shut up, okay? There’s plenty of other faggots that wanna play with me.”

Joe fell silent as fear filled his chest. If he had been totally sober, he might have left upon hearing Gladiator Glen use that awful word. If Joe were a better person, he might have said something. But that moment wasn’t about being a better person. And fearing Gladiator Glen felt right. Joe knew he had never deserved someone good or caring like Fergal or Elliot. That was what he’d really wanted from the Gladiator Man, from that very first day—the capacity to not care, the inability to be hurt, the willingness to hurt others. The willingness to hurt Joe.

“Here we go.” Gladiator Glen pulled a plastic bottle filled with a Windex-blue liquid.

Joe’s heart sank. He wished it looked like one of the drugs he had taken earlier—a pill or a powder, something he knew had worked. Glen unscrewed the lid and offered Joe a sniff. It smelled like nail polish remover mixed with something sweet. “You sure that’s a drug?”

“Oh, it’s a drug, all right,” Gladiator Glen said. “I get it from the health food store. It’s called Blue Nitro and helps to build muscle when you sleep, but it also gets you high as a kite—makes you feel real sexy too. Just sip a little, though—it’s powerful stuff.”

Ignoring the warning, Joe lifted the bottle and took a huge gulp, as if the sheer quantity would burn away all the feelings.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Glen grabbed the Blue Nitro back. “That’s too much!”

“I don’t feel anything!” Joe protested, hoping for an immediate burn or whoosh.

“You did enough to get an elephant high.” Gladiator Glen took a tiny sip from the bottle. “You’re supposed to pace yourself. Now come here.”

He wrapped his thick, hairy forearm around Joe’s neck like he was about to choke him or throw him down. Joe had fantasized about this moment all summer, but then he started to compare Gladiator Glen’s embrace with Fergal’s. How Joe loved when Fergal held him from behind, his breath in his ear, and his lean, muscular forearms—strong but gentle, warm, devoid of hatred. Joe abruptly turned and thrust his mouth onto Gladiator Man’s, sucking at his giant, sluglike tongue, wanting his saliva to wash away Fergal’s memory. A deep, dense wooziness hit Joe all of sudden, and then another, deep, dark, sexy urge—just like Gladiator Glen had said. Once again, the man’s body, face, and voice morphed into every dark fantasy Joe had ever had.

“You’re feeling it now, right?” Gladiator Glen’s low, rumbly voice asked in between thrusts of his tongue.

“I think so.”

“Wanna get fucked now?”

“Yeah,” Joe said numbly.

“You still want it raw?”

Questions, questions, questions. Enough with the questions. After all, Joe wasn’t asking him questions, like whether Gladiator Glen had a boyfriend, or if he knew his HIV status, or if he was afraid of loving anyone for fear of them dying, or if he wanted to escape and/or die like Joe did. It didn’t matter anyway. Joe groggily reached down to remove his shorts but realized he was already naked, that he had left his shorts and fanny pack somewhere back on the pathway and had walked through the Meat Rack completely bare-assed. What would Vince have said? An embarrassment to Asylum Harbor. Oh, wait, that’s right, Asylum Harbor burned down, just like everything else I loved. He was annoyed by the whiny interference of his mind, but then a deeper and darker wave of the drug washed over his brain. His eyelids dozed as he wobbled.

“Easy there,” Gladiator Glen said, pulling him up. “Better just bend over, and I’ll take it from here.”

Joe did as he was told and flopped over. His fingers touched the sand and the prickly holly leaves on the ground. His vision blurred. He turned his head, peering up at the orange glow of the blood moon, which was spinning, along with his eyes. Sickness began to bubble in his stomach as Gladiator Glen stepped behind him and started pulling at his cock. “Mmm,” he said. “Nice little bubble butt you got.” Joe looked back through the Blue Nitro fog. Gladiator Glen was indeed the man in all those photos in Howie and Lenny’s attic. And now, close up, Joe saw just how much Gladiator Glen truly did hate him—and it was perfect.

“Jus’ do it already,” Joe demanded, slurring his words, his eyelids feeling heavy as bricks. “Fuck me!”

“Bossy little bitch bottom, aren’t we?” Gladiator Glen barked. “Stay still!”

All those years of protecting himself and fearing for those he loved. Finally Joe would feel the ultimate pain and then, hopefully, oblivion. He felt Gladiator Glen’s huge hands spread his cheeks, he felt the tip of the burning hot cock press against his hole, he felt the large hairy hand reach around his throat. And that would be the last thing he remembered before the blackness.

If Joe could have seen himself the very next moment, he would have seen his body jolt from pain as his insides heaved. He would have seen his face lose all color as his body fell to the ground. He would have seen the man whom he had called Gladiator Glen turn utterly mortal and cowardly. He would have seen the terrified man grab his things and run away through the beach forest as Joe lay in the prickly, dry holly leaves on the ground, mouth foaming, eyes rolling back inside his head, body convulsing violently. Above him, he would have seen and heard a large flock of mourning doves in the trees begin to scream.

THE DANCE FLOOR—10:16 PM

They had been twirling their heads off for over ten minutes. Sweat sloshed off Ronnie’s body, encircling him in a mist. Twirling was physically harder than any workout he had ever experienced—though none made him feel so glorious. Then, just as DJ Susan was mixing the end of Janet Jackson’s “Miss You Much” with Madonna’s “Express Yourself,” something snapped. All five Disco Witches faltered in their spin and tumbled to the floor. Howie managed to catch Dory, and Lenny stabilized poor Saint D’Norman, who was shaking.

“What the hell happened?” Ronnie stood up, huffing and puffing. “Did we help Joe?”

The others looked completely devastated and exhausted.

“It’s not working,” Lenny shouted over the music. “Something is missing.”

“If we only had Max’s spell book.” Howie squeezed his fist to his head.

“We have to keep trying. We can do this!” Dory rubbed a sore elbow. “Let’s get the flags out!”

Saint D’Norman, knees buckling, leaned his body full force onto Lenny. Elena ran to the group with bottles of water. Kneeling next to Saint D’Norman, she wiped sweat from his brow.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine, sweetie.” He ignited his phosphorescent smile. “Just a little cramp.”

“I’m not exactly sure what the hell you guys are up to—”—she nodded her head to Saint D’Norman—“but maybe it’s time to take a rest?”

“No, no, baby doll.” Saint D’Norman patted Elena’s cheek. “This old gal is just thirsty. I’m having a good ol’ time. Do me a favor, honey. Go run and get this fabulous ol’ queen an orange juice and a banana? The potassium will help. There ya go.”

Elena looked angrily at Howie and then ran off to do Saint D’Norman’s bidding.

“Maybe she’s right,” Ronnie whispered to Howie. “Saint D’Norman doesn’t look great, and Dory’s pretty old. Maybe we could try flagging sitting down?”

Howie, with a wild look in his eye, grabbed Ronnie’s arm aggressively.

“Okay!” Ronnie said. “Easy! It was just a suggestion!”

“That’s not it!” Howie shouted. “I know what’s missing!” He pulled a slip of paper and pen from his fanny pack and scribbled something. “Quick, Ronnie. Take this to the DJ. I need her to play this right away. Get back here as fast as possible. Hurry!”

With the note in hand, Ronnie yanked up his costume and jammed his way through the crowd. Not a single man tried to grope him, which helped with speed. He was nearing the stairs to the DJ booth when he felt something catch the hem of his dervish skirt.

“What the fuck?” He spun around to find Scotty Black holding a fist full of the white sequined cloth in his hands.

Scotty was flanked by Thursty and the shortest Graveyard Girl. All three were sucking on ethyl chloride rags, which hung from their mouths like gray lizard tongues. Scotty removed his rag. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Sorry, Scotty,” Ronnie shouted. “Just asking the DJ to play a special request for Howie. We’re kind of doing a little ceremony—”

“Not on my dime!” Scotty barked. “And I don’t hire drag queens to bartend at the Promethean! Now, get out of that getup and get back to work, or you’re fired.”

“He’s just having fun with the Picketty Ruff boys,” Thursty said. “You know they always put the crowd in a great mood. It’s good for business.”

“My businesses don’t need anyone’s help!” Scotty snapped, then turned to the shorter Graveyard Girl. “If he’s not back to work in five minutes—shirtless and looking like a man—I want all his shit emptied from his room immediately, and he can sleep on the beach, for all I care.

“Please, Scotty,” Ronnie begged. “I just need thirty minutes more, okay?”

“You heard me!” Scotty turned to Thursty. “And you, whose side are you on? Remember who pays your check!”

“I just think—” Thursty began.

“Like I care what a bloated overgrown K queen thinks!” Scotty scoffed and shoved his ethyl rag into Thursty’s hand. “Now, fill me up. And don’t be stingy. I paid for it!”

Thursty began digging in his fanny pack for the can of ethyl chloride.

Ronnie felt an odd tapping inside his brain, almost like a mental Morse code from Howie and the others. Time is running out. If he didn’t get that playlist up to the DJ quickly, there’d be no hope of helping Joe.

“Okay, then I quit.” Ronnie snatched his skirt from Scotty’s tight claw.

“You can’t quit, since you’re fired!” Scotty screamed, grabbing Ronnie by the neck of his shirt. “That means you’re trespassing on my property.” He turned to the Graveyard Girl. “Get security to get him out of here now!”

“What was that?” The Graveyard Girl cupped his ear, acting like he didn’t hear. “Come again?”

“Oh, Scotty!” Thursty sang out, as if he were oblivious to the melee. “Try this! It’s a whopper. I think you’ll like it!”

Thursty shoved the ethyl rag to Scotty’s nose and mouth and held it there until Scotty released Ronnie’s collar. Then Scotty smiled, latched onto Thursty’s arm, and sleepily crumpled to the floor.

“Girl down!” the short Graveyard Girl sang out.

“ Big girl down!” Thursty devilishly smiled at Ronnie. “Oh dear,” he deadpanned. “I sure hope I didn’t accidentally go too heavy on the dose, knocking him out for at least thirty minutes or more . Now, honey, you go do whatever those glorious Disco Witches say! Enjoy the ride!”

Ronnie bolted up the steps to the DJ booth, his heart flopping into the mosh pit of his ribs. Discovering the booth locked, he banged on the door, screaming, “Please! Susan! Let me in! It’s an emergency!”

When the door opened, DJ Susan looked furious. “What the hell?” She pulled the headphones from her ears.

“I’m sorry!” Ronnie shouted. “You need to play this right away! It’s urgent! Please!”

He handed her the folded piece of paper. As soon as she saw Howie’s note, the rage drained from her face. “You got it,” she said. “Now get the fuck out of my booth!”

Ronnie flew back downstairs to the quorum. Saint D’Norman was just finishing a banana while patting Elena on the cheek. The other three looked like springs ready to be sprung. Howie pulled a rectangular object from his fanny pack. Ronnie recognized it instantly. It was the cassette case for Elliot’s mixtape Love Songs 1 .

“Quick!” Howie shouted. “Each of you touch this to your heart and then your forehead. Focus your thoughts on it!” They all did exactly as he instructed. “Perfect! It will center all the deities of light onto Joe’s heart.” He then motioned for Elena to come over and warned her not to look at the five while they danced. “Or you’ll need reading glasses before you’re forty. Okay?”

Elena nodded and returned to her bodyguard position.

“Everybody get back in place!” Howie’s expression was trapped somewhere between terror and excitement. “We’re going longer and harder, and we may see a lot of unusual things. Don’t be afraid.” He looked deeply into the eyes of all his comrades. “We’ve only tried a spell of this size once before. This time, we can’t let it fail. Everyone ready?”

“Ready!” Dory said.

Saint D’Norman gave a languid thumbs-up and winked.

“Sure!” Lenny barked. “Let’s fucking do this thing!”

“Okay.” Howie looked to Ronnie. “Sweetie, this is where the flagging comes in. Okay?”

Ronnie nodded, pulling the silver silks from his belt. Howie then placed a shiny red flag in the center of the pentagram and took his place back at the pinnacle. As the thunder-laden, opening chords of the Weather Girls’ “It’s Raining Men” blasted through the sound system, Howie began to spin. This time he lifted Elliot’s Love Songs 1 jewel case to the sky in his right hand and the silver flag in the other.

Ronnie and the others began their twirl. When up to speed, they spun their flags into silver swirling balls of lightning. Once again Ronnie felt himself lift off the ground as the Weather Girls belted their anthem to sopping wet men. As he twirled faster, faces suddenly appeared in front of his blurred eyes. He didn’t know to whom the faces belonged, yet they seemed deeply familiar. His brain filled with extraordinary memories of events he had never witnessed, places he had never visited, and old lovers he had never met, all boogying through the disco ball of his brain. He recalled throwing a brick through the window of the Stonewall. Making love to a Guatemalan man in the dunes of Herring Cove Beach in Provincetown, dancing on an East Village rooftop with a gorgeous Black opera singer in the 1940s, and on and on; a parade of lovers reaching back through time. Each memory, a mirrored fractal reflecting the mind of every twirling, magical being that ever was or would be.

Suddenly, in the center of the pentagram, right where Howie had left the red flag, a brown-skinned drag queen appeared, wearing a sparkly dress and blonde wig. Ronnie understood this was Max De Laguna, the high priest of the Disco Witches, in his religious drag-queen attire. His body, slim and translucent, flickered between flesh and vapor. The glowing specter picked up the red flag and looked at it quizzically.

“Max is transitioning,” Howie called out.

“It’s his time,” Dory whispered.

Just as Max’s spirit began to spin the red flag, an explosion of actual thunder struck the very foundation of the old wooden dance club. Howie’s mind commanded them: “Don’t stop twirling! There! Look at him! There’s Joe!”

In his mind’s eye, Ronnie saw his best friend, lying on the ground, his body jerking violently, his mouth foaming, his lungs unable to take in air. Joe was dying.

A CLEARING IN THE WOODS—10:19 PM

“There’s no point, lad!” Vince gasped for air as he indicated for Fergal to slow his desperate trudge. “We’ve looked everywhere. Hopefully, he’s back at home.”

“He’s not,” Fergal said, clutching Joe’s bloodstained white shorts and fanny pack. “I have a really bad feeling.”

“Then we’ll head back and contact the police—”

A huge flash of lightning lit up the sky. When Fergal looked up, there was a massive flock of mourning doves all flying northwest toward the Great South Bay.

“Isn’t that that the queerest thing,” Vince said, gawking at the sky. “Wasn’t even a cloud a minute ago, and would you look at that.” He pointed to a colossal cumulus cloud moving directly over the island, blocking the eclipsing moon. “Let’s make a run for it—”

“No,” Fergal yelled. “This way!” He left the path, heading in the same direction as the birds. Another bolt of lightning lit the sky.