Divine Evil

and silent.
    “Now your path is set, and you must follow the flame or perish. The blood of those who fail is bright and will guide your steps to the power.”
    Turning, the priest reached into a silver bowl and drew out a handful of the graveyard dirt where an infant had rested for a century. He pressed the soil into the soles of the initiates′ feet, sprinkled it over their heads, laid it gently on their tongues.
    “Revel in this and stray not. You make your pact tonight with all who have gone before into His light. Seek and be glad as you obey the Law.”
    He took up a clear flask filled with holy water andurine. “Drink of this and ease the thirst. Drink deep of life so that He will shine within you.”
    Each man took the flask in turn and swallowed.
    “Arise now, Brothers, to receive His mark.”
    The men rose, and others came forward to lock the first initiate's arms and legs in place. The ceremonial knife glinted under a full ghost moon.
    “In the name of Satan, I mark you.”
    The man screamed once as the knife sliced delicately over his left testicle. Blood dripped as he wept.
    “You are His, from now and through eternity.”
    The coven chanted. “Ave, Satan.”
    The second was marked. Drugged wine was given to both.
    Their blood stained the knife as the priest lifted the blade high, swaying as he gave thanks to the Dark Lord. As the thunder rumbled closer, his voice rose to a shout.
    “Raise your right hand in the Sign and take the oath.”
    Shuddering, faces glinting with tears, the men obeyed.
    “You accept His pleasures, and His pains. You are returned from death into life by His mark. You have declared yourself a servant of Lucifer, the Bringer of Light. This act is of your own desire and by your own will.”
    “By our desire,” the men repeated, in thick, dazed voices. “By our will.”
    Taking up the sword, the priest traced an inverted pentagram in the air over each new member's heart.
    “Hail, Satan.”
    The sacrifice was brought out. A young black goat, not yet weaned. The priest looked at the altar, her legs spread wide, her breasts white and gleaming. She held a black candle in each hand, with another nestled at the juncture of her thighs.
    Well paid and comfortably drugged, she smiled at him.
    He thought of her as he raked the knife across the kid's neck.
    The blood was mixed with the wine, then drunk. When he cast aside his robe, the silver medallion glinted against his sweaty chest. He mounted the altar himself, raking his stained hands down her breasts and torso while he imagined his fingers were talons.
    As his seed spilled into her, he dreamed of killing again.
    Clare woke in a cold sweat, her breath heaving, her face drenched with tears. Reaching out for the light, she found only empty space. There was one frozen instant of panic before she remembered where she was. Steadying herself, she climbed out of her sleeping bag. She counted her steps to the wall, then flicked on the overhead light and stood shivering.
    She should have expected the dream to come again. After all, the first time she'd had it had been in this very room. But it was worse this time. Worse, because it had melded into the dream memory of the night she found her father sprawled on the flagstone patio.
    She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and leaned back against the wall until both images faded. In the distance she heard a rooster heralding the new morning. Like dreams, fears faded with sunlight. Calmer, she stripped off the basketball jersey she had slept in and went to shower.
    Over the next hour, she worked with more passion, more energy than she had felt in weeks. With steel and brass and flame, she began to create her own nightmare image in three dimensions. To create and to exorcise.
    She puddled the metal, laying an even bead to fuse mass to mass. Controlling the motion with her shouldermuscles, she gave in to the rhythm. As moment by painstaking moment the form took shape, she felt the emotion of it, the power of it. But her hands did not shake. In her work there was rarely any need to remind herself of patience or caution. It was second nature to her to raise the torch from the work for a few moments when the metal became too hot. Always she watched the color and consistency of the metal, even as that freer part of her, her imagination, swam faster.
    Behind her dark-lensed goggles, her eyes were intense, as if she were hypnotized. Sparks showered as she cut and layered and built.
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