Divine Evil

allegiance and my vow to honor Him. In return I demand His assistance for the fulfillment of all my desires. I call upon you, Brothers, to do the same.”
    The men flanking him spoke in unison, repeating the vow.
    It was true, Clare thought, horrified, as the celebrant and his deacons continued in Latin. All of it was true. The dream, her father. Sweet God, her father. And all the rest.
    “Domine Satanas, Rex Inferus, Imperator omnipotens. ”
    The celebrant took up the paten, raised it to chest level, where a heavy silver pentagram rested against his robes, and recited the profane words in a long-dead language. He replaced it, repeated the gesture with the cup, then set that down as well, back between the woman's slim white thighs.
    “Mighty Lord of Darkness, look favorably on this sacrifice we have prepared for You.”
    The scent of incense, sweet and heavy, took her back to the long, formal High Masses of her childhood. This, too, was a mass, she thought. A black one.
    “Dominus Inferus vobiscum. ”
    “Et cum tuo. ”
    Her body was sheathed in ice. She shuddered from it, willing herself to move, to step back, to run; unable to pullher rigid hand away from the curtain. The music droned on, dreamlike. The incense spun thickly in her head. The celebrant lifted his arms, palms downward. He called out again, his voice rich and full and hypnotic. And she knew. Though her mind rejected it, she knew the voice and the face that went with it.
    “Salve! Salve! Salve!”
    The gong rang three times.
    And she fled.
    She didn't think about moving silently, being cautious. The panic that gripped her demanded that she run, escape. Survive. It had been the same that night so many years ago, when she had scrambled like a rabbit through the woods, back to her father's car. She had lain there, shivering with shock, until he found her.
    The lights in the corridor floated around her, silent and secret, casting the steps into deeper shadow. For an instant, she thought she saw her father, standing at the base of them, his eyes filled with sorrow, his hands stained with blood.
    “I told you not to come, cutie pie. It's not a place for little girls.” His arms reached out for her. “It's just a dream, a bad dream. You'll forget all about it.”
    As she raced toward him, the image faded. She bolted through it, sobbing, and up the metal stairs. She knew the taste of hysteria. Its chalky flavor clogged her throat, gagging her, as she pushed against the exit door.
    She was trapped. The sweat that had beaded on her skin began to run in rivers as she pushed against the door. Her own whispered pleas roared in her head. They would come for her. They would find her. And she would die, as Carly Jamison had died. They would take up the knife and, as if she were a small, terrified goat, slice it across her throat.
    A scream bubbled up to her lips, then she found the latch and stumbled out into the night. Blind fear took her across the dark parking lot. Breath heaving, she clung to a tree, pressing her wet cheek against the bark.
    Think, think, damn it, she ordered herself. You have to get help. You have to get Cam. She could run to his office, but her legs no longer felt as if they could carry her. He might not be there. She would go to his house. Safe, it would be safe there. Somehow, between the two of them, they would make everything right again.
    She looked over and saw her car, gleaming red beside Ernie's truck. She couldn't leave it there. Didn't dare. She took a step back, and the wave of revulsion struck like a fist. Clare gritted her teeth against it and kept walking. She would get in her car, drive away, drive to Cam's house, and tell him what she'd seen.
    When the beam of headlights cut across her, she froze like a rabbit.
    “Clare?” Dr. Crampton leaned his head out the window of his car. “Clare, what in the world are you doing there? Are you all right?”
    “Doc?” Weak with relief, she darted to his car. Now she wasn't alone. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”
    “What is it?” He pushed up his glasses and focused, noting her pupils were dilated. “Are you hurt, ill?”
    “No. No, we have to get away.” She sent a quick, desperate look toward the rear entrance. “I don't know how much longer they'll be down there.”
    “They?” His eyes, behind the glint of his glasses, were filled with concern.
    “In Griffith's. Down in the basement. I saw them. The robes, the masks. I used to think it was a dream, but it wasn't.”