snatching what must be a heart out of one of the bowls and massaging it into the cavity from which the dog had lost its natural organ. The replacement seemed to fit, and the dog still moved, though its new heart looked smaller to Eddie’s eye.
It’s a snake’s heart, he thought. Were they replacing all the dog’s natural organs with a snake’s parts?
“We consecrate thee Wepwawet, opener of the ways,” Aaron chanted. “Thy heart is pure in the ways of the serpent. Thy breast nourishes all his words.”
The sistra exploded in a burst of noise. It wasn’t chaotic, Eddie realized. There were various sections of sistrum players, and they were playing different rhythms. But all the rhythms hit a crescendo together as Aaron finished his short dedication. The swaying legs of the damned dangling from the ceiling looked perversely like dancers.
And then, over the heads of her congregants, the lamia saw the band.
“Infidels!” she shouted, pointing a long-nailed bloody finger. “Enemies of Apep! Unbelievers!”
“Huevos,” Mike muttered.
Then Eddie realized that he’d been standing and staring like an idiot while Jim, behind him, kept the mutants at bay. He turned to help and saw Jim slashing at three of them, but Lady Legs and Overalls and Many Arms, hiss though they might, weren’t attacking. They hopped back and forth and raged within a cloud of flying serpents, similarly angry and similarly harmless. Jim and the mongooses picked off many of their number, but the well of enemy serpents seemed bottomless.
They were all being held back by the power of the Nehushtan, and the faith of Reverend Irving.
The preacher still mouthed hymns. He was pale and sweaty and he trembled, but he nodded slightly to acknowledge Eddie.
“Good job,” Eddie patted Irving on the back and raised his shotgun, pointing at the mass of cultists in front of him.
They were a mix of ordinary human-looking folks in rural Oklahoma outfits and people with minor mutations—gifts of Apep, Irving had called them. A boy with a perfectly ordinary face stared at Eddie out of unblinking snakes’ eyes. A girl near him had human eyes, but a face that was scaly and lacked nostrils around the slits of her nose. Elsewhere forked tongues slithered between human lips, and under a white cotton dress, Eddie heard the sound of a rattle. The worshippers pushed forward, but the Nehushtan held them back, too. The ones in front grimaced in pain. Eddie didn’t know if they were getting pushed too hard by their friends behind them, or if the Nehushtan itself was burning them. Either way was fine with him.
He pumped the shotgun. “We don’t give a rat’s ass about Apep,” he called over the heads of the crowd.
Phineas Irving chanted hymns at his side; the other guys in the band stood at bay, weapons out and pointed at the snake-people.
“This is a free country, and if you want to go to church with snakes, that’s your own business.” He tried not to cringe back from the pallid, frozen feet hanging directly in front of his face.
“What are you doing here?” Aaron Irving demanded. “You’ve wounded many of my people!” He didn’t move from beside the mewling dog, and the sistrum players stayed in place and kept up their rhythm. What had he called the dog? Opener of the ways? That sounded like the kind of thing Adrian was always working into his incantations. This was no ordinary worship, Eddie realized. This was a magical ritual.
This was the summoning.
He felt warmer than he thought he should, and wiped a scalding dew of sweat from his brow before it dripped into his eyes. “All I need,” he said slowly and deliberately, trying to radiate calm strength like he was talking to an unhappy dog, “is a few moments of cooperation from the lady. Nobody else has to get shot or bitten.”
His arm hurt.
The lamia straightened until she nearly scraped the ceiling, the snakes of her hair coming to life and hissing at Eddie. “Phineas,” she called
It’s a snake’s heart, he thought. Were they replacing all the dog’s natural organs with a snake’s parts?
“We consecrate thee Wepwawet, opener of the ways,” Aaron chanted. “Thy heart is pure in the ways of the serpent. Thy breast nourishes all his words.”
The sistra exploded in a burst of noise. It wasn’t chaotic, Eddie realized. There were various sections of sistrum players, and they were playing different rhythms. But all the rhythms hit a crescendo together as Aaron finished his short dedication. The swaying legs of the damned dangling from the ceiling looked perversely like dancers.
And then, over the heads of her congregants, the lamia saw the band.
“Infidels!” she shouted, pointing a long-nailed bloody finger. “Enemies of Apep! Unbelievers!”
“Huevos,” Mike muttered.
Then Eddie realized that he’d been standing and staring like an idiot while Jim, behind him, kept the mutants at bay. He turned to help and saw Jim slashing at three of them, but Lady Legs and Overalls and Many Arms, hiss though they might, weren’t attacking. They hopped back and forth and raged within a cloud of flying serpents, similarly angry and similarly harmless. Jim and the mongooses picked off many of their number, but the well of enemy serpents seemed bottomless.
They were all being held back by the power of the Nehushtan, and the faith of Reverend Irving.
The preacher still mouthed hymns. He was pale and sweaty and he trembled, but he nodded slightly to acknowledge Eddie.
“Good job,” Eddie patted Irving on the back and raised his shotgun, pointing at the mass of cultists in front of him.
They were a mix of ordinary human-looking folks in rural Oklahoma outfits and people with minor mutations—gifts of Apep, Irving had called them. A boy with a perfectly ordinary face stared at Eddie out of unblinking snakes’ eyes. A girl near him had human eyes, but a face that was scaly and lacked nostrils around the slits of her nose. Elsewhere forked tongues slithered between human lips, and under a white cotton dress, Eddie heard the sound of a rattle. The worshippers pushed forward, but the Nehushtan held them back, too. The ones in front grimaced in pain. Eddie didn’t know if they were getting pushed too hard by their friends behind them, or if the Nehushtan itself was burning them. Either way was fine with him.
He pumped the shotgun. “We don’t give a rat’s ass about Apep,” he called over the heads of the crowd.
Phineas Irving chanted hymns at his side; the other guys in the band stood at bay, weapons out and pointed at the snake-people.
“This is a free country, and if you want to go to church with snakes, that’s your own business.” He tried not to cringe back from the pallid, frozen feet hanging directly in front of his face.
“What are you doing here?” Aaron Irving demanded. “You’ve wounded many of my people!” He didn’t move from beside the mewling dog, and the sistrum players stayed in place and kept up their rhythm. What had he called the dog? Opener of the ways? That sounded like the kind of thing Adrian was always working into his incantations. This was no ordinary worship, Eddie realized. This was a magical ritual.
This was the summoning.
He felt warmer than he thought he should, and wiped a scalding dew of sweat from his brow before it dripped into his eyes. “All I need,” he said slowly and deliberately, trying to radiate calm strength like he was talking to an unhappy dog, “is a few moments of cooperation from the lady. Nobody else has to get shot or bitten.”
His arm hurt.
The lamia straightened until she nearly scraped the ceiling, the snakes of her hair coming to life and hissing at Eddie. “Phineas,” she called
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