I took off my shirt and she rubbed the goo all over my back, arms, and chest, working it into the muscles like a sports trainer would. It was actually rather pleasant. The balm smelled faintly of chocolate and rosemary, with just a whiff of astringency. It was a bit weird, though, like getting a professional massage from a former girlfriend. Talk about your mixed messages.

When she was done, Eli asked if she wanted to come along, but she demurred.

“Chasing monsters is your thing, not mine. I’m happy just to stay in the kitchen and whip things up.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll bet.”

“But be careful, Mason. I’d miss you, you know.”

“So would I.” I looked around. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

FORT POINT SITS JUST UNDER THE SOUTH END of the Golden Gate, hunkered down in the shadow of the bridge. It was built during the Civil War to fend off invading fleets-from whom, I’m not sure, and I don’t think they were, either. It’s become a big tourist attraction, crowded on weekends not only with tourists but with locals as well.

A footpath, several miles long, runs east toward Crissy Field. Most of the path is clear of brush with great views of the bridge and the ocean, but there are parts of it that wend closely through overhanging trees. Overgrown lanes occasionally branch off the main path, where concrete bunkers have reverted back to the wild, almost unrecognizable as man-made constructions.

Eli carried the messenger bag containing the stones. Victor had the iron shavings and the salt, as well as the flashlight with the duct-taped stone. He was also carrying a shotgun. He didn’t even bother to disguise it; if we ran into anyone, he’d use enough of an aversion spell so that they wouldn’t care to look at him.

The shotgun might not be much use against the Wendigo, but Victor hadn’t forgotten about the creature that had savaged his leg. This was smack-dab in the middle of where it had been hanging out, and any display of unusual magical power would bring it running. I wasn’t carrying anything. My job was simple. I was bait.

Dusk is a dicey time of day to be hunting anything. Your eyes play tricks on you, and you can never be quite sure what you’re looking at until it’s right up on top of you. But that was when Morgan had seen me here, so that was when I was here.

I still wasn’t happy with the setup. Too many assumptions were being made, way too many for my comfort. What if the Wendigo wasn’t here? What if it wasn’t a Wendigo at all? What if it was, but could manage to call us all at once-who was going to set up the circle and trap it? Eli assured me that it could focus on only one individual at a time. He seemed quite sure of that, but what if he was wrong? He’d misjudged things in the past. Not often, but he’s not infallible.

And once we had it, what were we going to do with it? Could it really call Sherwood back from whatever place she was? Then what? Did we let it go to continue on its merry way? What if it were bent on wreaking havoc? I don’t mind playing things by ear; in fact, mostly I prefer it. But this was going out on a very long limb without a paddle, so to speak.

It was a warm evening by San Francisco standards. The sound of ocean waves blended pleasantly with the muted sounds of traffic from the opposite direction. The sun had just set, and the last of the evening rays lit up the tops of the bridge towers. I felt strangely at peace, relaxed and happy, even though we were on a dangerous mission with unknown consequences. Lou was trailing along right behind me, looking remarkably at ease himself.

Too much at ease. This was not normal. I looked behind me, and sure enough, Victor and Eli were ambling along lackadaisically, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I roused myself enough to point out this disturbing state of affairs, but something else caught my attention. This time it wasn’t someone calling me. It was a whisper in the depths of my brain, right at the edge of conscious thought. Come, it urged. Come, Mason.

I knew where it wanted me to go. I stopped by the side of the trail, letting Victor and Eli drift by, lost in their own thoughts, then walked back up the path the way we’d come. Again, it was an odd sensation, a feeling of compulsion that wasn’t compulsion at all. I didn’t have to come to it when it called; it just seemed there was nothing else I could do, really. I went because I was supposed to go. Makes no sense, I know, but it’s the best I can explain it.

A ways farther up the trail I heard Lou’s high-pitched yelp, warning Eli and Victor something was amiss. About time, I thought, but I wondered if they’d get the holding circle up in time. It didn’t worry me either way.

Twenty feet ahead of me, about ten feet up in a small tree, barely visible against the darkening sky, he waited. Eli and Victor would be too late. I felt a vague sorrow about that, and an even stronger regret that I’d never see Lou again, but it wasn’t enough to throw me off stride. What would be, would be.

I’d almost reached the Wendigo’s tree perch when his face lit up with a green glow. Immediately my mind cleared, and I backed off rapidly, almost stumbling over my feet. Apparently Eli had been right about him; he couldn’t keep his mind focused on more than one thing at a time. He sat without moving for a long moment before toppling off the branch and falling to the ground with a heavy thud. He wasn’t hurt, though, and immediately got to his feet with a jerky, uncoordinated motion.

He’d shown a fluid grace while sitting in the tree, but now he was staggering along like a recalcitrant marionette, stumbling and lurching toward the circle. So they’d pulled it off after all. Victor kept the flashlight trained on him until he was completely in the circle. When he switched it off, we all held our breath, waiting to see if the circle would hold.

The Wendigo did a complete three-sixty, examining every aspect of the trap. He put his hands up near the interface of the power grid produced by the stones and the space outside the circle, shook his head, and then calmly sat down.

He looked about the same as the first time I’d seen him-same curly hair, same woodland clothes, although the colors shifted as he sat there, so maybe they weren’t really clothes at all. He was smaller than I remembered, though, only five-eight or so. People who scare you are often smaller than they seem at the time. But this time he seemed more human, less scary. Maybe it was something he could control. Anyone passing by on the street wouldn’t look twice at him.

And now that we had him what were we going to do with him? I wasn’t even sure we could communicate with him, much less get across complex ideas. I needn’t have worried. He looked at each of us in turn and said, “Now what?”

His voice was light and pleasant, with a hint of a Southern twang. I had no idea what to say, but thank God it wasn’t up to me. I was more than happy to let Eli and Victor do the talking. Eli got up close, right to the barrier of stones, before he spoke, and when he did, his tone was mild.

“What do we call you? Have you a name?”

“Many,” he said. “Most of which are hard to pronounce. But you don’t need a name. You seem to know who I am.”

“I know what you are, which is not precisely the same,” Eli said.

“A nice distinction. What is it you want?”

“What makes you think we want something?” said Victor. He was never one for standing on the sidelines.

“You’ve trapped me here. There must be a reason for that.” He waved expansively at the circle. “I don’t know how you did it, I’ll admit. Most things don’t affect me much. But trapping me took a lot more thought and planning than simply trying to kill me, for example. So you want something from me, no?”

He sounded reasonable enough, but I’d been under his thrall twice now. Maybe his reasonableness was another, more subtle form of the same thing. The sky had grown dark, and the only illumination came from the ring of rune stones that glowing faintly as they pulsed with power. The Wendigo’s face was half hidden in a greenish shadow, giving him a diabolical cast. The devil’s a smooth talker, they say. Eli slowly nodded.