No Humans Involved
Page 52
When he finished, the disciples took their turns pledging their body to Asmodai in English one by one. Eight people, including Botnick. Four men and four women.
I listened carefully to each voice, on the off-chance I'd recognize one. Unlikely, but I listened anyway. From Jeremy's shallow breathing behind me, I suspected he was doing the same.
The ritual resumed with more foreign chanting from Botnick, his voice rising now to an impassioned boom. I longed to ask Jeremy what Botnick was saying-whether he could translate-but doubted it was more than gibberish.
Botnick's voice reached a fever pitch, then stopped, and all went silent.
"Now," he began. "We dedicate ourselves to the demon of lust, king of Hell, prince of revenge, our Lord Asmodai."
Footsteps sounded, then a few foreign words, a sharp intake of breath, a choral chant, receding footsteps. The sequence repeated, then again, and I pictured each member walking to the middle of the circle for the dedication. Jeremy sniffed behind me and made a guttural noise, as if confirming a suspicion, and I knew what they were "dedicating." Blood. Dripped into a communal chalice most likely.
The last member took her turn. Then a match was struck. More chanting. A faint, oddly metallic smell wafted over. Jeremy exhaled sharply, as if expelling the scent from his nose. The blood. It must have been dripped into a censer, not a chalice, and burned in dedication.
The chanting stopped.
"We receive the blessing of Asmodai," Botnick said. "And in return, we offer the mortification of our flesh, for his pleasure."
The glug-glug of wine being poured from a bottle. Then a scraping sound. Stirring-metal on metal. A gulp. The burned blood scraped and stirred into wine, then drank. I shivered. Jeremy's arms tightened around me.
"Spirit of Asmodai!" Botnick cried. "I am yours to command."
Chanting from the group, rising in pitch. Then a snarl from Botnick.
"You," he said, his voice guttural, the word almost indistinguishable. "Prepare her."
The clink of chains, the click of locks, the slap of leather. Then it began.
The snap of the whip, the muffled cries of the gagged woman, smell of blood so strong even I could recognize it. And, worst of all, the shouts of the others, egging Botnick on, by turns ecstatic and enraged, lust perverted into bloodlust.
Hearing them earlier, chatting about broken appliances and children, I'd relaxed. Just repressed suburbanites playing S and M games. But now, it was chillingly real. I could picture that woman, bloodied and writhing in pain-real pain, not the put-on horror of that woman on the magazine cover.
My stomach twisted, bile rising. I started to squirm, but Jeremy's hands went to my hips, holding me still. I flushed.
When I swallowed hard, Jeremy raised his hand to cover my left ear and leaned into my right, whispering, telling me to ignore it, to block it, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't. It was like upstairs, trying not to imagine accidentally reanimating those parts.
I thought of the ghost, tried concentrating onthat pathetic spook getting his voyeuristic jollies, but then I heard his words again, about them finding me-a real prisoner-and my heart started hammering.
While that woman was genuinely in pain, presumably no one had coerced her into coming here. She'd submitted without protest. Maybe, in sexual dominance, that was the goal-willing submission. Or maybe it was just the closest facsimile they could get to what they really yearned for-an unwilling victim. If they found me here
I tried not to think about it, but of course I did. I pictured that whip with the lead ends, that horrible mask, smelled the metal going around my head, felt the could of it against my skin, the engulfing blackness, stealing my light, my breath, my screams
"Shhh," Jeremy whispered, pulling me against him, his lips at my ear. "Block it out."
I tried. Really tried. Then I saw those jars, those bags, envisioned them not as magical aids stolen from graves and morgues-like my necromantic artifacts-but as body disposal, like hunters making use of every piece-
"They can't find you." Jeremy rubbed goosebumps from my arms. "I won't let them. You know that."
I nodded, but kept hearing fresh noises from beyond, grunts and whimpers, the sounds ping-ponging in my skull, refusing to leave, throwing up images
I started to squirm again, then caught myself and stopped.
"Here," Jeremy whispered. He shifted me forward and took something from his jacket. His notepad, the pen stored in the coils. He flipped open the pad, past a few pages of notes to a clean sheet. He drew four lines-two horizontal and two vertical. Then he shifted me again, until I was leaning back against him, head in the dip of his shoulder as his chin rested on my shoulder, looking over it. He made an X in the center square and handed me the pen.
I stared at the paper, the layout he'd drawn so familiar I should recognize it, but my brain refused to work, still filled with unwanted sounds and unwelcome images. I blinked and gave a silent laugh, seeing a tic-tac-toe board. I put on my O.
Every kid over the age of eight knows the trick to the game, but I was so preoccupied it took me a few rounds to remember how to win.
Once I remembered that, of course, the game lost its challenge. So he switched to hangman, starting with a four-letter animal. Got that one pretty quickly, and he doodled a wolf for me, then drew out a fresh game. On it went, with Jeremy challenging me with ever tougher puzzles and making me smile with his doodles and intricate hanged-man sketches.
The sounds beyond seemed to fade into background noise, like an annoying neighbor playing his p**n video with the volume jacked. My world narrowed to this little cubby, to the warmth of Jeremy's arms, stretched around me as he wrote, to the whispers that tickled my ear and vibrated down my back, to the scratch of his cheek against mine as he shifted, to the spicy smell of his breath-tacos or burritos grabbed on the run. I leaned against him, solved his puzzles and laughed at his drawings
I listened carefully to each voice, on the off-chance I'd recognize one. Unlikely, but I listened anyway. From Jeremy's shallow breathing behind me, I suspected he was doing the same.
The ritual resumed with more foreign chanting from Botnick, his voice rising now to an impassioned boom. I longed to ask Jeremy what Botnick was saying-whether he could translate-but doubted it was more than gibberish.
Botnick's voice reached a fever pitch, then stopped, and all went silent.
"Now," he began. "We dedicate ourselves to the demon of lust, king of Hell, prince of revenge, our Lord Asmodai."
Footsteps sounded, then a few foreign words, a sharp intake of breath, a choral chant, receding footsteps. The sequence repeated, then again, and I pictured each member walking to the middle of the circle for the dedication. Jeremy sniffed behind me and made a guttural noise, as if confirming a suspicion, and I knew what they were "dedicating." Blood. Dripped into a communal chalice most likely.
The last member took her turn. Then a match was struck. More chanting. A faint, oddly metallic smell wafted over. Jeremy exhaled sharply, as if expelling the scent from his nose. The blood. It must have been dripped into a censer, not a chalice, and burned in dedication.
The chanting stopped.
"We receive the blessing of Asmodai," Botnick said. "And in return, we offer the mortification of our flesh, for his pleasure."
The glug-glug of wine being poured from a bottle. Then a scraping sound. Stirring-metal on metal. A gulp. The burned blood scraped and stirred into wine, then drank. I shivered. Jeremy's arms tightened around me.
"Spirit of Asmodai!" Botnick cried. "I am yours to command."
Chanting from the group, rising in pitch. Then a snarl from Botnick.
"You," he said, his voice guttural, the word almost indistinguishable. "Prepare her."
The clink of chains, the click of locks, the slap of leather. Then it began.
The snap of the whip, the muffled cries of the gagged woman, smell of blood so strong even I could recognize it. And, worst of all, the shouts of the others, egging Botnick on, by turns ecstatic and enraged, lust perverted into bloodlust.
Hearing them earlier, chatting about broken appliances and children, I'd relaxed. Just repressed suburbanites playing S and M games. But now, it was chillingly real. I could picture that woman, bloodied and writhing in pain-real pain, not the put-on horror of that woman on the magazine cover.
My stomach twisted, bile rising. I started to squirm, but Jeremy's hands went to my hips, holding me still. I flushed.
When I swallowed hard, Jeremy raised his hand to cover my left ear and leaned into my right, whispering, telling me to ignore it, to block it, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't. It was like upstairs, trying not to imagine accidentally reanimating those parts.
I thought of the ghost, tried concentrating onthat pathetic spook getting his voyeuristic jollies, but then I heard his words again, about them finding me-a real prisoner-and my heart started hammering.
While that woman was genuinely in pain, presumably no one had coerced her into coming here. She'd submitted without protest. Maybe, in sexual dominance, that was the goal-willing submission. Or maybe it was just the closest facsimile they could get to what they really yearned for-an unwilling victim. If they found me here
I tried not to think about it, but of course I did. I pictured that whip with the lead ends, that horrible mask, smelled the metal going around my head, felt the could of it against my skin, the engulfing blackness, stealing my light, my breath, my screams
"Shhh," Jeremy whispered, pulling me against him, his lips at my ear. "Block it out."
I tried. Really tried. Then I saw those jars, those bags, envisioned them not as magical aids stolen from graves and morgues-like my necromantic artifacts-but as body disposal, like hunters making use of every piece-
"They can't find you." Jeremy rubbed goosebumps from my arms. "I won't let them. You know that."
I nodded, but kept hearing fresh noises from beyond, grunts and whimpers, the sounds ping-ponging in my skull, refusing to leave, throwing up images
I started to squirm again, then caught myself and stopped.
"Here," Jeremy whispered. He shifted me forward and took something from his jacket. His notepad, the pen stored in the coils. He flipped open the pad, past a few pages of notes to a clean sheet. He drew four lines-two horizontal and two vertical. Then he shifted me again, until I was leaning back against him, head in the dip of his shoulder as his chin rested on my shoulder, looking over it. He made an X in the center square and handed me the pen.
I stared at the paper, the layout he'd drawn so familiar I should recognize it, but my brain refused to work, still filled with unwanted sounds and unwelcome images. I blinked and gave a silent laugh, seeing a tic-tac-toe board. I put on my O.
Every kid over the age of eight knows the trick to the game, but I was so preoccupied it took me a few rounds to remember how to win.
Once I remembered that, of course, the game lost its challenge. So he switched to hangman, starting with a four-letter animal. Got that one pretty quickly, and he doodled a wolf for me, then drew out a fresh game. On it went, with Jeremy challenging me with ever tougher puzzles and making me smile with his doodles and intricate hanged-man sketches.
The sounds beyond seemed to fade into background noise, like an annoying neighbor playing his p**n video with the volume jacked. My world narrowed to this little cubby, to the warmth of Jeremy's arms, stretched around me as he wrote, to the whispers that tickled my ear and vibrated down my back, to the scratch of his cheek against mine as he shifted, to the spicy smell of his breath-tacos or burritos grabbed on the run. I leaned against him, solved his puzzles and laughed at his drawings
