Chapter 17
The cultists trickle in one by one.
Each wears the same short-sleeved, maroon scrub shirt and drawstring pants. They look like they’ve been dipped in wine. Somehow their white limbs came out unstained.
There are twelve not counting Ellis and the two standing on either side of Emma.
Greg walks in. He has an even bigger blocky white bandage across the bridge of his nose and a scowl on his lips.
A few of the others occupy a familiar, vague spot in my memory: a tall, older woman with willow-thin wrists; a balding fortysomething man with dyed brown hair and an oval face; the young woman who sat at the registration table at the Ascent Discovery Weekend.
It’s not her face that ignites the spark of recognition, but the clay honeybee earrings that dangle all the way to her collarbones.
My memory of her is mixed with the glossed-over feeling of freshly printed pamphlets, coffee poured from carafes, and the hum of dozens of voices introducing themselves.
When Jena walks out, her eyes flick down to meet mine, then jerk up like a dog whose leash has been yanked.
Even in the dark the flushed points high on her cheeks are visible.
A sickly sweet and alcoholic scent wafts off her.
Is she drunk? I’d probably get wasted too if I was about to sacrifice my coworker.
The holder of Jena’s leash follows a few feet behind. Arden makes eye contact immediately. How else could she impress upon me the shitty little smirk on her pink-painted mouth?
The humming in my head grows louder. I’m not even looking at the box. There’s so much hatred and rage in me. I allow all that hatred to pull my lips back till I’m baring my teeth. Some of it’s mine, but most of it isn’t. Most of it’s—
bite her claw her slash her
rip her limb from limb
Arden looks away. The goblin laughs. I laugh too. This is it. This is it. This is the world about to eat me just like it ate my mom. It just so happens that the mouth belongs to a sorority princess who never once got my dog’s name right.
“You stupid cunt,” I hiss. “You stupid, evil fucking cunt!”
She stops when I start yelling, eyes wide. The cultists sit stunned. The older wispy woman puts her hand to her mouth, aghast and so terribly offended.
“No one will ever love you. You’re rotten.”
Ellis produces a roll of duct tape, then tears off a strip.
I snap at his hand when he tries to put it over my mouth and catch a bit of skin between my teeth.
He tries again. This time it sticks to my lips and fills my head with chemical smells.
I keep thrashing. Every movement hurts, but it doesn’t matter. All I care about is hurting him.
A gun fires. My ears ring, my head rings, my entire body is a throbbing bell. Ellis holds the gun aloft with the muzzle aimed at the tops of the trees.
He speaks directly in my ear.
“If you so much as twitch, I will shoot out your knee. You make a sound, I’ll crush your fingers with a hammer. I’ll do the same thing to your friend. Do you understand?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
“Great. So glad we could have this talk.”
Ellis puts the gun somewhere I can’t see. He takes down his hair and looks up at the sky while he twists it into a bun. By the time he’s done, his costume of easy charisma has slotted back in place. He levels his gaze at the crowd and smiles.
“Please sit. Let us begin. Thank you all for being here tonight. I am honored to share space with each one of you. I am aware this ritual has not gone as we planned. As we all know, if there’s no struggle, then you’re doing something wrong.”
He smiles and the cultists smile right back, some nodding.
He goes on like that. Words fall from his lips in a well-practiced cadence.
He talks about sky-puncturing mountains being whittled down by wind and water into rolling hills and the men who ate tunnels through the earth until they reached places that were never meant to be touched by the sun.
I wish I could pet my dog before she dies.
I want to hold her and tell her it’s alright, that she’s good and I love her.
I want to listen to Emma rant about unions and labor law and watch YouTubers laugh about reality shows neither of us have ever seen.
I want to do anything other than listen to this entitled, delusional man preach to a bunch of other entitled, delusional people.
I crane my head to see Emma. She’s slumped forward, eyes on the ground, hands pressed to her mouth like she’s about to throw up.
“The men loved their god,” he says. “They fed it, and prayed to it, and honored it every thirteen years with the joy of ritual and sacrifice. In return the men were blessed with prosperity.”
He pauses to scan the crowd. They are enraptured.
“The world is different now, and we are not those men. Our needs are larger. Our god demands more. Just like us, it is hungrier. We understand better than anyone that great progress demands great and frequent sacrifice.”
Ellis pulls a stone cicada from his pocket, then places it where my bottom two ribs meet. Its sharp little feet pierce through the prairie dress and prick my skin.
One special thing, my brain supplies.
“Please bow your heads.” He raises his voice and lifts his hands high. “We offer this sacrifice in supplication. We call you to us—”
He looks right at me. “The god of appetite!”
“The god of appetite!” the cultists repeat.
Ellis reaches down to something I can’t see. There’s a soft mechanical snick from the box when the mechanical door opens. Ellis raises the whistle to his lips, blows once, and then silence.
The whole world takes a breath. Even the cicadas stop their song.
The monster is here.
No, I remind myself. Not a monster at all.
A god.