He remembered his grandfather saying never to run from a dog. They sense fear. Make eye contact. Back it down.

Allen very much doubted his grandfather’s advice applied in this situation.

It’s going to jump on me now. It’s going to eat me. Holy shit, I’ve got two seconds to live what the hell am I going to-

Voices from back down the path, several coming toward him. A group, many talking in frantic voices.

The wolf cocked its head toward the sound, listened a split second, then turned tail and vanished into the woods, departing with impressive speed.

A mob formed behind Allen. A girl screamed. Allen recognized Father Paul’s voice saying, “Dear God!”

A heavy hand on his shoulder. Dr. Evergreen. “Jesus, what the hell happened here?”

Allen’s head was spinning, his gaze still fixed on the patch of bushes where he’d seen the beast. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Let us leave Gothic State University and its people and environs a moment, and let us travel across the country, across time zones, the Atlantic Ocean, to Europe, and a small cobblestone street in the Jewish Quarter of Prague in the Czech Republic.

A side note: An alarming number of people still refer to it as Czechoslovakia. It’s a republic now. I digress.

The Jewish Quarter, or Josefov. Full of old-world charm and souvenir stands. Tourists simply went apeshit for old-world charm and souvenir stands, and nothing said “old-world charm” like a plastic replica of the Old-New Synagogue perched atop a plastic base with little Czech flags around the edges and a hole on one side for sharpening pencils. The Old-New Synagogue on Maiselova Street was the oldest in Europe still actively used as a house of prayer. The spiritual zeal of the Quarter was probably best expressed by a T-shirt that read, “Prague Oy!” and was available in all sizes at a nearby kiosk. In a narrow house next to a jewelry store, mere steps from this temple of worship, lived the disgraced rabbi, Abraham Zabel.

Zabel was something of a wizard, and he sold his occult powers to the highest bidder.

There was good money in this.

Zabel is about to entertain an unhappy client.

Let’s watch.

Abraham Zabel sat at the old scratched desk in the small office of his Josefov house. It was going on evening, and the steady din from the street of hucksters roping in tourists had relented somewhat. He thought often of giving up the house for someplace quieter in the suburbs, but the Jewish Quarter was too perfect, too close to places he needed to visit, people he needed to stay in contact with for his business. The tourists would remain a minor annoyance.

He poured himself a glass of port and returned his attention to his journal, a combination diary and appointment book. On Thursday he had a demon banishing, but then he was free for the weekend. He relished the time off but was concerned that business had been slow. Well, no worry. It would eventually pick up again. It always did.

The dark arts were ever in demand.

He opened an intricately carved wooden desktop humidor and removed a thin cigar, lit it with a thin silver lighter. The humidor was carved with symbols from ancient Hebrew-various warding spells and protections. Zabel doubted the spells retained any potency, but the box looked nice, and it was convenient for the cigars.

A knock at his office door startled him. It meant someone had let themselves into his locked home. Zabel thought briefly of the small revolver in his bottom desk drawer but decided to leave it. He was well protected in the little office. Zabel was a cautious man.

He was about to tell his visitor to enter when the door swung open and a man entered. Zabel knew him: Pascal Worshamn, a client. He had bright blue eyes, alert and energetic, and a smooth pink face that made him look youngish, although the dusting of gray over his ears told his real age.

“Hello, Pascal.” Zabel motioned to the small chair on the other side of his desk. “A seat?”

Pascal didn’t sit. “We haven’t concluded our business, Zabel.”

Zabel spoke good Czech and passable German, but he’d been born in Brooklyn to Czech immigrants. Pascal was from some upper-crust place in London, so the conversation went on in English.

“I told you on the phone,” Zabel said. “You get what you pay for.”

“It didn’t work.”

Zabel sighed. “It worked as well as it could. It killed the wrong man, I admit, but that must be because Evergreen caused some distraction. He’s not without his own skills.”

“Can’t you control the thing? Tell it to try again.”

“It can’t,” Zabel insisted. “It was commanded to destroy itself after the kill. It wouldn’t do to have a golem lumbering around attracting unwanted attention. It probably threw itself off a cliff into the ocean.”

“Make another one,” Pascal said.

“Pay me, and I will. You cheaped out the first time. You should have sent me along, to make the thing on the spot, so I could control the situation, allow for changes and surprises. My resources are not unlimited.”

“Neither are the Society’s.” Pascal pulled a small automatic from his jacket pocket, aimed it at Zabel’s chest. “I must insist the Society get its money’s worth. You’ll make another golem.”

“Only if you pay me.”

“I don’t think you appreciate the implications of this 9 mm pistol.” Pascal stepped forward, trying to appear menacing.

“Threats, is it? Fine, let’s trade threats. You’re not going to leave here alive, Pascal. That’s my promise to you.”

“Are you deluded? Drunk? Too much port for you, my dear Zabel. I’ll draw your attention to the obvious one last time. I’m the one with the pistol.”

“Shoot then.”

“What?”

“Go on,” Zabel said. “Shoot.”

Pascal lifted the pistol, stood pointing it for five seconds. Ten seconds. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. The hand holding the pistol developed a subtle tremor. Pascal laughed, embarrassed and nervous. “I can’t seem to pull the trigger.”

“See the tapestry behind me? The paintings on either side of you?”

Pascal turned his head, looked at them. Abstract images with intricate patterns.

“The patterns are subtle, but woven into the mix are hypnotic suggestions reinforced by powerful spells,” Zabel explained. “Right now, your subconscious is being told that I am your best friend in the world and that you would never harm me. Every second you look at the pattern, the subliminal command grows stronger.”

Pascal jerked his gaze away from the painting, redoubled his efforts to shoot Zabel.

“It’s no use, Pascal. Even a glance is enough.”

“This isn’t over, Zabel. The Society won’t stand for it. They’ll dog your every step.”

“Lars!” Zabel raised his voice. “Lars, come here.”

The floor shook with heavy footsteps. The thing that appeared in the office doorway made Pascal wince and step back, a surprised gasp leaking out of him.

The wooden man was six and a half feet tall, put together with mismatched pieces of wood. He smelled like pine. The face was an agonized grimace, wide, hollow eyes carved in dark wood, the mouth slightly open, the corner of a folded piece of parchment stuck out from between the thickly carved lips.

“Lars, please dispose of our friend Pascal.”

The golem advanced on Pascal, who screamed and backed against the wall. This time the pistol fired. Pascal squeezed the trigger until he emptied the magazine, the shots scarring the golem’s chest, woodchips and splinters flying.

The golem didn’t flinch; it grabbed the wrist of Pascal’s gun hand and twisted. Snap. Pascal screamed again, and the gun fell to the floor. One of the golem’s powerful arms went around Pascal’s neck. The man squirmed and tried to pull free, panic aflame in his eyes. “Zabel, please. Zabel!”

The golem squeezed with one arm, put a gigantic hand on top of Pascal’s head, and twisted. Pascal screamed in raw agony, and the golem twisted again and pulled. A wet snap and a crunch. Pascal’s body went limp. The golem continued to wrench at the head, Pascal’s limbs flopping around like a rag doll’s.