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Upon the floor I labored, sweat dripping from my brow. Several times I retraced work already done, damaged by the saline drops. The chalk in my paw was gritty and made the black sleeve that went to my elbow white half up my forearm. At least it matched my natural color scheme.

Another studious stroke, a curve, arcing gracefully, encircling the star of David I had inscribed with ridged lines. I could not afford a single error, and not an artist of the drawing kind, I was still learning to keep them straight.

The cellar was not a comfortable place for me to be even now; it was cold and dark, eerie in an unpleasant way, but as the weeks turned to months, it had grown on me. It helped, of course, that I had livened up the place. My sculptures, some of my finest work and one of my husband, not long departed occupied the corners. I had expended considerable wealth, having the concrete polished, the walls paneled in a rich cherry wood, and a quality dining table now set for two. Beyond it, a fire set in wrought iron provided the only real source of usable illumination, the candles spread across every other available surface above floor level not doing much to help.

Looking up to the table and wiping away the sweat, I quelled the desire to reach for one of the fresh baked biscuits placed there minutes ago by my chef. Or to grab a bottle of the red wine from the racks that lined the walls. With irritation, I reminded myself that I _must_have the oaken racks replaced with cherry wood, that it could properly match and not grate my nerves unnecessarily as I worked.

Sighing lonesomely, I resumed once again, to line the pentacle I had created with strings of runes from a book of ill repute obtained by someone of equally shady disposition. Yet, I could not dispute the efficacy of the esoteric, cultist lore contained therein. It laid open on the floor beside me, to be referenced between each symbol, whose meaning I couldn't begin to comprehend. Nor did I care to, if it got me what I wanted.

Each time I inscribed this circle and its mystic language, it was easier, the muscle memory building. No longer did I need to look when drawing up the six pointed star at the center. A new drop of sweat fell on the line I had drawn, and with a frustrated huff, I erased and redrew. It was some form of solace, knowing not just the reward I would receive at the end, but also the knowledge that I was growing proficient. The first time, it had taken a day to set up satisfactorily. Still, the small clock on the wall revealed to me that I required over an hour to set the circle for each use. But it was no matter to me, for I would toil from dawn unto dusk everyday for this.

My knees ached, pressed against the cold, hard floor so long, and my groan echoed about the modestly sized room ghoulishly. A moments rest slumped in one of the chairs, and I was ready to begin in earnest.

From the table, I took six long candles, special made by the town chandler, and placed them at the corners. With a match I lit them, their ugly blue light spilling close to the ground and hugging the space around strangely. There, I knelt once again, watching the clock, waiting for it to tick to precisely two minutes to noon. The book I clutched in my chalk stained black furred hand, waiting for the moment to start.

The ticking grew unbearable, but I held myself in check as that second hand neared the end of its lap to the desired time. A deep breath, held, exhaled, inhale, hold, begin!

I chanted with strange syllables, words that did not feel like language and held within them the vehicle to convey meaning to some far off place, and to a being that I could not perceive, much less understand. Yet with the desperation of a woman held too long from her lover, I begged in these jilted, garbled feeling sounds.

Breathlessly, I kept the chant, feeling a presence building, the pressure frightening. Even after a score of times, I couldn't adjust to it, threatening to make me lose my place. With an iron will, I pressed forward, my words rising and falling in their alien cadence, building quickly towards the last line to be delivered at the second of the first chime of the clock.

The light and the little warmth in the room around me bled away, every syllable throwing vapor that fell visibly from my narrow muzzle, the candles nearest beyond the ones at the circle guttered and died. The first chime hit like a brick in my ears, and I raised my voice, nearly screaming, the last word delivered upon the final chime and silence.

The candles that died spluttered unattractively back to life, but heat did not, and the light seemed to bleed away elsewhere, leaving it darker than before. In the gloom, it was hard to see, but I could make out a bubbling mist, thin at first and gradually growing, spreading miasma like across the floor. It was freezing, and encompassed me. I shivered, grateful for my fur and the heavy fabric of my clothes.

Standing, I waited for him to come to me. I could only open a way though, it was up to him if he wished to pass back to the realm of the living for so long as I could handle holding the door open.

Mist poured out from an invisible crack, flowing downward, the increasing volume setting my heart aflutter.

He comes!