Sacrifice

I showed him a finger. Then reconsidered and showed him two.

“Has this got anything to do with that bullshit earlier, about Satanic sacrifices?” I asked. “Are you involved?”

“Not this time, believe it or not.” He looked sincere. “None of my crowd even know the details. But whatever it is, it’s big. Sounds like the real thing. Darkness. Blood. Death. The same kind of rituals we’ve been fucking around with for years, but these people know what they’re doing. They’re really going to do it. And the rest of us are crapping ourselves, wondering where we can hide until it’s all over.”

“Really? If you don’t like it, why don’t you just step in and stop it?”

He spread his arms. “Stop who? We don’t even know who all the players are. The Horsemen are probably involved, but they don’t have the juice for this kind of ritual. The MTC might have had the juice once upon a time, but Vernon doesn’t have the balls, or the connections you guys used to have. Maybe the witches, but Morag would’ve heard something.” He gave me a sideways glance, squinting his eyes. “Tell you the truth, you’re the only person actually confirmed as being involved, especially after that business earlier tonight at the Station bar.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” It was becoming more and more difficult to follow his train of thought, which had entered a long dark tunnel and was in serious danger of derailing itself.

“You didn’t tell me that old fart was sacrificed in an alley behind the bar. I didn’t think you had it in you anymore, West. I’m impressed.”

I just looked at him. There were no words.

“Heart ripped out. Still missing. Lying in a pool of his own blood and intestines. You need to learn not to skimp on these little details when you tell a story.”

I shook my head. He seemed to be living in a graphic novel, probably something Victorian by The Original Writer.

“Look, I might have done the same thing in your position. Did you get the little bouncer to help you? Maybe hold him down for you?”

“How do these things get inside your pointy little head? Do the Voices put them there?”

He laughed. Not with merriment. This was the laugh of someone balanced on the edge of the precipice, determined not to scream in case the dark shapes below looked up and noticed him.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.