Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

THE KINGDOM :: 241
As he walked toward a clearing all traces of normal reality
were left behind, and the sunlight, so bright he almost had
to look away, shimmered in the heat of an afternoon that
was definitely not cold, gray Berkeley in winter.
No sooner had he hit the clearing, than he became aware
of a large, luminous presence padding along beside him.
“Hullo, Jaguar,” Dylan said, reaching out to touch the mottled
black fur of the great beast at his side. He watched as
the sunlight played upon the solid ripples of muscle just
below the pelt. His spots, velvet pools of midnight, were separated
by highlights of gold—the same color as his brilliant
eyes.
Jaguar said nothing, but kept pace with him, looking
about warily. “Good to see you, dude.” Dylan didn’t expect
a reply to this. Jaguar was a fiercely loyal animal guide—
emphasis on “fierce”—but he was not much for small talk or
pleasantries. In fact, of all the creatures Dylan had ever met
in the Otherworlds, Jaguar was hands-down the surliest.
Dylan remembered back to the time he had first begun
doing shamanic journeys. It must have been his second foray
into the Lower World when, near the close of the journey, he
had called after Jaguar, “Hey, dude, why are you so surly?”
The enormous cat had stopped and faced him, and without
a hint of irony, answered, “Because the world is hard,” and
then turned and stalked away. Dylan shook his head, remembering
the scene.
“Dude, Mikael’s in a bad way. He got caught in a magickal
crossfire, kinda, and his soul has been separated from
his body. We gotta get it back, stuff it in him, make it all better.”
Jaguar looked at him, comprehending but silent.
“So, where should we look?” Dylan prompted.
Finally, the great cat spoke. “For what?” Although the
sentence was slight, the rumble of his voice was felt in
Dylan’s belly.