“Your friend seems to be possessed,” Zola said, drawing his pistol.

“What are you doing to do, throw it at him?” Pan asked, drawing an arrow from his quiver. “Your magazine is in the paws of the big guy.” Zola swore and holstered the weapon, his eyes looking for a way past Rex.

“No,” Picassa said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Man would not allow such a thing to happen to the faithful.”

“You will not speak of the cat,” Rex intoned, as he swung his sword toward Pan. The hunter dodged out of the way, arrow at the ready.

“Don’t make me do this, Rex,” Pan said. The guardian snarled at the comment, and swung down again, cutting the shortbow in two.

“Stop!” Zola raised his paws and chanted in his strange language. A black substance that looked like stone oozed over his paws, and he pointed them at Rex. A burst of heat erupted, and Rex’s fur burst into flames. He howled in pain and dropped his sword. Pan leapt on him to smother the burning fur.

The cat raised his paws again, but ...