R. J. Crowther Jr. -- The Reliquary

Introduction

2011-02-08T15:45:00.000-08:00

Thank you for taking the time to visit this page. The entries that follow are excerpts from CRUCIFER, a science fiction/horror novel with a Noir atmosphere, and suffused with dark eroticism. Warning: the content is intended for adults. Your comments are welcome and appreciated.

The novel is represented by FinePrint Literary Management.

Here's the short version of the synopsis:

The year is 2268, The City of Angels. Peter Romito, a hustler addicted to Slam, is hunted by the Priest who murdered his fiancée. The Priest carves out his victims’ hearts as sin offerings, and the last one he needs beats in Peter’s chest. Plagued by drug-fuelled visions of an alien world, and haunted by the ghosts of the murdered prostitutes, Peter flees to a colony of sentient machines. The Biomechs, undead hybrids of machine and flesh, are at once sublimely beautiful and grotesque. They welcome Peter and embrace him as their messiah. All they ask is that he die for their sins.

Crucifer, Chapter 1

2011-02-08T15:42:00.000-08:00

Los Angeles
March 19, 2268

Peter Romito slouched in the back of a yellow hovercab, the worn vinyl seat sticky with human residue. Thank God it was dark so he couldn’t see the stains--after a night spent turning tricks, he didn’t need reminders. Stale cigarette smoke lingered in the cabin, poorly masked by vanilla air freshener, but unlike the old black man flying the cab, Peter knew he’d be dead before he got cancer.

He shivered despite the warm air blowing from the heater. It didn’t help that the rain had soaked his black lambskin trench coat. His dark eyes were black holes with the pupils blown, and his chalky skin made him look like a drowning victim. Water dribbled from a lick of his short dark hair, running down his forehead and tickling his nose. He wiped his face, his second best physical attribute, and gazed out the window at the City of Fallen Angels.

Storm clouds blotted out the stars and rolled over the towers, titanic structures that surged into the sky. Some of them were dazzling geometric puzzles; others curved and twisted, warping light and space. Far below, an older city had been smothered by the towers, crumbling blocks and monuments of concrete and stone, the labyrinthine graveyard where he had been born.

The cab banked and soared over Sunset Boulevard. Plasma coils churned inside the cab’s dented fenders. The vibrations from the engine settled in his teeth. He looked at his trembling hands and clenched them into fists. Hours had passed since he’d taken his last hit, and his wetware was shorting out, in need of a fix. Flush with credit, he was off to meet his dealer, desperate to score a quarter sheet of Slam.

As a kid, he dreamed of traveling to other worlds, and wandering through strange cities filled with aliens. Sometimes he explored the ruins they had left behind, and went inside the temples of more forgiving gods. He even built plastic models of his favorite starships, which his father smashed to pieces in a drunken rage. He’d escaped to those worlds when his father hurt him, and instead of an astronaut, he became a psychonaut.

As if he sensed Peter was drowning and wanted to push him deeper, the old black man at the wheel turned on the stereo. The voice of Billie Holiday crackled over the speakers:

“Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest, the shadows
I live with are numberless...”

Peter looked at the old man in the rearview mirror. Crescents of blue dots underscored his eyes, glowing on his cheekbones like tiny fireflies. A rosary with a gold crucifix swung from the mirror.

The driver met his gaze. “You’re wondering about my ink.”

Peter shrugged. “We’re all marked, one way or another.”

The old man studied his face. “How old are you?”

“Old enough. I turn twenty-one tomorrow.”

“Well, tomorrow’s almost here. Happy birthday, kid.”

Peter snorted. “Been a long time since I was a kid.”

“At least when I was your age I had something to live for.”

“You saying that I don’t?”

“I’m saying that I did.”

“So, what happened?” Peter asked, knowing he’d regret it.

“You heard of Silent Night?”

“You mean the suicide bombing?”

The driver nodded. “Yeah, by the Sol Invictus cult. It was Christmas Eve of ‘42, before you were born. My wife had taken the kids to see the tree in Rockefeller Center. When the clock struck twelve, the head of the cult set off a plasma bomb, claiming that baby Jesus stole their holiday. My family died along with two thousand people. You couldn’t even sift their ashes from the snow.”

“Jesus.” Peter dropped his gaze. He wished he hadn’t asked.

“My tattoos are the tears I shed for my family. I moved out here to get away from the ghosts.”

“Did it work?”

“Of course it didn’t. They followed me. But you’ve got your own ghosts to worry about, don’t you?”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do. You’re haunted. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t jack up on Slam unless you’re running from something. Give yourself a birthday present. Get off that shit.”

“I thought I hired a cab, not a therapist.”

“Tough as nails, huh?”

“I’ve been hammered plenty.”

The cab shuddered, struck by a sudden gust of wind. The voice of Billie Holiday crooned in the background.

“Gloomy is Sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all...”

Peter winced. “For Fuck’s sake, would you turn off that song?”

“Sorry. Hit a nerve?” The old man killed the stereo.

Peter glared at him. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m just saying it’s not a good time to be doing what you’re doing. People are getting hurt, found with pieces missing.”

“The Crucifix Killer,” Peter said, going cold inside.

“They found another body this morning. One of my regulars.”

“Yeah, I heard. Her name was Meagan. She was a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your family.”

The old man grabbed a pack of menthols off the dashboard. He lit one, took a drag and slowly exhaled. “So, have you got any plans for your birthday?”

“I’m spending it with Tony. She’s my fiancée.”

“You’re shitting me. Well, there you go. You do have something to live for.”

Peter closed his eyes, stung by the truth. Tony was six years older than him, a streetwalker gone straight. He loved her with all the love he didn’t have for himself.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he told the driver. “Forget Sunset Terrace. Take me to the Reef, landing platform twelve.”

The driver fought back a smile and punched in the destination. Sunset Terrace was skin central, but the Reef was residential. “Had enough for one night?”

Peter didn’t answer. Thanks to the old man, his conscience was itching. He dug his phone out of his coat and speed-dialed Tony.

“Peter!”

“How’s it going, babe?”

“I’m doing all right.” Tony’s voice grew cautious. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. You busy now?”

“Just working on a painting for my new show. It’s too normal, though. Kinda turns my stomach. I’m ten seconds away from slashing the canvas.”

Peter smirked. “That’s my girl.”

“Where are you right now?”

“In a cab, five minutes from your door.”

“Really? Come on over. I’ll make some tea. I just hope you don’t mind if I smell like turpentine.”

“Heh.” Peter squeezed his nose. “My favorite perfume.”

“I love you.”

“You too.” He ended the call.

The cab flew past an egg-shaped ring that arched into the sky with a hologram projected inside. A broken DNA chain spiraled in the center, looking like a staircase on the verge of collapse. Stars spun around the chain, repairing the links. The image zoomed out through the eye of a middle-aged Latina, and a ring of light washed over her face, obliterating decades. She smiled and lines of text replaced her lovely skin--“End Time. Born Again. Dynagene Pharmaceuticals.” The hologram blinked out and the loop started over.

The driver huffed. “Whatever happened to growing old gracefully?”

Peter stared at his own reflection. “There’s no such thing. LA’s morgues are packed with beautiful corpses.”

“Rotten hearts in young skins, that’s the real problem.”

“Well, when they hand out new hearts, I’ll be the first in line.”

Beyond the egg, a scarlet reef skirted the Hollywood Hills. The crescent of glass towers branched like coral growth. Bands of light scored the towers, made of countless windows. Tony’s tower, the tallest in the Reef, stood at the center. Near the top, a ring of spikes curved upward like fangs, a dozen beacons so bright that they hurt his eyes. Red light spilled inside the cab as it glided toward her tower. The cab slowed and hovered over one of the landing platforms. The plasma coils rose in pitch as the cab slowly descended. Peter’s door lifted open and the air hissed out. The cab fare flashed on a meter wedged between the seats. Peter punched in a tip and pressed his thumb on the scanner. The meter dinged when the charge went through and he climbed out of the cab.

“Thanks,” he said.

The old man tipped an imaginary hat.

#

The Priest stood in a narrow alley south of Hollywood Boulevard, the skirt of his black cassock flapping in the wind. His cassock was single breasted with hidden snaps, the trappings of a general at war with the flesh. Thunder rumbled overhead and he squinted at the sky. Mist fell through the gap between the old brick walls, beading on his black hair which he wore slicked back. He dropped is gaze, wiped his face, and his fingers grazed the Collar. An electric shock made him flinch and chilled him to the core.

On the wall to his left, someone had stenciled an inverted pentagram, shining with cold blue light that fanned out from the bricks. The pentagram was two meters wide with a goat head in the center. Hebrew letters circled the star, printed in the border. He read the glowing script and whispered, “BAPHOMET.” Sparks crawled across the seal as if he’d cast a spell. But the Priest knew the source of the spectral luminescence; the pentagram was made out of countless nanomechs. He touched one of the letters and the characters shifted, spelling out the first law of the damned--“Thou art God.” After a few seconds, the letters shifted back. A smile touched his lips and he lowered his hand.

The Collar whispered like a lover. “There is no God but God.”

“And I will touch the stars and sit at his right hand.”

“But you are his right hand, your fingers dripping red.”

“Red as the heart that I will liberate tonight.”

“Come,” the Collar prodded him. “Our wait is nearly over.”

The Priest kept close to the wall and peered out of the alley. Across the street stood a gothic church, converted into a nightclub. Light blazed through the scarlet glass in the huge rose window. Over the doors, “Church of Steel” had been written in Fraktur, the brushed steel letters backlit with red neon. Industrial music leaked through the vaulted doors, the heavy beat pounding like a mechanical heart.

Crowded on the stairs of the church and spilling onto the street, were several dozen men and women dressed for a nightmare. Black vinyl was the fabric of choice for many of the Goths, making them look like they were painted with crude oil. Several women wore corsets which pushed up their breasts. Piercings gleamed on eyebrows, spikes jutted from lips, and tattoos scrawled over skin like tribal hieroglyphs.

Some of the tribe had been enhanced by strange technologies. One couple had long black horns grafted to their skulls, curving down their backs like bony scimitars. When they kissed their horns clacked with a dull, hollow sound. The priest smirked at the absurdity of it. A woman with a shaved head went without a shirt, exposing chrome vertebrae imbedded in her spine. Eyes glowed in the dark like jewels lit by flames, their irises injected with luminescent proteins.

Then there were the old school Goths who worshipped Rice and Poe, anachronisms dressed for a Victorian funeral. Some of the men wore velvet jackets, others full-length coats, gloves and vests with silk scarves knotted at their throats. The women wore corsets and billowing skirts, dyed black, burgundy, and deep, smoky purple. Cool poses of disdain appeared de rigueur, but a few who didn’t give a damn broke convention and laughed. These Goths embraced the scene with a wink and a nod--everyday was Halloween in the shadows of the towers.

“Dressed to kill,” the Priest said.

“Or be killed,” whispered the Collar.

The Priest scanned the pale faces. “Travis isn’t here.”

“Patience, the night is young and murder is a virtue.”

“We’ve been waiting all night. That whore said he’d be here.”

“Trust me. Hell calls, and the heart will answer.”

The Priest frowned and clenched his jaw. It all came down to the heart.

The Collar had first spoken to him on the day of his ordination. He’d been lying face down on the floor of the Cathedral, arms spread at the bishop’s feet like he’d been crucified.

“Fear not,” the Collar said. “I’ve got places to take you. You have much to learn before you enter the house of your Father.”

In the years that followed, the Collar led him on a pilgrimage of flesh. His teachers had been high-class hookers and back-alley whores; Slam addicts willing to trade their skins for a fix. He had honed himself into an instrument of agony and ecstasy, experienced every mortal sensation until all that remained was taking a human life or surrendering his own. Mercifully, before the ennui could strangle him, Father Funes, the chief of the Vatican Space Commission, appointed him Director of Project Ezekiel.

The VSC had created the project ten years ago to reestablish contact with its off-world colonies. A century and a half had passed since Rome lost contact. The colonies were early casualties of the Great Collapse, which followed in the Red Death’s bloody footprints. His appointment to director came as little surprise--he’d served as head of R&D under Father Funes, and brokered a construction deal with the Yutani Space Consortium, in exchange for exclusive rights to alien technology.

With his appointment, the Collar told him that the time of purging was at hand. He would wash his robes in the blood of the martyrs. None of them appreciated the honor that was theirs, but one by one, through love and the knife, they came to an understanding.

“He’s coming,” the Collar said.

The Priest scanned the street. A glossy, black speed bike roared overhead. Instead of wheels, plasma coils spun like balls of lightning. The biker shot between the buildings, hunched like a jockey. When he reached the intersection, he leaned hard to the left, pulled a one-eighty and sped back toward the church. Brakes flared beneath the bike and it hovered over the ground. It looked like a one-eyed shark with sleek metal skin. Along its sides, blue light fanned from cooling vents like gills. The biker shut down the coils and landed near the alley. He tugged off his leather gloves and removed his helmet.

“Travis,” the Priest sighed. He sank into the shadows.

The man was in his mid-twenties, his head shaved to the scalp. He climbed off his bike and removed his leather jacket. The Priest was surprised to see he wore no shirt beneath it. A red, Chinese dragon tattoo crawled down his chest, clenching his nipple in its jaws like a pearl. The dragon’s tail wrapped over his shoulder and snaked down his back. A finger-length metal rod gleamed on his spine. Red lenses studded the rod like a pair of barnacles. His muscles knotted as he tossed his jacket onto the seat. He walked away and pressed his key fob, setting the alarm, and a glossy carapace slid over the cockpit.

The Priest’s chest grew tight and his mouth went dry. He swallowed. “I forgot how beautiful he is.”

Sensing he was being watched, Travis glanced into the alley. His green eyes narrowed to slits beneath his heavy brow. Did he see the Priest’s face gleaming like marble? Perhaps he noticed the white square like a beacon on his throat? Travis frowned, turned away, and strode toward the club, the heels of his biker boots thudding on the pavement. When he reached the middle of the street, he reached behind his back, and pressed a button on the rod between his shoulders. Scarlet wings unfurled and slowly beat the air. The traceries were holograms of angelic grandeur.

“Beautiful,” the Priest gasped, stunned by the display.

A group of Goths were smoking cloves at the top of the stairs. Travis climbed the steps and several Goths embraced him. He returned their hugs, slapping backs and strode through the doors.

The Priest waited a few seconds and went after him. For the first time in twelve years his vestments served as camouflage. A few of the Goths looked his way with fleeting disdain. One woman with purple braids smiled, embarrassed for him. His cassock wasn’t a faux-pas, it was a cliché. Perhaps he should have taken it further and capped his teeth with fangs. The Collar refuted the cliché, but no one seemed to notice, despite the fact that it marked the Priest as an enemy of the people. Even the kid collecting the cover didn’t pay attention; a Chinese girl in a snakeskin dress was gnawing on his neck.

The Priest pulled out a credit card and handed it to the kid. The kid sneered and swiped the card, annoyed by the distraction. Returning the card to the Priest, he grabbed a rubber stamp. The Priest held out his arm and the kid stamped his wrist. He glanced at the stamp and smirked--a Jerusalem cross, the glowing red nano-ink spitting tiny sparks. He crossed the lobby and stepped through a pair of black velvet curtains.

Fog flooded the sanctuary and pooled around his feet. Purple spotlights washed over the crowd on the dance floor. The music wasn’t melancholy as he expected--growled lyrics and haunting arias rode synthetic waves. His eyes were drawn to the marble crucifix that towered above the altar. A nimbus of green lasers fanned out from the cross. Christ looked like a deep sea god, passing judgment on the damned.

The galleries along the nave were a circus of atrocities. Women writhed half-naked, caged in rebar crosses. Strips of black electrical tape crossed out their nipples. Tied to a St. Andrew’s cross was a man in a black leather hood. A woman in a rubber nun’s habit drizzled wax on his chest, pouring it from the glass chimney of a votive candle. The wax trickled down his stomach, clotting in the hair, and hardened into stalactites that dripped from his crotch.

The spectacle froze the Priest. He struggled to swallow. Nothing had prepared him for these obscenities. But a more honest part of him felt like he’d come home, the part that throbbed between his legs to the beat of the music.

The Collar tightened like a leash. “This is not your playground. You are not allowed to taste the fruit of Hades’ garden.”

“But it’s so sweet,” he said, touching the man’s thigh. His mouth went dry as he slid his hand toward the masochist’s crotch.

The Collar choked him. He yanked away his hand. Clutching his throat, he reeled toward the dance floor.

“See with my eyes,” the Collar whispered, loosening it’s grip. “See what has become of the house of your Father.”

“It’s still His, all of this, the beauty and the terror.”

“You have work to do. Another fruit to pluck.”

The Priest gave a slight nod and searched for his angel. The dancers swayed with hypnotic grace to the alternating beats, reaching up like they were plucking apples from the air and dropping them in invisible baskets as they swung around. None of them paid attention to their siblings in extremis. Even Hell failed to shock with enough exposure.

Then the priest spotted Travis leaning on the bar. His ruby wings were folded, given substance by the fog. The Priest glided through the crowd and the dancers parted, driven back like magnets with the same polarity. He waited as the bartender filled a glass with wine, and set it on a napkin in front of Travis. The counter was made of cracked glass that shone with emerald light. The bartender, a tall woman in a red vinyl tank top, had a sharp face, pearly skin, and bobbed, burgundy hair. Frosty white contact lenses blotted out her eyes.

Travis spotted the Priest in the mirror behind the bar. He met his gaze with cool disdain and took a sip of wine.

The Priest squeezed in beside him and waited to be served.

“What are you having?” the woman asked.

“Same thing as the angel.”

The bartender glanced at Travis and the hustler raised an eyebrow. A sneer touched the woman’s lips as she filled another glass.

“You remember me,” the Priest said.

“How could I forget?”

The Priest smiled, lips closed, and paid for his drink.

Travis swirled his wine and stared into his glass. “They think you’re wearing a costume. And they’re right, but for all the wrong reasons.”

“You’d know all about that. The wings are a real nice touch.”

Travis tilted his head, cracking his neck.

“Your wings were broken when we met, but I see you bought some new ones. I’d like to think that I contributed to your redemption.”

Travis set his glass on the bar. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“And that bike of yours, very nice. Very expensive. Wasn’t I the one who made the down payment?”

“Leave now, before you get hurt.”

“That’s gratitude for you.”

The Priest reached for his glass. Travis grabbed his wrist. He glared at the Priest. “Not here. I’m not fucking around.”

The Priest didn’t even flinch, he simply stared at Travis. The look in his eyes chilled Travis, hollowing him out. Travis swallowed and released his arm. “What do you want?”

The Collar rasped, “To split your ribs and lick your beating heart.”

The Priest muzzled the Collar. “I think you know.”

“Fuck off,” Travis growled. “I’m not on the market.” He grabbed his drink, shouldered the Priest and strutted away.

“You still eating Lotus?”

Travis froze in his tracks.

The Priest smiled into his glass. “Hard to get these days.”

Travis stormed toward the Priest, his face an angry knot. He spun the Priest around. Their foreheads nearly touched. “How the fuck would you know?”

The Priest sighed, looking bored. “I know you were the first person I ever tried it with. Ever since then, I feel like we share a special connection.”

“How much are you holding?”

“Enough to show you God.”

Travis’ eyes smoldered. “Be more specific.”

“Twenty mils.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Trust me. I’m a priest.”

“Yeah, and I was an altar boy.”

“That explains a lot.”

Travis narrowed his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You know the alley across the street with the glowing pentagram?”

“Sure I know it, the Devil’s Snatch. Next to the Pan’s Pipes bookstore. Did a rivet girl there once, after Church got out.”

“Meet me there in five minutes. I’ll head out first. You feed me your junk and I’ll give you mine.”

“That’s it? You just give me head? No reciprocation?”

“All I ask is that you put your heart into it.”

“What’s the catch? With what you’re holding, you could buy a choir of angels.”

“But I wouldn’t have you, and you’re so very special.”

Travis wet his lips. He could already taste the Lotus, liquid moonlight, bittersweet like honey mixed with wormwood. “Okay, you’ve got a deal. But I swear, if you burn me...”

“There’ll be Hell to pay.”

Travis strutted away.

The Priest gave a thin-lipped smile. “Don’t forget your wings.”

#

The Priest waited in the alley, hugging himself. The mist had become a light rain which soaked through his cassock. Finally, Travis emerged from the Church of Steel. Squinting against the rain, he strode down the steps and crossed the glassy street, his ruby wings aglow. He glanced back, making sure he wasn’t being followed, and ducked into the alley with the glowing pentagram.

“Where’s your car?” Travis asked.

“Who needs a car?”

Travis wiped the rain from his scalp. “The storm is getting worse.”

“A good night for a baptism.”

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

The Priest didn’t deny it. He reached for Travis’ belt.

Travis pushed his hands away. “Show me what you got.”

The Priest pulled out a vial of glowing, ice blue liquid. Contrary to its name, it wasn’t a narcotic. Lotus amped the user’s senses with an orgasmic rush, making him feel like ten-thousand volts charged his nervous system. On Lotus, you were a high-speed modem jacked into the universe.

Travis whistled, impressed. “Where did you get it?”

The Priest was cool, detached. “From someone who no longer needed it.”

Travis gave him a sly look. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

The Priest tipped the vial and righted it. “Would it make a difference?”

“Not really.” Travis smirked.

“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”

“One more question, Priest. How do you want to die?”

“What--?”

Travis spun around and kicked him in the chest. The vial flew from the Priest’s hand and he crashed into the wall. Before the vial hit the ground, Travis blurred with speed. He caught the vial and landed in a crouch.

The Priest slid down the wall. Pain shot through his ribs. He stared at Travis, shocked by how fast he had moved.

“You should have done your homework, Priest. Time stands still for the Lotus eater.”

The Priest drew a breath and winced. “Synaptic enhancement.”

Travis tapped his own nose. “Another gift of the Lotus. How do you think I cut through this city like a razor? I can fly at two-hundred clicks without even blinking.”

“Keep him talking,” the Collar rasped. “The real fun’s just begun.”

“Hush, I’ll handle this.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?”

The Priest glanced beyond him. “Try looking behind you.”

“You think I’d fall for that?”

“The devil’s got your back.”

Travis glanced over his shoulder at the Seal of Baphomet. “Yeah, he does, doesn’t he? You picked the wrong God.”

“Not quite.” The Priest punched Travis in the mouth. Blood flew from his lips in a thick, ropy spray.

Travis snarled and rammed his fist into the Priest’s face, but the Priest dodged and Travis’ knuckles cracked against the bricks. Travis still clutched the vial, which shattered with the impact. Shards of glass sliced his palm and the Lotus sprayed through his fingers. He howled and gaped in horror at his bleeding hand. The Priest kicked him in the chest, flinging him on his back. The rain quickly diluted the blood that ran down his chin. It trickled over his heaving chest, smearing his tattoo.

The Priest stood over him with his arms out from his sides. A cold, blue blade of light emerged from his fist.

Travis stared at the blade and shuddered violently. He clenched his wrist as if he had been bitten by a snake. Shards of glass poked like fins from his palm and fingers. The Lotus, mixed with his blood, shimmered in the wounds.

“Oh, Shit,” Travis moaned. His teeth began to chatter. Enough Lotus had entered his veins to kill a dozen men.

“What do you see?” the Priest asked.

Travis thrashed and groaned. Fragments of his ruby wings sprayed across the pavement.

“What do you see?” the Priest demanded.

Travis tried to focus. The white tab on the Priest’s throat blazed, blinding white. His face shone brighter, brighter, like a star was trying to escape. “Oh, Christ,” Travis moaned. His eyes rolled up in his head. Veins throbbed on his forehead and he foamed at the mouth.

“Close enough,” the Priest said. His lips curled into a smile.

“He’s dying,” the Collar said. “His heart’s about to burst.”

The Priest sank to his knees between Travis’ legs. He leaned over and slid his arm beneath Travis’ back. His skin felt like greased ice. His chest hitched, counting off seconds. The Priest hauled him up and Travis’ head slumped on his shoulder. The Priest stabbed him in the gut. Blood sizzled on the blade.

“Momma,” Travis whimpered. He shuddered and went limp.

The Priest kissed him on the forehead and laid him on the ground. He unbuckled Travis’ boots and tugged them off his feet. Next he stripped off Travis’ socks and tugged down his pants. His cock rolled across his thigh like a huge, bloated maggot. Even in death, the sight of it made the Priest ache with longing, wishing he could feel that conqueror worm in his bowels. He rolled up Travis’ pants and shoved them under his back, propping him up so his wings could unfurl. Blood bubbled from his lips and streaked down his cheeks. The Priest sliced across his chest, carved through his sternum, and pried apart his ribcage, exposing his heart. The sight of the beating organ filled him with awe.

“Quickly,” the Collar rasped, “before his soul escapes.”

The Priest gave a weak nod and went back to work. He severed veins and arteries and ripped out the heart. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, rumbling away. He bowed his head and held the twitching heart against his chest.

“Let us pray,” the Collar whispered.

The Priest closed his eyes:

“The Son of Man turns away,
He cannot bear the sight
Of angels bleeding for the city
That makes Hell seem bright.”

“Amen,” the Collar said.

The heart beat once. Amen.

Normally, he scrawled a Bible reference near the body, finger-painted with the blood of the sacrifice, but he knew the rain would quickly wash away his message. Let this murdered angel be his silent witness, its hollow chest and scarlet wings a lesson for the damned.

The Priest strode down the alley, heading away from the Church. Pulling out his phone, he called his hovercar, and punched in the code for its homing device. A few seconds later, a black sedan glided overhead. It descended ahead of him, blocking the alley. Rain streaked down the slanted plane of the tinted windshield. The door rose and he popped the locks on a ribbed metal briefcase, which he’d left on the seat when he put the car on autopilot. He dropped the heart in a plastic bag and zipped shut the seal. Blood oozed from the severed arteries, pooling in the sack. He opened a second bag, pulled out a wet towel, cleaned his hands, wiped the locks and gently closed the briefcase. He laid it on the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. The door sealed like a coffin lid and he soared into the night.

Crucifer, Chapter 2

2011-02-08T15:18:00.000-08:00

Peter stood before a curved wall of glass, which gave him a breathtaking view of the Hollywood Hills. Straight ahead, straddling the tallest of the hills, three verdigris-frosted domes crowned a marble citadel. He remembered the first night Tony brought him home. They’d been standing on this very spot, his arm around her waist, when she said she thought the Griffith Observatory looked like a temple. For her; it was a sacred space, like the cathedral.

Tony saw the Cathedral of Angels as a mirror of heaven; the observatory as a window into God’s creation. Both filled her with awe. They made her feel so small. He asked her, “How can feeling small make you feel special?” As explanation, she had breathed a line of poetry--“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” The line from The Waste Land hollowed him out, chilled him to the core. He realized that what he felt was like a drug to her. Then she tried to describe the power of the sublime, how beauty mingled with terror led to transcendence.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” he said. “They cancel each other out.”

She told him the power lie within the paradox, from knowing that God loved you despite your insignificance. Even with the vast size of the universe, God knew your secret heart and loved you.

After that, they made love for the very first time, and it was love they shared, in front of the window. Moonlight glazed her pale breasts as her back arched off the floor. She locked her legs around his hips, driving him deeper. When she came, gasping and shuddering beneath him, he stared into her eyes and it was sublime.

He heard a ceramic clink and shifted his focus. Tony stood in the kitchen, reflected in the glass, pouring steaming tea into a pair of stoneware mugs. She wore a deep blue, silk kimono that came to her ankles, and her beautiful, long black hair was pinned in a French twist. She padded into the living room and handed him one of the mugs. The heavy mugs lacked handles and were rimmed with turquoise glaze, with Japanese calligraphy painted on their sides. He wrapped his arm around her waist and she leaned against his shoulder. She wore Chanel No. 5, his favorite perfume. Beneath the sweet perfume, he noticed a hint of turpentine, like a bouquet of flowers on a pinewood box.

Tony gazed out the window. “What are you looking at?”

“When’s the last time you remember seeing the stars?”

She gave him a curious look, her blue eyes shadowed with kohl. “You mean, aside from when I fell in love with you?”

He glanced at her. “I’m serious.”

She smiled. “So am I.”

He kissed the side of her neck. “I think it was last summer.”

Tony fingered a gold cross that hung from a delicate chain. He’d given her the cross the night he asked her to be his wife.

“It was New Year’s eve,” she said. “Remember how we gasped? The stars were so much more impressive than the fireworks. It made me sad when all the smoke got in the way.”

“I remember.” He sipped his tea, wincing at the heat. The green-gold brew was slightly astringent, mellowed by toasted rice.

Tony frowned. “Your hand is shaking. How long has it been?”

He stared out the window.

“Peter...”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

She stiffened and he swore he felt her temperature drop.

“Tony, I’m sorry. Look, I’m here, okay? I could have gotten a fix, but I came to see you instead.”

“Don’t hang this on me.”

Peter sighed, “I’m not.”

“But the terrors...”

He forced a smile. “You keep them away.”

Tony caressed his cheek. “I wish that were true.”

She pulled away and glided to the center of the room. A vidscreen covered the middle third of the wall behind her. On the screen was a Japanese print of ink-brushed bamboo. She wrapped her hands around her mug. “Why don’t you move in?”

Peter stared into his mug. “We’ve been through this before.”

Tony picked up a framed photograph that sat on the table. In the photo, Peter held her with his arm around her waist, leaning his head against her own with a lopsided grin on his face. “We could be happy together,” she said. “Make a real home.”

“You know I take house calls. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

Tony gave him a pained look. “Which one am I?”

“That’s not fair.”

Tony carefully set the frame back on the table. “I went to see my friend, Father Alaric, this morning.”

Peter tensed. He knew where this was going.

“He said there’s an opening at the new treatment center. St. Michael’s is state of the art.”

“Do you know how they cure junkies? They pump them full of nanomechs. The last thing I want is to spend a week strapped to a bed while millions of tiny machines swarm like gnats inside my head. That’s a mind-altering experience I can live without.”

“But your mind’s already altered. Jacked into hell. The first hit of Slam you took contained a retrovirus. It changed your receptors, rewrote the code. That’s why going off it kills you.”

“I’ll keep my monkey, thank you very much.”

Tony gave him a scolding look. “It’s eating you alive.” She took another sip of tea, made a bitter face, set her cup on the table and slowly shook her head.

Peter turned away and pressed his hand against the window.

Tony watched him and tried to keep the sadness from her voice. “There’s something I want to show you. I was saving it for your birthday.”

Peter lowered his arm and watched his handprint dissolve. “What is it?”

She forced herself to smile. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

He followed her into the hallway, skirting a bookcase. Art books crammed the lower shelves, several on Francis Bacon. A mob of brightly painted skeletons stood on the top shelf. The Día de Los Muertos figures were her pride and joy, and strangely, didn’t seem out of place in her minimalist apartment. Her living space, like her life, was carefully segregated.

She took his hand and led him past the bathroom to her studio. The door whisked open and a ventilation fan sucked at the air. Unlike the rest of her apartment, her studio was in chaos. Unfinished canvases leaned against the walls, and he saw she had used the walls as palettes. Colors smeared across the plaster and dribbled to the floor. Her work table was covered with cans and wrinkled tubes of oil paint. The floor was an action painting tracked through with footprints. A large canvas sat on an easel in the center of the room, but the painting faced away from him. He set his mug on the table, but before he could look at the painting, Tony grabbed his wrist. She led him to another painting draped with a white sheet. The canvas was a meter wide and half again as tall.

“Wait,” he said, “I want to peek at the one you’re working on. Is that the one you mentioned on the phone?”

“Yeah, but you can’t see it yet. Come over here. This is the one I wanted to show you.” She reached for the sheet and lowered her hand, having second thoughts.

“What’s this?”

“Something I painted for you.”

Peter grinned. “You made me a painting?”

Tony wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll hate it.”

“Of course I won’t hate it, let me see.”

She bit her lip and slowly pulled off the sheet. It crumpled on the floor and she stepped out of the way. She pressed her hands against her lips, praying for forgiveness.

Peter’s eyes grew wide as he took in the painting. A Tau cross of grimy steel rose from a sea of blood, the shaft notched like the gear of a machine. Meat hooks hung from heavy chains at the ends of the crossbeam. A giant snake (or was it a worm?) spiraled up the cross, with lesions on its ashen skin like a bad case of syphilis. Its head sagged over the beam, the head of a man, his hair tangled and brow pierced by a crown of razor wire. The man’s face was frozen between a snarl and a scream. Peter cringed as he recognized the face as his own.

Two figures flanked the cross, a bald man and a woman, both dressed in black vinyl and mourning his fate. The woman had blue eyes and her skin had turned to steel. The man also had metal skin, but it had been scorched black. The woman was Tony, the man, his best friend, Rath.

Peter felt sick to his stomach. He winced and looked away.

Tony touched his shoulder.

“Don’t!” he jerked away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His voice was tortured--“Why?”

Tony’s eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to capture you.”

Peter’s brow creased with pain. “Is that who I am?”

“I know it’s terrible, but it’s a message of hope. The two people who love you most never leave your side.”

He forced himself to look at the painting.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“I hate its truth.” He turned to her, his face slack. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

Tony wiped her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He pressed his forehead to her own, kissed her trembling lips. Then he gently raised her chin and looked into her eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She leaned against his shoulder.

#

Later, they curled up in bed with a cool white satin sheet tangled around their legs. Sweat beaded his brow, despite the draft from the ceiling fan. Tony put her head on his chest and stroked his smooth, pale stomach, tracing the ant trail of fine black hair that led down from his navel. The soft peaks of her breasts pressed against his ribs. He ran his fingers down her spine and her skin broke out in goose bumps. She slid her hand beneath the sheet and gently squeezed his cock. He dry-swallowed, removed her hand and placed it on his heart.

“I’m not--“ he paused.

She frowned. “What? Not in the mood?”

His eyes were desolate. He shook his head. “Clean.”

Tony squeezed his hand. She didn’t know what to say.

“Can you just hold me?” he asked. “I want to fall asleep in your arms.”

Peter’s words wrenched her heart. “I love you, Peter.”

Pain creased Peter’s brow. “I love you too.”

He held her and closed his eyes. Listened to her breaths grow shallow. Finally, he slept too, but in his dream he was a serpent hanging on a cross.

#

Lieutenant Monica Regent shivered in the rain-swept alley, her eyes cold, face hard, and hands in her pockets. Water trickled down her black vinyl trench coat, the fabric streaked with blue light from the glowing pentacle. She clenched her jaw and stared at Travis’ body. His muscular arms were spread like he’d been crucified, and his green eyes, the pupils blown, were fixed on the sky. He would never soar again through the canyons of light; never feel the wind bruise his lips and lick his scalp. The rain pooled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, as if the clouds wept for him because he couldn’t cry.

Regent was the head of the Serial Homicide Task Force. Despite the rain, her short black hair poked up like tiny daggers. Full lips softened her angular features, but her cold grey eyes were as sharp as shards of ice.

A photodroid hovered above Travis’ body, the cameras on its spidery arms snapping photographs. The blinding flashes from its strobes erased his ruby wings. His leather pants had been rolled up and tucked beneath his spine, forcing up his chest and stretching open his wounds.

Behind her, three patrol cars cordoned off the alley, their flashing red and blue lights raking the walls. A yellow force beam glowed between a pair of flashing posts, holding back the crowd from the Church of Steel. The officers who manned the line shivered in their rain gear. Several Goths and Rivet Heads wept for their friend, while others jockeyed for a glimpse of the newest spectacle.

Regent looked at the rain-filled pit where Travis’ heart had been. Footsteps splashed across the pavement as her partner approached.

Rodriguez stood beside her and huffed a plume of fog. He stood a head taller than her, his head shaved high and tight, with pale skin, a wedge-shaped jaw, and gently sloping brow. His narrow, new moon eyebrows arched mischievously, even when a sly smile didn’t light his face. His nose seemed a bit too delicate for his face, and his thin moustache was wispy and black. Travis’ ruby wings reflected off his eyes, which were dark and slanted like a devil in the dark. A sexy beast, she thought, the first time they met. But she’d swallow hot coals before admitting it. He gripped two cups of coffee and handed one to her.

“Thanks,” she said. She peeled back the lid and sniffed the steaming brew.

“Black, no sugar. Just the way you like it.”

She blew on it and warmed her hands. “Where did you get it?”

“In the club. You should see it. It’s a regular Sodom and Gomorrah.”

A smile touched her lips. “Your kind of place.”

“It’s a fucking shame. I left my nipple clamps at home.”

“Those little girls with their spiked heels would eat you alive.”

He smirked at a private memory. “Only if I’m lucky.”

She sipped the steaming coffee, winced, and nodded toward the body. “You’ll want something stronger than this before we’re finished here.”

Rodriguez followed her gaze. “Our perp’s a twisted fuck. He put that junky on display like a piece of public art.”

Regent threw him a sideways glance. “Colorful as always.”

The photodroid, officially called the Crime Scene Evidence Probe, extended a spidery arm with a camera at the tip. The shutter clicked repeatedly as it photographed Travis’ hand. When it finished, the droid rose several meters above the body. A green laser on its belly painted a grid on the corpse, creating a 3-D map for a virtual model. The survey laser cut out and the droid waited for instructions.

“CSEP, sleep.” Regent said.

The probe drifted away. A spidery tripod extended from its base and its camera eyes dialed shut.

“Where’s the M.E.?” she asked.

“He’s still en route.”

“We’re losing evidence to the rain. Trace is a wash. If Philip doesn’t get here soon, there’ll be nothing to bag but the body.”

“He was asleep when he got the call. Not everyone sleeps in a coffin.”

She scowled, not in the mood for his vampire jokes. “Our perp’s gone public in a big way. He’s overconfident. There’s a better chance he screwed up and left something behind. If he did, I don’t want it going down the drain.”

“CSEP’s finished the prelim. We should put up a tent. Hell, you’ll be doing the M.E. a favor.”

Regent turned toward the opposite end of the alley, where several more patrol cars flanked a white evidence van. The van looked like a big casket with six hover coils. “CORONER” was stenciled on the side in bright yellow letters. The cargo door stood open and evidence techs slouched against the hull. Their collection kits and other gear were stacked inside the hold.

Regent called out to them. “What are we paying you for? I need you to bring the lights and set up a tent.”

The techs hauled out four steel cases and placed them around the body. They yanked up the handles, exposing banks of lights. One by one they flicked them on and lit up the corpse. Next, they returned to the van and retrieved the poles for the tent. Force field generators tipped the poles like rocket-launched grenades. The techs squared off around the body and tamped the poles on the ground, releasing spring-loaded tripods that locked into place. They raised the telescoping poles and activated the generators. A ruby web flashed between them, forming a canopy.

Regent stepped under the tent as the techs brought over their kits. Rodriquez stood behind her as she squatted near the body. She set down her coffee, opened a kit and tugged on a pair of latex gloves. She leaned over Travis and examined his neck. Unlike most of the victims, his throat had not been cut. She pulled down his split lip. His teeth were gummy with blood.

She grabbed a pair of tweezers and tugged a piece of glass from his hand. A trickle of blood and glowing blue liquid seeped from the wound. She scowled. “Lotus. He must have crushed a vial during the struggle.”

Rodriguez leaned in for a closer look. “He fought back, and it shattered when he hit his assailant.”

“Maybe.” She dropped the fragment into a specimen bag. She turned over Travis’ hand and saw his knuckles were abraded. Tiny specks of grit were imbedded in his skin. “Looks like he punched a wall. We need to find the rest of the vial. If we’re lucky we can lift a partial from the stopper. Same goes for his boots. I want them bagged and tagged.”

“You think he OD’d before he got cut up?”

“If he was lucky. One thing’s for sure, he didn’t go down easy.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you read his rap sheet.”

“Christ, Rodriguez. Show a little respect for the dead.”

Rodriguez frowned at Travis’ crotch. “You think he was raped?”

“Given how close we are to the club, I’m betting no, but he sure as hell didn’t get the Lotus for free. We’ll have to wait for the pelvic exam and a swab for semen. See if there are any signs of rectal tearing. That’s Phillip’s job, not mine.”

“Lucky him.”

“Where’s the kid who discovered the body?”

“He’s waiting inside the club.” Rodriguez pulled out his phone and glanced at his notes. The witness’ name is Jarrett Spencer. White male, twenty-two. He entered the alley to take a piss, and that’s when he found the body. The bartender and owner of the club is a woman named Sandra Wells. She said a man she’d never seen before was cruising the victim. According to her, the suspect and the victim had a brief altercation. The suspect left the club and the victim followed him. Get this, she said the suspect was dressed like a priest.”

“Jesus.” Regent stripped off her gloves.

“At least it explains the messages we found near the other bodies. If the suspect thinks he’s a priest, it’s a personal crusade.”

“And if he really is a priest? Have you considered that?”

“Wouldn’t butchering prostitutes go against everything he is?”

“Obviously, he doesn’t consider murder a sin.”

Rodriguez took a gulp of coffee. “Exactly my point.”

She gave him a hard look. “You’re missing the point. If he thinks he’s serving God, it’s sacrifice, not murder. The bastard is playing by God’s rules, not ours.”

Rodriguez frowned at Travis’ corpse. His ruby wings flickered out. “If that’s how God treats his angels, what are we fighting for?”

Regent’s face grew hard. “To prove we’re better than our maker.” She squeezed Rodriguez’ shoulder and strode toward the police line. The rain trickled down her back, colder than before. The officers that manned the line let her through the barrier. She waded through the huddled mass of pierced and painted mourners. They parted in silence as she climbed the steps of the church. She gazed up at the rose window high above the doors. The fractured disk of scarlet glass blazed like the eye of Hell.

Cathedral of Bones

2011-02-08T14:53:00.000-08:00

Crucifer, Bk. 3, Chapter 2, scene iii

Peter approached a giant archway made of silver bones, which framed black metal doors, smooth and without handles. Atarah and Penuel stood behind him, watching in silence to see what he would do. A pair of angels twice his height guarded the doors, both with their heads bowed and kneeling in prayer. These were not the marble angels that wept over graves; these were the children of Azrael, God’s executioner.

The angels had sloped heads with grey, glossy skin, and though bald, their faces were clearly feminine. Their narrow eyes shone with sapphire light, and he realized the angels were identical twins. They sighed like lovers, exposing silver fangs. The backs of their heads tapered into crescent fins. Wings like enormous scythe blades curved down their backs, and between them exhaust pipes flanked their silver spines. Both of them had large breasts with nipples like drill bits. Between their legs, ribbed cocks curved up their bellies. Fingernails like daggers tipped their praying hands, and cables snaked along the joints of their metal fingers.

Peter approached the doors, but the angels didn’t move. He pushed on the massive slabs. The doors wouldn’t budge. The angels turned their heads and focused on him. Their fingers curled into claws, clacking like crabs.

“Stand back,” Atarah said.

Peter backed away, his heart pounding so hard he thought he’d blow a gasket.

Atarah raised her hand and her eyes burned brighter. Peter heard a dull thunk and the doors slowly parted.

“Behold the Cathedral of Bones,” Penuel said.

Peter stepped inside and gaped at his macabre surroundings. He felt a rush of awe and fear--the beauty and the horror! The sanctuary was immense, the rib cage of a Titan, its vaulted steel ceiling soaring above him. Gunmetal vertebrae supported the vault, braced by gleaming ribs that curved along its sides. Each rib descended to a massive phallic pillar, their steel shafts crowned with polished hematite heads. Between the pillars, black lanterns hung from heavy chains, but instead of flames, blue-plasma seethed inside the glass. The plasma was the same color as the biomechs’ eyes, as if they had all been lit from a single torch. Was this the light of their souls? Did they share a power source?

He dropped his gaze and saw his reflection in the center aisle, a slab of obsidian that stretched to the chancel. A Tau cross, made of steel, stood behind the altar, four meters high with pipes in grooves along its arms. A row of metal skulls connected the pipes, and ran like a zipper down the front of the cross.

Peter shook his head. “Oh, no,” he groaned. The cross was real. Fucking real. Just like Tony’s painting.

He looked back at his guides for an explanation. Their faces, what they had of them, were cold and impassive.

“We will wait here for you,” Atarah told him. She nodded toward the cross. “Go and learn the truth.”

Peter faced the cross. He didn’t want to know. The truth was that even his nightmares weren’t his own.

“Peter,” Atarah prodded him. “The Prophet awaits.”

Peter sighed with resignation and walked down the aisle. He saw the pews were sculpted from black-lacquered bones. An ivory skull had been embedded in every sideboard. They leered at him as he passed and whispered, “Ave Peter.”

I’ve lost my mind, he thought. I died and went to Hell. Did it happen when I jumped, or when the Priest stabbed me?

The skirt of his vinyl cassock shimmered with each step. He reached out and touched a skull, hard and dry as chalk. Were these the skulls of the missing colonists? How many people died to furnish this cathedral?

He reached the transept and looked to his right. A steel statue of the Virgin stood inside the chapel, not the Mother of God, but the Mother of Pain. The Virgin was larger than life. Her red eyes burned like coals. She was an iron maiden, cruel and without mercy. A wedge of scarlet flames roared between her thighs. He shuddered and looked away, feeling violated.

If she wasn’t bad enough, her counterpart was worse. The statue in the chapel to his left put the fear of God in him. The naked giant had been crucified upside down. Like her, his eyes bore the glow of the furnace. A pair of golden keys hung from a chain on his waist. The tip of his erect penis pressed against his navel. This was how ROM saw its rock, its very foundation.

Peter reached the chancel steps and stood before the cross. Closer now, he made out details distance had obscured. The cross had a narrow gap running down the middle, which divided the zipper of skulls. He wondered if the Tau cross opened like a cabinet, and remembered the story of Pandora’s box. The box had unleashed all the horrors of the human condition, but hope remained inside, a promise of salvation. It looked like those horrors had spilled into the cathedral. What he saw behind the cross filled him with terror. The perverse need to know goaded him forward. He circled behind the cross for a closer look.

A dozen naked men and women were trapped inside the wall, crucified in cross-shaped niches like a row of statues. None of the colonists looked older than thirty. Their heads were bald as polished stones. Their bodies were hairless. A morbid bas-relief covered the wall, shiny metal arabesques cast from human bones. Zippers of vertebrae ran down the walls, and serpentine pipes converged around the cross-shaped niches. There were strange creatures too that looked like octopi, and razor-edged horseshoe crabs, their bellies exposed. Three gunmetal steps circumscribed the wall, looking like horseshoes of frozen intestines.

Peter hugged himself and walked along the steps, examining the bodies of the colonists. Steel rods pierced their temples, holding up their heads. Silver spikes pinned their hands and feet to the wall. Green webs fanned through their translucent skins, as if their tortured flesh had been carved from moss agate. Steel tubes punctured their sunken abdomens, radiating from their navels like spider legs. The tubes were attached to loops of clear vinyl tubing, which pumped bright, lime-green fluid into their organs. Embalming fluid, he realized. He shuddered in revulsion.

Then, as he paused before a woman in her twenties, he noticed rings of scar tissue around her puncture wounds. “Oh, my God,” he moaned--the woman wasn’t dead. Or at least she hadn’t been when the tubes were inserted.

He heard a rumble of steel grinding against stone. The sound was coming from the cross behind him. What now? he wondered. He slowly turned around. Has his presence triggered the locking mechanism? He went to the front of the chancel and stood before the cross. The doors of the cross had split open and were sliding apart. Fog poured through the opening and boiled across the floor. Through the gap, he saw a man. The cross was a sarcophagus.

Soon the interior was fully exposed and the doors ground to a halt. A man with long, black hair had been crucified inside. A fist-sized garnet cabochon glowed over his heart. Organic machinery pulsed and whirred around him. Oily pistons fucked tubes of grey, glossy meat, and green embalming fluid pumped through vinyl hoses.

A halo of surgical steel rods pierced the man’s brow, a crown of thorns fit for the Messiah of Machines. Atarah had told him, “The Prophet awaits.” Peter realized he was looking at him. Like the other colonists, his skin was translucent, but fewer of the mossy tendrils wormed through his flesh. The Prophet’s crotch and armpit hair hadn’t been shaved. Somehow, those curly patches made him more human. But was he alive? Did his ghost haunt the machine?

A pair of small portals opened above the Prophet’s shoulders. Two fiber-optic cables snaked out of the holes and attached to bio-ports on the back of his head. Blue light pulsed through the cables, transmitting data. Peter winced and clutched the back of his neck.

Suddenly, he was back in the shower stall of his apartment. Blood sprayed from the shower head and filled the stall to his knees. Two needle-headed cables slithered up his legs. They pierced him, tunneled through his flesh, and burst through his shoulders. His limbs shook as if he was suffering a seizure. The cables snaked around his head and drilled into his skull. The vision ripped away and he stood before the Prophet.

Every horror of his life, the rape, the Slam, the murders, all of it was part of the Hanging God’s plan.

Peter sank to his knees and screamed.