Ximon grew even taller, leaner. His skin blackened and shone. His fingernails lengthened into claws, grasping his staff. His eyes were worlds of gold shot with green and black. Caleb shoved me back, putting himself between me and Ximon. Lazar pointed his hand at Ximon, speaking with a tone of command, “I objure you. Back to Othersphere. Back . . .” Ximon laughed, a deep, rumbling chortle that was not his own. He curled his black, clawed hands at the floor, as if pulling it toward him with an invisible rope. The ground heaved. The walls swayed and shook, as if a giant hand was using the room as a rattle. The shelves and beams shuddered and cracked around us as loudly as a train hurtling past when you stand right next to the tracks. Lazar and Caleb stumbled and fell. November hurtled off her shelf, catching the edge with her two right paws at the last moment to stop her fall. Paint cans, tools, and old rags rained down around her as the screws pinning the shelves to the walls jiggled outward.
