Chapter Thirty-Four The Bleeding Ground
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Bleeding Ground
The barn was alive with rot and ritual. Damp wood with rusted nails like jagged teeth sticking out, and the air having the scent of mold and decay.
Dozens of black candles flickered against the draft, their flames bending low as if in reverence to the great Blood God.
In the rafters, shadows writhed with the candlelight, taking on shapes that looked less than human. It was the perfect setup for the ritual to finally come to fruition.
I stared in reverence at the altar that dominated the center of the vast room. The wood was rough and chiseled crudely. It was the same altar that had been used over the decades for each sacrifice, soaked through with years of blood.
Rushed nails were hammered into the beams to hold them steady, and grooves were dug into the surface as drains, carved channels that funneled blood into the earth below.
As we waited to bring the Vessel home, we offered another sacrifice to our god. The man was elderly, a vagrant found on the streets and brought here with the promise of food, warmth, and booze.
He’d been fed well, bathed to ritual specifications, and now was laid out on the wood, passed out from too much alcohol. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed, breathing even. A gag muffled his would-be sobs. He looked perfect, like an animal caught in a trap.
The disciples circled in a slow, fevered orbit.
Their linen robes hung loose and filthy, hems tattered with old stains that had long since turned brown.
Others rocked back and forth, eyes shut, lips moving in frantic devotion.
The air quaked with their madness, the sound of their chanting thick enough to make the blood hum in our veins.
Marcus stepped forward, the knife gleaming under candlelight. Ancient but honed to a razor’s edge, its hilt worn smooth from decades of sacrifice. The sigil carved into the steel seemed alive, catching the flame and breathing it back like a heartbeat.
He raised the blade, and silence split the barn wide open.
“The Blood God sleeps beneath us,” Marcus intoned, voice reverent, sharpened with conviction.
“Deeper than roots, vaster than oceans. He does not rot. He does not fade. He waits.” His eyes burned as the frenzy simmered, ready to explode.
“And tonight we feed Him until the Vessel spills the last blood to awaken Him for good.”
The man gurgled incoherently behind the gag, waking from his intoxication.
Marcus bent close, pressed the flat of the knife against his cheek, and inhaled deeply.
“And tonight,” he whispered, just loud enough for only the man to hear, “we tell Him the Vessel walks among us again. Vienna lives, and will soon be here to show her obedience and devotion.”
The chants exploded at once. Vienna. Vienna. Vienna. The voices clawed at the rafters, shaking the barn until the beams groaned and the candle flames thrashed like they wanted to flee, like they were the ones to be sacrificed.
Marcus dragged the blade down, pressing deep. The man jerked awake, his screams ripping through the gag as steel carved into his chest.
Circle. Inverted triangle. Eye.
Marcus swayed, eyes rolling back, his mouth parting as if pleasure itself had rooted in his bones.
The cuts were precise, merciless. Blood welled thick and hot, streaking his ribs, dripping into the grooves of the altar until the wood drank it greedily. The stench rose fast—copper and rot, sweet enough to turn the stomach of a nonbeliever.
“Hear us, Blood God,” Marcus thundered, arms dripping crimson, droplets flinging across the congregation.
“We bleed in your name. We carve our worship into flesh and spill it at your feet. The Vessel walks the earth. She is bound. She is ours. You call to her, and she will answer. She will open herself and give you what is needed.”
The disciples surged forward like wolves catching a scent.
A woman collapsed to her knees, both hands plunging into the pooling blood.
She smeared it across her face until her skin gleamed slick and red, eyes wild with devotion.
A man ripped his robe wide, nude beneath, and dragged his blood-soaked palms over his chest, moaning like it was worship.
Marcus threw his head back, eyes blown wide, fever burning in every sharp angle of his face.
“Sweetwater Lake already bleeds for Him,” he roared.
“The hearts left on doorsteps, the bodies splayed open—those are His messages. Proof to the Vessel that she cannot hide, cannot deny what she is, what she knows. Every sacrifice is scripture. Every heart wrapped in paper is a covenant. And when Vienna is brought home—when she opens herself to Him—the earth will split, and the Blood God will rise. He will reign. He will rule.”
The frenzy shattered what small restraint remained. Voices rose in a deafening chorus, the barn itself groaning under the weight of it. Chanting. Screaming. Begging.
Marcus pressed the blade to the man’s throat and slashed deep. Blood sprayed hot and wild, painting his face, soaking his robes, drenching the altar. The body convulsed once, twice, then collapsed into stillness.
“His life is now an offering swallowed by the earth and given to the Blood God as our eternal gift.” Blood poured fast into the grooves, slipping down onto the dirt floor, where the earth swallowed it greedily.
Marcus held his dripping arms high. “With every throat opened, His hunger swells. With every heart taken, His eyes open wider. Soon the Vessel will bleed. Soon Vienna will open the gate.”
The disciples collapsed into hysteria. Some dropped to the ground, pressing their mouths to the blood-slick floor. Others clawed at the corpse, tearing hair, teeth, and nails to keep as treasures.
Marcus leaned down, smeared the man’s blood across his face, painting the sigil onto his own forehead. He dragged his tongue across his palm, tasting the iron . . . savoring it. He pressed his lips to the corpse’s cooling skin, whispering into the gash at the throat.
“Thank you for this gift,” he breathed, low, intimate.
The disciples kept chanting, tearing at themselves and at each other, smearing blood in sigils on the walls. Their voices rose until the sound no longer sounded human, but as if a demon had been awakened.
Marcus smiled, lips red, eyes wild. Soon all would be right. Soon Vienna would be back in his arms, her throat cut open, and her heart in his hands.