* * *
Nora swayed on her feet, the nearly empty wine bottle dangling from her fingers. Owen was behind her, his arms around her waist, his lips on her neck, sending tingles through her body. He’d plugged an mp3 player into some portable speakers, and a tribal kind of drum and string music was pulsing around them. Even though it was cold outside, the fire and the wine made her feel warm. She gazed sidelong at Owen through half-lidded eyes. The music and drinking had entranced her. “We’re going to kill the goat, aren’t we?”
Owen kissed her ear lobe. “Yes.”
“I don’t want to.” There had never been any killing in any of these rituals. Stupid chants, yes. Weird dances, yes. But killing something... It made her feel sick. And she didn’t think it would work anyway.
Owen’s breath tickled her ear as he talked. “Blood is power, Nora. We’ve been trapped here long enough. I’ll do most of it. You just have to help.”
The drums sped up around them, becoming frenzied. Owen’s hands moved on her hips, making her sway with the tempo. She closed her eyes, feeling swept away by it.
The goat bleated behind them. Nora pushed away from Owen, stumbling on her feet. The wine made it hard to move, made everything seem exaggerated. “I don’t want to.”
“Nora.” He put his fingers under her chin and tilted her head up so that she was staring into his eyes. Reflections of the flames danced inside them. She felt dizzy. “Blood is power.”
The sound of the words wrapped tendrils around her brain. She nodded slowly. They had to.
Owen got his pocket knife out again. He slid the blade up. It winked, flickering in the firelight. He turned up the music, louder. It pulsed into Nora’s mind. The beat of the drums seemed clear. Everything else seemed fuzzy and distant.
Owen pulled the goat out of its stall. It was shivering. He put his arm around its neck and pulled it against him. He brandished the knife. Nora winced.
Owen whispered. “I call upon loud-roaring and reveling Dionysus, primeval, two-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord, savage, ineffable, secretive, two-horned and two-shaped. Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howling, pure.” The knife slashed against the goat’s neck. It was quick, glinting in the firelight.
The goat twitched, kicking its hind legs out. Blood poured from its throat.
Nora hid her face.
“Take this raw flesh,” whispered Owen, “and take us home to Helicon.”
Owen tossed the goat’s carcass at Nora. She shrieked. It was warm and twitching and blood was getting on her clothes and skin. She shoved the goat away from her, screaming.
Owen took her hands, pulling her in a circle around the fire. “Take this raw flesh and take us home to Helicon. Say it, Nora.” His eyes burned into hers. “Say it.”
She repeated the words with Owen, allowing him to drag her as they half-ran, half-danced around the fire. The goat blood was sticky and hot. She didn’t like the way it smelled. And the drums were still loud, and the wine was still making everything exaggerated and fuzzy. She thought she might be sick if they kept going in circles like this. Her stomach constricted. She struggled not to heave.
Did the fire seem hotter? Were the flames climbing higher, licking the ceiling of the barn. Was the color different? Less orange and red, more silvery-blue? She tried to focus on it, but she was twirling so fast with Owen, and she was yelling about raw flesh and home at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. Everything was moving too quickly.
Suddenly Owen seized her wrists tightly, and they stopped running. He was breathing hard. He cast a glance into the fire, which was different—a huge mass of bright white flame—and yanking her with him, he leapt into the blaze.
Nora cried out. She tried to pull herself back, tried to keep Owen from doing it. But the heat was all around her before she knew it, licking over her limbs, searing into her skin. She smelled the acrid scent of burning hair. They were going to die now, weren’t they? Owen had completely lost his head.
Dancing Days Page 4