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strange light in the evening sky, a slight tinge of yel ow that makes the familiar view of rooftops out of her window seem almost magical. The air smel s electric, and the whole sky gathers its strength, waiting for the signal. A thunderstorm is coming.
    Jael loves thunderstorms. She can’t say why, exactly.
    Maybe it’s yet another weird demon thing her father never bothered to explain. But there’s just something about thunderstorms that she finds soothing. And even though it rains nearly nonstop from October to May in Seattle, thunderstorms only happen once or twice a year. This storm, on this day, almost feels like a birthday present.
    The first few drops of rain hit the window screen and stick in the tiny black squares, creating odd pixilated patterns. As the rain picks up speed, the patterns expand until the entire screen is drenched and begins to drip. A little spray makes it through, and drops prickle her face.
    Then the lightning and thunder come, emerging from seething purple clouds. They rol and flicker in a soothing rhythm, lighting up the sky in quick bursts.
    Jael holds her necklace up to see how the lightning reflects off of it.
    But it doesn’t. Instead, it almost seems to absorb the light. In fact, there’s something about the center that plays tricks on her eyes. It almost looks like something is moving in there.
    She turns on the lamp next to her bed. Then she squints back down at the center of the gem. No, it’s no trick. There real y is something moving inside. She squints hard, trying to make it out. Gradual y the tiny swirling shapes within sharpen and come into focus until she’s staring at a red-tinted, miniature version of her kitchen.
    There’s a moment of dizzy vertigo and the world seems to lurch forward. Then it’s as if she’s in the tiny kitchen herself, hovering like a ghost.

    Her father sits at the table, just like she left him. But now there are other things in front of him: a smal ceramic bowl, a bottle of alcohol, gauze, surgical tape, a knife.
    He picks up the knife and looks at it for a moment, turning it slightly so the light flashes along the edge.
    He positions the bowl of water in front of him and holds his hand over it. Then, whispering something quietly under his breath, he draws the knife slowly across his palm until a thin trickle of blood runs down and dribbles into the bowl of water. He continues to mutter under his breath as he squeezes his hand into a hard fist so that a little more blood drips into the bowl. He careful y cleans his hand with the alcohol and wraps it up in gauze. Then he stares back at the bowl of blood and water, waiting.
    The surface of the liquid shivers and gradual y the swirls of blood coalesce into a perfect ring.
    Something that isn’t exactly a voice, but more like an audible ripple in the air says, “Yeah?” It’s a harsh, deep, masculine sound.
    “It’s done,” says Jael’s father.
    “You gave her the necklace?”
    “Yes.”
    “Strange. I didn’t hear anything. Didn’t you release it?”
    “I gave her the necklace,” says her father. “That was al I promised her mother I would do.”
    There is a pause, while the blood in the bowl writhes for a moment. Then it reforms.
    “You are such a little shit. You might as wel have spit on your wife’s grave. You know she wanted you to—”
    “If she wanted me to do anything more, she would have told me,” says her father.
    “What happened to you? I never liked you, but I at least used to respect you. Now you’re nothing but a pathetic, cringing mortal.”
    “That’s enough, Dagon.”
    “You think this is the end of it?”
    “Yes, I do.” He turns away, gazing up at the uncovered lightbulb.
    “You know you can’t avoid this. There are greater things at work here than just you and your cowardice.”
    “Right, your grand dream of reclamation,” says Jael’s father, his voice bitter and mocking. “You hold on to that, Dagon. I know it’s al you have left.”
    “And