Their flesh split, feathers bursting through skin and jutting from pores. Grotesque forms ruptured from within, flensing their skin and morphing them into the gnarled demonic forms granted to them for their profane devotion. Sharp grins elongated into curved beaks, glaring eyes simmered yellow and reflected the fire’s hellish light. Curled fists shredded into hooked talons, and arms erupted into stretched out wings.
I was a helpless witness to their abominable transformations.
The stolas I knew as Timothy curved his long neck toward me. From somewhere in his feathers, he withdrew a dagger, and the blade’s surface sparkled against the fire’s glow. His talons clacked on the stone as he prowled closer, leaving the other stolas to chant and herald the arrival of their eldritch master.
A cold sweat formed on my skin, and my pulse pounded in my ears.
I kicked at the stone, trying to scramble away from the dagger rising above me. The runes carved in the blade glinted gold, and my heart lurched.
They had Luther’s dagger.
And it would be the death of me.
31
Manic fear bubbled up and erupted through me like an acidic plague. Luther was out cold, possibly dead, leaving me bereft and alone. Alone as I’d always been, but now it weighed so much more. Alone and vulnerable where anyone could hurt me, kill me—and that’s exactly what they wanted. It was such a horrible, powerless thought that panic surged as a whooping gasp in my chest that shattered into a deflated sob.
I was nothing more than a victim sprawled on the ground. Primitive, animal alarm assaulted me, and I tried to force my shuddering cries down. I was so, so frightened in the face of ruthless, absolute ruin.
Half-delirious, I swore I could feel my sanity cracking under the weight of my impending doom. With my eyes glued to Luther’s immobile form, I was drifting in agony when a clawed hand wrapped around my arm and dragged me roughly to my feet. My weakened knees nearly collapsed, and the demon’s feathery body acted as my only leverage. Its embrace sent revulsion through my tangled intestines.
The stolas hauled me closer to the fire, and energy rushed through me. I kicked my feet to find purchase on the ground and thrashed against the assailant. Determined and hellishly strong, the stolas snapped the ropes holding my wrists. But when I tried to shake loose, the overgrown bird held my arms wide.
“Please, no!” I gasped, throat thick with sobs. I cursed and kicked and cried out but remained trapped as Timothy’s demon-owl form neared with the dagger. “Please don’t hurt me… don’t-don’t do this…”
He glared, with distaste and triumph in his eyes.
“…please…”
“Keep struggling,” he crooned. “It’s part of the fun.”
My stomach lurched.
A stinging pain sliced across my arm. “Ah—fuck!”
Timothy lifted the dagger to the light, moving in an exaggerated ceremonial manner. I watched in horror as heavy, fresh droplets of my blood coated the blade like liquid rubies. The fresh cut on my arm stung, and blood trickled from my forearm to my wrist, pooling in the feathered talons of the monster holding me in place.
“Witness how the traitor’s blood rouses our master!” He flicked the blade toward the fire. My blood sizzled in the hungry flames, as if proving them right with their fanatical worship. As if it had really been my blood all along that would awaken a monster. It was sickening to watch—awful.
I hated being part of something so gruesome.
My breaths slammed in and out of my lungs, and I grew steadily dizzy from the smoke and the heat and the sight of blood. Instinct implored me to writhe, to pull away, but I was laughably pathetic against the power of a demon.
A whooshing blast rushed louder than the pulse in my ears. I unwittingly held my breath during a split-second of asphyxiating silence. Then the vortex of orange, crimson, and gold blazed in the pit—swelling and falling, breathing as if a living creature. Smoke and shadows in the inferno rushed and surged together in distorted shapes, suggesting something revolting writhing beneath the surface of the fire.
The stolas bearing witness to their unholy miracle hooted and hissed, exalting the emerging conflagration of their god. Energy unlike anything I’d ever experienced before crackled through the cavern, zapping like lightning kissing my skin. The force of that cursed power made my blood boil and bubble in my veins.
“HE. IS. COMING!” Timothy bellowed, winged arms spread wide and chest heaving. He was ready to cut a door open in our reality and let untold horrors spill forth. And he would welcome it all with a smile.
“Moloch! Moloch! Moloch!” the apostles chanted in a chilling, hair-raising staccato.
Timothy whirled back around, long feathers swaying like the sleeves of a robe. The pure evil gleam in his eye breathed life into my panic, preventing the static fear in my blood from retreating. His own breathing was ragged and fast as his giddy excitement swelled.
With his cruel elation, the blade rose higher.
This time, intending to strike home—to strike with finality. Asphyxiating terror clawed at my throat. I struggled against the stolas trapping me, but their grip held tighter than iron bands. A scream leapt from the depths of my chest, ready to belt out.
Then the world tilted on its axis.
