to have an even, stable temperament until you sent me on this trip."
Church makes it out the front door carrying the dog and realizes the party is being held way beyond his usual channels. There's nothing but forest around, and only now he notices that the place is an upscale log home, nothing but glass and lights and natural wood. A 14-point rack of antlers has been nailed over the immense front bay window. Church stares down the winding gravel driveway that twists and vanishes into undergrowth and darkness.
"Damn it," he whispers, trying to keep the mewling out of his voice. "Now where the hell am I?"
The moon slices through a wedge of adjacent hills, and he sees the silver outline of a small lake nearby. A storm brews in the air, and with the electrical pulse gradually growing stronger he allows himself to be lured away. Sooty clouds roil against the mercurial moonlight, tussling in the night sky.
He checks his watch and finds it's gone. The normally pale flesh of his wrist is as browned as the rest of his arm.
Clearly he's been off for a while.
This is something new anyhow. He's never been away quite this long before, however long it's been. Church tries to swallow down the agitation that's creeping up in him, but he can't get rid of it.
There's a heaviness in his chest. He always thought that when he finally went over the big edge there'd be a magnificent sensation of relief. Maybe he's just not all the way out of his head yet.
"I asked you to put me down," Malone says.
"Sorry."
He drops the pug and watches it saunter down the driveway, pissing on vines and clumps of leaves. Church turns and looks back through the bay window and sees Asriel and Mova slitting open their palms and letting their blood drip into an ornate goblet.
The cup appears ancient, as if it's sat in the dining halls of hoary kings—from back when witches perched on the hearth brewing potions and, you know, fucking around with Macbeth. Midget skulls encircle the base, and the handle is embellished and crafted from metal bodies twining together. Diminutive faces contort in agony and perverse pleasure. Cripes. Amazing what you can pick up on eBay for twenty bucks plus shipping.
The knife they use in the ritual is a dagger rimmed with fake jewels. Glass opals, emeralds, and rubies reflect the vapid expressions of the adoring Gothers who can't wait to get their lips on the goblet. This might even be more revolting than the farm animal antics porn.
As the blade is passed around, the kids' eyes ignite with the dream of alchemy, as if this is the only way to find God, any god at all. They each poke their palms and ooh and aah as a drop or two wells and spills into the cup.
One leather- deather is done up in silk and satin, with a well-groomed devil's van dyke, wearing fake fangs he's had specially made by his dentist. He's about to burst into tears because he can't bring himself to cut his own skin.
Mova moves to him, rubs his back, speaks calming words the way any good Satanist should. The tiny plastic horns on Mova's head are a little crooked so that one juts at eight o'clock, the other at eleven.
Lucifer Jr. is still struggling to puncture his flesh. He's one of the old school oths , pushing forty with threads of white working through his widow's peak, and he's never gone near a tattoo shop or piercing parlor. The tears plummet down his cheeks and hang in the waxed, properly curled ends of his mustache. His collar is dark with sweat and dusted with salt.
The dead kids are caught up in the moment. With rapid-fire breaths they await the drawing of blood. A few lick their lips, getting up the guts to drink. You've got to give it to them, they're certainly honest in their passion. That counts for something. Church grimaces thinking about the swill of inherent disease in the goblet. The recessed genes, flakes of black nail polish, the STDs, the genetic
Church makes it out the front door carrying the dog and realizes the party is being held way beyond his usual channels. There's nothing but forest around, and only now he notices that the place is an upscale log home, nothing but glass and lights and natural wood. A 14-point rack of antlers has been nailed over the immense front bay window. Church stares down the winding gravel driveway that twists and vanishes into undergrowth and darkness.
"Damn it," he whispers, trying to keep the mewling out of his voice. "Now where the hell am I?"
The moon slices through a wedge of adjacent hills, and he sees the silver outline of a small lake nearby. A storm brews in the air, and with the electrical pulse gradually growing stronger he allows himself to be lured away. Sooty clouds roil against the mercurial moonlight, tussling in the night sky.
He checks his watch and finds it's gone. The normally pale flesh of his wrist is as browned as the rest of his arm.
Clearly he's been off for a while.
This is something new anyhow. He's never been away quite this long before, however long it's been. Church tries to swallow down the agitation that's creeping up in him, but he can't get rid of it.
There's a heaviness in his chest. He always thought that when he finally went over the big edge there'd be a magnificent sensation of relief. Maybe he's just not all the way out of his head yet.
"I asked you to put me down," Malone says.
"Sorry."
He drops the pug and watches it saunter down the driveway, pissing on vines and clumps of leaves. Church turns and looks back through the bay window and sees Asriel and Mova slitting open their palms and letting their blood drip into an ornate goblet.
The cup appears ancient, as if it's sat in the dining halls of hoary kings—from back when witches perched on the hearth brewing potions and, you know, fucking around with Macbeth. Midget skulls encircle the base, and the handle is embellished and crafted from metal bodies twining together. Diminutive faces contort in agony and perverse pleasure. Cripes. Amazing what you can pick up on eBay for twenty bucks plus shipping.
The knife they use in the ritual is a dagger rimmed with fake jewels. Glass opals, emeralds, and rubies reflect the vapid expressions of the adoring Gothers who can't wait to get their lips on the goblet. This might even be more revolting than the farm animal antics porn.
As the blade is passed around, the kids' eyes ignite with the dream of alchemy, as if this is the only way to find God, any god at all. They each poke their palms and ooh and aah as a drop or two wells and spills into the cup.
One leather- deather is done up in silk and satin, with a well-groomed devil's van dyke, wearing fake fangs he's had specially made by his dentist. He's about to burst into tears because he can't bring himself to cut his own skin.
Mova moves to him, rubs his back, speaks calming words the way any good Satanist should. The tiny plastic horns on Mova's head are a little crooked so that one juts at eight o'clock, the other at eleven.
Lucifer Jr. is still struggling to puncture his flesh. He's one of the old school oths , pushing forty with threads of white working through his widow's peak, and he's never gone near a tattoo shop or piercing parlor. The tears plummet down his cheeks and hang in the waxed, properly curled ends of his mustache. His collar is dark with sweat and dusted with salt.
The dead kids are caught up in the moment. With rapid-fire breaths they await the drawing of blood. A few lick their lips, getting up the guts to drink. You've got to give it to them, they're certainly honest in their passion. That counts for something. Church grimaces thinking about the swill of inherent disease in the goblet. The recessed genes, flakes of black nail polish, the STDs, the genetic
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