senses ritual

Spread in a circle near Inez’s grave were seven cloaked figures, speaking in whispering voices in a breathy chant. One of them held a large drum on a shoulder strap and steadily struck it with a thick-headed drumstick in one hand. From there, I could sense the power of the circle around them, but they were making an effort to work magical forces without any sloppy inefficiencies of energy transfer, which generally manifested themselves as visible light. This was a stealthy working.
There was a lump on the ground in the center of the circle. I couldn’t see who it was, but it was human-shaped, if you allowed for some ropes for immobility. A human sacrifice, doubtless, for the ceremony’s finale. It remained the single most effective way to turbocharge black magic.
Hell’s bells. Seven necromancers could wreck Chicago all by themselves. Four of them nearly had done it, once. Five, if you counted me, which I didn’t, even though my entry in that evening’s animation festival had taken best in show. I could feel the intensity of the working they had underway. I didn’t know who they were, but they were pros. If they were allowed to finish, they could wreck the town without the help of any army of improbably conceived monsters.

Battle Ground Chapter 11, Page 108-109