When my best friend JP turned twelve, his parents bought him a phone. It was a super big deal, ’cause one, JP loses everything, and two, his parents think phones are “quick access to the Devil”. (I didn’t know the Devil had a phone.)
For her twelfth birthday, Alabama McCain down the street got a sweatshirt once worn by a member of her favourite K-pop group. Weird, but not as weird as being named Alabama even though you’re from Mississippi.
Sean Cole got a four-wheeler for his twelfth. Now he likes to ride around the neighbourhood, knocking over rubbish bins. His mom says he’s being a boy. I say he’s being a butt.
For my twelfth birthday, I’ve got them all beat. My dad’s gonna teach me how to use the Gift so I can finally be a real Manifestor. First I’ve gotta catch a hellhound.
I tiptoe through the woods so the leaves don’t crackle under my feet. In yesterday’s lesson, Dad said hellhounds can hear sounds from hundreds of miles away. I think I can smell a hellhound from hundreds of miles away. Wherever this thing is, it’s filling the forest with a strong odour of boiled eggs and Fritos.
“Remember what I told you, Nic Nac,” Dad says. His voice is around me, like he’s speaking on an intercom. “Look for the signs. Hellhounds always leave a trail.”
A trail of what, funk?
I wipe my forehead on my arm. You’d think eight in the morning was too early to sweat, but it’s normal for late May in Mississippi. The sun glares through the trees, and the air is thick and sticky; it feels like walking through toffee.
I grip the handle of my net. The mesh is made from Giants’ hair, one of the strongest materials on earth. Although I zoned out for most of Dad’s hour-long lecture, I do remember that Giants’ hair is one of the few things that hellhounds can’t chew through. I also remember that hellhounds breathe fire. So I search for signs. Burnt leaves, scorched earth…
Smoke. Up ahead, a pillar rises into the air. Where there’s smoke, there’s a hellhound.
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