Page 46 of When the Sky Breaks

“I do,” the reverend replied. “My wife and I have a little house farther from town. This was all boarded up when we got here. Stripped all the popery off it. Replaced the windows with plain glass. Took out all those awful statues. Started hosting proper meetings every Thursday night.”

I glared. No. There was no way . . .

“And today is Thursday, isn’t it?” Ansel asked.

“It is,” the reverend agreed. “Are you three interested in attending a service?”

“But of course,” Ansel said. “We’re here in town looking into some strange goings on. You seem to be protesting them, and protest often incites action? Doesn’t it?”

The reverend just swallowed hard. “I suppose I’ll see you tonight then.”

“I hate this,” I muttered, slouching lower in the pew. Eight people had already offered to pray over me for the baby. Five had touched my belly without asking. Someone was shouting about the Tower of Babel. And the hymns—if you could call them that—were entirely too loud and entirely too improvisational.

Neal draped an arm around my shoulders, cracking a smile.

“Don’t tell me you’re having a good time?” I asked in outright disbelief.

“I am,” he admitted, “but not because of all this. It’s just kinda funny to see you this upset over a church service.”

I muttered something about “not a real church service” but let him kiss my forehead.

It was over an hour before the reverend started his sermon. Ansel had been pacing the room’s small perimeter the entire time. Most of the worshippers seemed too distracted to notice.

Just like most of the worshippers were too distracted to notice when the bright light of torches appeared outside the window. I clocked it immediately, paying attention to anything except the sermon. I pulled Neal to his feet and gestured Ansel over to the window.

“You got something?” I asked, peering out.

“Worth checking,” Ansel agreed. “Come on.”

We ducked out the back door into the cool, humid air of the night. And there, without the glare of the glass impeding vision, it became clear—not fifty yards off, just down from the ridge where the chapel was situated, were eight hooded figures, crowded around three untanned cattle hides, each marked with the eye and spiral. There was a ninth figure there, an old man who looked drunk. No cloak for him, just tattered street clothes. He was bound hand and foot with a gag stuffed haphazardly into his mouth. The old man’s skin was covered in cuts, and I watched in horror as the cultists smeared the blood in patterns on their faces, their hands, licking it off their fingers as they went.

I fought back nausea as I realized we were witnessing an occult human sacrifice.

“We have to do something,” I hissed. “They’re gonna kill him!”

“For now we wait,” Ansel cautioned. “We see what they do. We see if they summon something, and if so what. Hold your fire. But you know, weapons ready. Just in case.”

So we crouched behind the scrubby brush, just out of view. Until we heard the unmistakable swoosh and crackle—a portal opening. I froze. They were summoning the abominations. They were sacrificing to the abominations. They were drawing cosmic demons out of the abyss . . . and for what?

My musings were cut short as the glass windows of the church suddenly shattered and a loud screeching filled the air. A giant, beetle-like insect with writhing tentacles instead of legs emerged from the rift, screaming. Its shell gleamed purple black in the dim light of the cultists’ torches. As the windows shattered the reverend’s flock started to scream as well, rushing from the building in a tangle of limbs. The reverend stood as though paralyzed, still at his pulpit, hand still on his Bible, staring at the abomination.

“Do something!” Ansel snapped as the cultists knelt, dragging their captive with them. They left the old man on the ground as they returned to their feet, backing up and walking a slow, deliberate pattern. “They’re going to let it take him!”

“What do you want me to do?” I snapped.

“Pretty sure normal bullets won’t touch it,” Neal added. “Where’s your magic gun?”

“Back with the mules,” Ansel admitted, a little sheepish. “Do we think the walking and chanting is doing anything?”

“That’s a stupid question,” I hissed. “How the hell would I know?”

“Then we need to get away from here! And fast!” Neal insisted.

“Just see if you can summon something to disrupt them. See if that will get it to go away,” Ansel insisted. “Hurry!”

“I’ll watch your back.” Neal sighed, conceding to Ansel’s position. “Just focus.”

And so I did. The desert was bursting with life—but most was small—lizards searching for insects to eat, snakes sleeping curled up under rocks. I couldn’t get reptiles to do my bidding anyways. There were ground squirrels, gophers, a jackrabbit. All profoundly unhelpful in this scenario. Where was a mountain lion when I needed one?