Divine Evil

enough to have a grown boy, but Mick figured she'd got herself knocked up at a young age and made a go of it. “How's your boy?” he asked as he pocketed his change.
    “fine.”
    “Graduating next week?”
    She nodded. “It's hard to believe.”
    “Take it easy.”
    “You, too.”
    Graduating, she thought, and took a deep breath of air laced with the scents of spices and sauce and sharp cheeses. Her little boy. How often she wished she could go back five years, ten, and find the moment when she had made the wrong turn.
    But that wasn't right, she assured herself. Ernie was his own person, and that was how it was supposed to be. She watched, with some envy, as little Teresa Hobbs hugged her father's knees and giggled. Maybe Ernie wasn't outwardly affectionate or full of jokes and good humor, but he kept out of trouble. His grades were steady if not spectacular. He never came home drunk or stoned—as she hadcertainly done before marriage focused her. He was just, well, deep, she supposed. Always thinking. She wished she knew what he was thinking.
    He was waiting. Ernie knew he was early, but he'd been too psyched to sit at home. His adrenaline was pumping so hard and fast he thought he might explode. But he didn't know he was scared because the fear was so deep, so cold in his bones.
    The moon was full. It silvered the trees and sprinkled the fields. He could just make out the Dopper farmhouse in the distance. Close by, cattle lowed.
    He was reminded of the last time he had come here. He'd climbed the fence then, the rope and knives he carried in a laundry bag. There hadn't been so much moonlight then, and the breeze had carried a chill.
    He hadn't had any trouble cornering the two calves or tying their legs, just the way he'd seen in the movies he watched in ninth grade when he was stuck in agriculture class. He'd hated every minute of ag, but he'd remembered the movies of brandings and birthings and butcherings.
    Still, he hadn't known, he really hadn't known, there would be so much blood. Or the sounds they would make. Or that their eyes would roll.
    He'd been sick at first and left the carcasses to run into the woods until his grinding stomach was empty. But he'd done it. He'd gone back and finished. He'd proven he was worthy.
    Killing wasn't as easy to do as it was to read about. Having blood in a little vial in the drawer was different, much different, than having it splash warm from a vein onto your hands.
    It would be easier next time.
    He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. It had to be easier next time.
    He heard the rustle of leaves and turned to look, unaware that there was fear in his eyes—the same kind of rolling fear he'd seen in the calves′ eyes. His hand closed over the key in the ignition. For a moment, just one moment, his mind screamed at him to turn it, to throw the truck into reverse and drive away fast. Run away, while there was still time.
    But they came out of the woods. Like spirits or dreams. Or devils.
    There were four of them, robed and masked. Ernie's throat clicked on a swallow as one of them reached out and opened the door of the truck.
    “I came,” he said.
    “You were sent,” he was answered. “There will be no going back.”
    Ernie shook his head. “I want to learn. I want to belong.”
    “Drink this.”
    He was offered a cup. Unsteadily, he climbed out of the truck to take it, to raise it to his lips, to drink with his eyes on the eyes behind the mask of Baphomet. Come.
    One of the men got into the truck and drove it up a logging trail until it was hidden from the road. They turned, Ernie in the center, and went back into the woods.
    They didn't speak again. He could only think they looked magnificent, powerful, walking in the shadowed light, layers of dead leaves rustling beneath the hems of the robes. Like music, he thought and smiled. As the hallucinogen cruised through his system, he felt he was floating. They were all floating, around the trees, even through them. Air parted like water. Water like air.
    The moonlight was crimson, and through its haze he saw brilliant colors, magical shapes. The crunching of leaves underfoot was a drumbeat in his blood. And he was marching toward destiny.
    Baphomet turned to him, and his face was huge, bigger than the moon's and brighter. Ernie smiled and thought that his own features changed. Into a wolf's, a young wolf's, hungry and handsome and shrewd.
    He didn't know how long they walked. He didn't care. He would