Before I knew what was happening, his back leg seemed to reach up towards my groin and, in one rough move, the claws of his foot grabbed the waist of my briefs and ripped them from my body, yanking my backside off the ground, only to fall back again with a thump as my briefs vanished into the night. The wallet was old and worn, almost antique, with an embossed Celtic pattern around the edges of it. Deryk was gone, of course, and there was no sign of his clothes; his blue designer shorts, his nautical striped Diesel briefs and his “X”-Men T-shirt, the wallet, were all gone. The sun had gone down and the wind had changed. This was just what happened last time, and the time before, but a chill now ran up and down my back as I remembered what happened next on both those occasions.
