Incubi

Chapter 27

“Sacred Father, Father of the Earth.”

“Enrich us.”

“Your will is our blessing, your spirit our flesh.”

“Mortal as we are, sanctify us.”

“Our love is to serve you. Accept our love and give us grace.”

“Unto you, we pray. Deliver us.”

“Receive our prayer, O Father of the Earth. Carry us away from the hands of our enemies, and protect us. Give us strength to do your will, and smile upon us.” The aorist held up the jarra. “Accept our sacrifices as a sign of our love.” The aorist held up the dolch. “Accept our gifts as a sign of our faith.” The aorist set the objects back on the altar and raised his hands.

The surrogoti also raised their hands.

“To you we give our faith forever, Father.”

“Pater terrae—”

“—per me terram ambula.”

“Baalzephon, hail!”

“Aorista!”

The Prelate’s black raiments billowed into the nave. Hooded, his face wavered in candlelight. He felt risen, radiant in love.

“Go!” he whispered.

The surrogi, nude and drenched in sweat, stepped off the points of the holy Trine, their heads bowed in reverence. The fresh cuts on their chests — their own blood offerings — glimmered red as slivers of rubies. They turned and hurried out of the nave.

The Prelate dropped to his knees at the Trine’s high star. He lowered and kissed the star, his lips coming away whitened by the powder of crushed bones of priests murdered eons ago.

“Soon, Father,” he whispered. The floor felt hot. The candlelight danced like gossamer veils, or lit faces in the air—

“Soon,” the Prelate whispered. “Again.”

— and back into the earthworks his god took him, the sleek beautiful black bird sailing down and down into the impossible inverted heights rimmed by ramparts of obelisks and ancient dolmens and thrones of kings, ever downward floating in deafening silence and the lovely music of screams over chasms of blood and roasted flesh and heap upon heap of squirming corpses as ushers peeled away living faces and pried open heads and split bellies to reveal the soft, hot treasure of their eternal feast.

Ever downward, yes, of the sweet, sweet black of chaos.