“And where would they go?” Violess countered. “They wouldn’t make it far. The only path is the tracks, and they’ll be easily hunted.” Though she faced the little hunter, her eyes stayed fixed on the streaming blood. “And by my count, you’re down to four bullets. The silver, though, that was a cute touch.” She turned her sultry eyes back to Fiya, ignoring that Rutger had now moved up to the altar, cutting Liama’s zip ties with the broken sword.
Fiya shouted, as clear as she could giving the muffling of the mask, “Everyone who has a heartbeat, get on that train!”
“Right,” Violess agreed. “Go ahead, everyone, get on that train. Do as she says. I’m not going to stop you, after all,” she paused to glance at the chute again. The end of the chute dribbled blood, spattering on a giant dehydrated heart that had been placed in a rib cage the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. She added coldly, “I can’t do anything with a blessed weapon pointed right at me.”
The prisoners rose to their feet, and the ghouls let them. Their perimeter broke apart for the prisoners to move freely.
Tamarin stood still; afraid he was next to be shot.
Rutger helped Liama get to Thomas, still shaking off the head trauma, and they quickly hugged. Liama looked back at Rutger and said, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” he said with a wink.
She looked back at her father, and his eyes were getting misty. He was still on his knees but slowly rose. “Come, baby, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Violess licked her lips as she saw the heart beat its first thump. She felt warmth rush over her; she didn’t even care that a revolver with silver bullets was pointed at the back of her head, ensuring that she’d never inhabit another body again.
Hector never got back up, nor jump into another body. This concerned her, but she couldn’t turn away from Him.
She felt His power trembling: It thumped again, like a deep bass drum. Violess’ eyes glowed with delight.
Rutger, Thomas, and Liama pushed passed the perimeter of ghouls, with the other prisoners making a hurried march to the train. Liama paused, and asked, “What’s that sound?”
Before someone could answer for her, a shadow splashed over the crowd, as a colossal skeleton rose from the cliffside.
Its torso was long, and the chest had a beating heart attached to the ribs with fleshy tendons. More pink and red tendons lashed out from the heart, with spider-webbing nerves sprouting, clinging to the nearest bone. Murky-yellow ooze poured from the heart and crept down until it connected to other portions of the skeleton, hardening into globs that soon formed into organs: Lungs formed and inflated, and intestines swelled and pulsed. A prune of a liver pulsed, and a tongue finally slithered in its jaws, smearing fresh new saliva across its beer-bottle sized teeth.
The skull reminded Liama of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, with spikes that protruded off each of its brows and down the center of its scalp. There was a skeletal framework for a wingspan that was as wide as the creature was tall. Its eye sockets lit with bright teal hellfire.
Bahtzuul was reborn.
“You’ve worked hard for this,” Rutger said as he smiled at Fiya sitting next to him in a drab waiting room, decorated with variations of teal and aqua. Fake teal trees, some darker than others, were painted on the walls, against a lighter aqua sky. Even the chairs they sat in had teal cushions. At first, Rutger thought the room felt comforting, but after twenty minutes of waiting, he just felt exhausted.
The last time Rutger went to the lower basement level was when he himself was officially initiated, and they weren’t painted this way. He recalled cold cement everywhere, with water stains and smooth, dull surfaces, like a dungeon. Maybe they wanted to make the waiting room feel calmer by using cool colors? He heard of prisons doing color tests, and cooler colors did promote calm behavior while pinks and reds seemed to aggravate the prisoners. He mentally debated if it were still an improvement or not.
They sat alone in the room, awaiting a member of the Order to summon Fiya. Rutger intended to wait there until they were done with her. Fiya sat next to him, capped off at five-foot-two the year before. Her leg tapped frantically on the floor. “This should’ve been done a long time ago.”
“I know. Normally the wait isn’t this long, but you were a minor; you were a special case. You’re eighteen now and proven yourself beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were made for this duty.” He put his arm around her, massaging her shoulder. “I’m proud of you. This feels like a graduation day.”
“I already graduated school.”
“That’s just the basics. I meant a real graduation day. It’s like you’ve been going through college at the same time you’ve been going through school, so you’re already achieving your higher education. So to speak.”
She smiled as she stared at the dark-teal carpet. “It does feel cooler. Much cooler than that cap-and-gown stuff.” Fiya never actually attended her high school graduation, thanks to a potential rabid Sasquatch hunt, which turned out to be just a big cannibalistic man. She picked up her diploma after the fact.
Rutger waved his finger in front of her, gaining her attention. “And it’s a hell of a lot better than wasting time and money at an actual college. Not everyone your age knows what they want to do, and you’re already fantastic at it.”
Fiya squeaked a laugh as she said, “Not everyone my age has seen or killed the things I have!”
“That is true.” He paused for a moment, steering his head toward the elevator doors that only led up to the rest of the facility. Then he broke the moment of silence by asking, “Did you memorize the Oath?”
“Sí. Though it sounds more like a nursery rhyme … but without the rhyme.”
“Also true. But you have to say it. And try not to laugh. They really don’t like that.”
Fiya followed the instructions to the letter, including cleansing her colon beforehand and refraining from eating anything. She could only drink water. She was starved. Her stomach groaned like a drunk toad more than a few times as they sat around waiting. When she received the instructions, she looked to Rutger with great big eyes of worry, and he joked it was for the colonoscopy. Then he needed to calm her down by letting her know it was because of incidents that have made messes in the past during rituals, and this was the best way to prevent it. It was an attempt to save from embarrassment, as well as being a fasting ritual. She jonesed for a double-chocolate chip Frappuccino.
The Order also instructed that she would want to dress comfortably, so she wore dark purple cotton pajama pants and an oversized and well-worn Rodrigo y Gabriela concert T-shirt.
“Is it going to hurt?” She asked, her tone soft yet anxious.
“The tattoo will definitely hurt. As for the ritual, it tends to vary from person to person. Some people get massive migraines, some convulse and shit themselves violently. Some just get a little drowsy while others blackout.”
“How did you handle it?”
“Me? Uh … well, at least I didn’t shit everywhere, if that’s what you’re thinking, but I projectiled violently.”
“Puked?”
Rutger nodded, shutting his eyes in shame, and replied with a long, drawn-out, “Yep.” When he looked back at her, he added, “Major chunks. I couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth for a week.”
A door opened, and Gerard Williams met them, now with a completely shaven head and a long, dark-red ceremonial robe. His eyes crinkled as he smiled toward them. “Miss Diaz, we’re ready for you now.”
“Sweet!” She hopped out of her seat and looked down at Rutger. “I hope that if I puke, I turn out as awesome as you.”
Rutger refrained from laughing in front of Gerard but nodded and smiled. “I’ll be out here waiting for ya.”
Gerard held the door open for Fiya and when she passed through, Rutger watched as it closed itself behind the retreating figures.
Rutger sat back in his chair and pulled an old paperback novel from his coat pocket: On its cover was a man bulging with mus
cles and long, blond hair, embracing a buxom red-headed lass, whose dress appeared ready to fall off. He turned to about two-thirds into the book and read.
The hall corridor was lit by candles lined along the walls. After a small flight of spiraling stone stairs, she was led to a small concrete auditorium filled with other priests of the Order of the Immortuos Venandi, wearing the same dark-colored robes as Gerard. Additional candles lit the room, and a concrete altar stood in the center.
Fiya froze for a moment as the sight reminded her of too many cult-based horror films and taking a moment to remember these guys weren’t really some Hollywood version of Satanists. At least, she hoped they weren’t. After a decade she hoped she could tell the difference by this point. She continued forward.
“Go lie down on the altar, Miss Diaz,” Gerard stated, gently placing the tips of his fingers on her back, signaling for her to keep walking. As soon as she moved, he removed his hand.
As Gerard helped Fiya to the altar, she overheard one of the priests speaking in Latin, reading from a brown leather-bound book. She recognized the language but didn’t understand it. After a few phrases, she noticed he had begun some kind of prayer.
Fresh candles were lit, and a blue smoke emanated into the air. The smell reminded her of wet nickels.
Next to the altar, tools rested on a tray. Upon closer inspection, they did not include scalpels or saws, but instead a tattoo gun that had not yet been assembled, a corked vial containing a clear liquid, and a syringe. She cringed when she saw the enormous size of the syringe. The needle reminded her of a coffee straw.
One of the men in robes held a smoking clay bowl in front of her as she stopped at the altar. He raised it to her face, and she turned her nose at it. “Breathe,” the portly man said, in a voice just a touch above a whisper.
She breathed in the smoke, and for the first time in her life, she could smell colors. Lavender and deep blues hazed her vision, spiraling with the robed men around her, and she became numb. “What is that?” she dreamily asked. She had no idea why she was smiling. She didn’t even know she was smiling.
Gerard replied, placing his hand on her back again, directing her to the altar. “It’s a centuries-old recipe. Coca-Cola doesn’t spill its secret formulas, Miss Diaz, and neither do we. Not unless you wish to work in this department. Given your training and skills, I’m certain that’s doubtful, but it’s always an option if you can’t take the hunt anymore.”
“Cool.” As she said that, she saw the word float from her lips in the blue smoke. She almost giggled but caught herself.
She sat on the altar. Though she felt numb, she could still feel the cold surface on her butt. Gerard helped her fully recline so she wouldn’t fall back and hit her head. There was a groove in the altar, so her head and neck could rest comfortably.
In the corner of her eye, through the swirling blue haze, one of the other men in robes filled the syringe with the clear liquid from the vial, while another assembled the tattoo gun.
The man reciting the Latin passages raised his voice and repeated his verses. Soon she could tell when he started and finished the prayer. He circled the altar, never once looking at her.
Gerard slathered the side of her neck with a sterilization solution that felt ice cold. Fiya let out a soft giggle when it tickled, then felt concerned the Order might not be taking her seriously and checked the looks on their faces. The men didn’t seem offended. Maybe everyone gets tickled, and they’re just used to seeing it?
She relaxed again as one of the men in robes handed the syringe to Gerard. Upon seeing it in his hands, she closed her eyes and did her best to distract her mind.
Thoughts of the first boy she ever brought home popped in her head. Then she remembered how cool Rutger seemed to act, while at the same time making sure he showed off his Immortuos Venandi axe hanging on the wall and the bearskin chair near it. The boy didn’t stick around long after that, which she didn’t mind. After more than a few conversations, he seemed like a dope: If he were too much of a little bitch to stick around after seeing a heavy, ornate axe, she wouldn’t want him sticking around, anyway. The memory amused her, but not enough to laugh and ruin the procedure.
Fiya opened her eyes and saw Gerard placing the empty syringe on the cart. Done already? He turned to her and asked, “In case you become unconscious, where would you like the tattoo?”
Unconscious? “Back of my neck, near the base, please. Above the shoulder blades.”
Gerard nodded and looked at the man assembling the tattoo gun in the eye, making sure he heard her. He confirmed with a responding nod.
Another man in robes approached her. He had a tangled gray beard with no mustache that reminded her of Amish men. He wore round spectacles and had soft blue eyes. His voice however was very rough, like old sandpaper on concrete. “Recite the Oath,” he said.
“In Latin?” She grew worried after listening to the man recite passages in a language she didn’t understand, who still circled the altar.
“No, miss. The words mean the same in any tongue.”
She couldn’t place the man’s accent, but she guessed he was probably Austrian or German.
She took a deep breath, inhaling more of the blue vapor as the bowl appeared in front of her face again and spoke.
I am a Knight of the Immortuos Venandi,
vengeance to the wicked.
No fiend shall escape thy Wrath.
With thy weapon of grace in hand,
until the end of thy lifeline,
to slay all demoni, cease the fell beasts,
and bring death to undeath.
In unison, the men in robes, including Gerard, replied, “Amen.”
A warm grip clutched the inside of her chest, and suddenly she felt like a mule had just kicked her in the gut. Nausea overcame her, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to repeat the Oath, for fear that she could start slurring words or say the wrong thing altogether. Perhaps a version with a bad case of swearing with Tourette syndrome.
Then, as if a Peterbilt truck parked right on top of her head, she felt crushing pain in the back of her eye sockets, along the temples of her head, and at the base of her neck. Even the candlelight became too much for her eyes to bear, and she shut them.
At first, she didn’t mind the smell of wet nickels, but it now seemed to fuel the jabbing pain up and down her spine.
For a while, Fiya believed she blacked out. She opened her eyes, still reeling from the clamping pain, and saw Gerard and the Amish-bearded man leaning toward her. Gerard’s lips moved but she didn’t hear a word that came out of his mouth. She attempted to refocus. Slowly she could hear him say, “Still with us? Nod your head yes or no.”
She nodded, up and down, which made the migraine feel like it sloshed around in her skull. She closed her eyes, wincing at the pain again.
“Okay, we need you to roll over now and remove your shirt. Can you do that?”
Suspiciously, she nodded, still wincing. The shirt might be oversized, but the collar was probably still in the way and could be an annoyance to keep pulling it down. Realizing this, she rolled over and laid down on her belly with Gerard’s guidance. She lifted her shirt and pulled the back of her shirt over the top of her head. Once she adjusted it for comfort, she laid back down with the shirt still covering her chest, but completely out of the way for the men to work. As she laid still on her front, her muscles relaxed and some of the migraine-like pain subsided.
A coolness spread on the upper section between her shoulder blades and up the back of her neck. She recognized it was the same feeling when they sterilized her neck moments ago.
“Now, we need you to relax.”
Other than the splitting headache, it shouldn't be a problem. Could’ve been so much worse without the numbing smoke, ya know? She did and then heard the buzz of the tattoo gun going to work. She kept her eyes closed as she felt pressure but no pain on her upper back and neck. If it weren’t for the throb of an epic migraine, she probably could
have fallen asleep while they finished their ritual.
Violess gazed with her seductive amber eyes upon the grand Bahtzuul rising from the cliffside. She bit her lower lip as she salivated at the sight. The chaos, the power, the rush. It all pulsed through her as she felt the taste of success. The surprise of Him, rising from undead blood, instead of the fresh blood from the living, quickly faded from her. Since it seemed to work anyway, she no longer cared.
The gargantuan skeleton stretched out its long limbs, like tree trunks with hands that gave way into raptor-like claws. An abyssal growl seemed to come from the teal glow from its jaws.
Behind her, pandemonium ensued, and the prisoners stampeded toward the train. The ghouls attempted to grab several to hold them in place, but they fought back hard enough to push through.
Violess ignored their fleeing efforts. She flashed her amber eyes with a quick spark to get Bahtzuul’s attention. His mighty head swayed, regaining his balance and noticing her as he looked down. “My Lord,” she enticed. “Welcome back!” She bit her bottom lip harder, drawing blood, making her lip appear more vibrant. Waving her hand toward the fleeing prisoners, she tilted her head and smiled at the behemoth. “They’re all for you. Every last one of them. Take them all.”
Fiya caught up with Rutger, Liama, and Thomas. Around them, the rest of the prisoners fled while keeping their eyes on the titanic demon lord. Rutger gawked. “He’s a lot bigger than I thought he’d be.”
He wasn’t the only one to gawk at the monstrous sight; everyone had mouths open in both awe and horror as they attempted to flee. With Fiya’s face covered, no one could tell she gawked, too. Her mouth-breathing got so heavy that condensation pooled above her lips.
She tapped Rutger on the chest to snap him out of it and continued to the train. “He’s gonna get a lot bigger if we don’t get the hell outta here.”
Thomas hauled Liama by her hand, following after Rutger.
The massive skull of Bahtzuul had lowered to Violess’s level, and she caressed his chin. The bluish green fire in his eyes fizzled and shaped into eyes the size of grapefruits. The same teal glow misted from the sockets. Violess stroked his under-jaw as his flesh reshaped itself. “I am the one who brought you back, Master. No one said it could be done, not with the Immortuos Venandi policing everything, but I did it. The mortals are yours to consume again.”
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