The hour of the Scales arrives in the stopped house. Bound in silk and darkness, the Betrayer is carried to the ancient oak in the deep timber. Before the Black Flame and the unyielding eyes of the six, the debt of seven years is collected in blood and fire.
Midnight hung heavy over Hazelwood, cold and quiet as an open grave.
Abigail slipped through the basement window of the stopped house, her bare feet dropping soundless onto the concrete floor. In her arms she carried dark silk robes for the awakening.
She entered Sara’s room at the end of the hall, handing her the black shroud. Sara drew the silk over her bare flesh without hesitation, her eyes wide and clear beneath her bandages. "It is time to become more, Sara," Abigail whispered.
They moved down the dark corridor in their robes, where Jared and Tim emerged from the shadow of the cellar stairs clad in matching black garments. The boys nodded in silent, grim resolve.
They entered the master bedroom. Walter lay passed out on his back, smelling of cheap bourbon and auto mechanic grease, his stained shirt sticking to his chest from days of sweat. Beside the bed, the mother’s record player sat silent in the dark.
Sara walked to the vanity, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. Her fingers closed around her mother's foot-long brass candlestick.
She stood over the left side of the bed, looming in the gloom. "Walter," she called softly. The father snored on, unphased in his stupor. "Walter," she called again, louder.
Sara screamed into the quiet room: "DADDY!"
Walter’s bloodshot eyes snapped open. Too drunk to sit up, he blinked in confusion at his daughter smiling down at him, with Abigail standing motionless at the foot of the bed. "Wha... what?" he muttered.
"Hi," Sara whispered. She brought the heavy brass base down across his temple. Blood spattered against the wall in dark, magnetized droplets. Walter went limp.
At Abigail’s motion, Jared and Tim stepped forward with heavy hemp rope and a contractor's tarp. They bound his wrists and ankles, wrapping the canvas around his torso, and lifted his dead weight between them.
They carried him out the back door and down the dark residential lanes toward the woods where the stone ritual had taken place days before, with Abigail and Sara following close behind.
Beneath the canopy of the deep timber, they hauled Walter upright against the massive ancient oak, binding him securely to the trunk with heavy hemp rope. Around the tree, Jared and Tim set black candles upon the moss, their flames flickering against the damp bark. Lisa sat upon an exposed root, her sketchbook open, her charcoal capturing every silhouette.
Cold liquid splashed across Walter's face, waking him from the dark.
His bloodshot eyes opened to find Sara standing inches from him, a dark, terrifying grin on her face, with Abigail right behind her.
"Hey, Walter," Sara said tauntingly.
Walter thrusted against the ropes, but a sickening agony hit between his legs. Looking down, he saw his trousers soaked in dark crimson where his manhood had been severed, and Sara holding up the bloody blade before his eyes.
A raw, ragged scream tore from his throat. "Sara... what did you do?!"
Jared mocked from the darkness of the perimeter: "Sara, what did you do?"
A laughter broke from Sara's lips—a sound her father had never heard, light and sharp with liberation. She passed the blade to Abigail and stepped back, her face glowing with quiet, cathartic satisfaction.
Abigail stepped close, pressing the tip of the blade into the hollow of Walter’s throat. A trickle of crimson spilled down his chest, adding a fresh stain to his shirt.
"You dare ask what was done?" Abigail spoke, her voice an iron bell. "After what you executed in that house? You violated your own blood. You forced a living daughter to wear a corpse's shroud. You took everything she was. Tonight, she reclaims every drop. When she is finished, her mark will rest upon your soul, and she will send it down to Goddess Alyssa."
Panic and agony overtook him. Tears cut tracks through the grease on his face. "Sara... I'm sorry! Baby, please! I didn't know what got into me... I promise—"
Abigail pressed the point of the steel deeper against his collarbone. "Your promises are dead wind."
"Look, I have money!" Walter blubbered, weeping in fear. "Tell me how much you want! Just let me go... I won't say anything! Please!"
"Your money is worthless here, Walter," Abigail said, her tone cold with sacred disdain. "Your heart, though..."
She placed the point of the blade over his sternum. She gestured to Deanna, Lisa, Jared, and Tim, who drew in close around Sara and Abigail under the candle-flame.
"...your heart is where your spiritual essence is contained. It pumps your blood through the vessel."
Abigail leaned into his ear, her whisper carrying finality: "We take your heart, and we feast upon it while you fade. It will be the last sight your eyes behold before you are consumed. And while you bleed against this tree, your house burns to ash. We heard the sirens as we walked into these woods."
Abigail twirled the blade against his skin. "Have you any last words for this parasite, Sara?"
"No," Sara said, her gaze fixed on the terror in his eyes. "Carve the fucker so She can harvest."
"I love when they love Her," Abigail smiled. She drove the blade into his sternum, drawing it free, and handed the steel to Sara.
Abigail pulled back her fist and struck Walter’s chest with full force, shattering the breastbone beneath his ribs. Walter gasps, blood erupting from his mouth.
"Open him," Abigail commanded. Jared and Tim stepped forward, taking hold of the shattered ribcage, pulling the bone open wide to expose the quivering, warm organ within.
Walter grunted, his breath rattling as his life ebbed. Abigail reached both hands into the cavity, cupping the living heart.
"Cut where it's connected," Abigail instructed. Sara stepped in with the blade, slicing the arterial pathways. Abigail lifted the beating heart high into the cold night air.
"Mother, behold the heart of a betrayer!" Abigail proclaimed aloud to the canopy. "May the new owner of his soul deliver it to You for the harvest! I give to You Sara, Deanna, Lisa, Jared, and Tim—awakened and standing as children of the Black Flame. We give thanks for this communion. Praise be to You, Alyssa! Praise be to the sovereign flesh!"
Abigail brought the heart to her lips and bit deep, crimson smearing across her mouth and chin.
She held the offering to Sara. "Say: Praise be to Alyssa, I accept this communion and her blessings. Praise be to the sovereign flesh before you bite."
Sara repeated the phrase, her voice steady and clear: "Praise be to Alyssa, I accept this communion and her blessings. Praise be to the sovereign flesh." She took a heavy bite from the heart, blood running down her lips and neck.
One by one, the circle partook: Deanna took her portion with cold, resolute eyes; Lisa accepted the communion, her fingers smudged with charcoal and blood; Jared and Tim received their blessings, their youth sealed in the sacred flame.
Abigail took the remaining tissue and smashed it into Walter's lifeless, slack face. Each member of the circle stepped forward and spat upon his corpse.
They embraced Sara and each other in silent, deep solidarity.
"Light him up," Abigail said to Deanna.
Deanna drew a cigarette from her pack; her fingers leaving dark red prints on the paper. She lit one for Abigail, one for Sara, one for Lisa, and one for herself.
Taking a long drag, Deanna studied Walter's corpse and the details of Abigail's work. She tossed her burning cigarette into the pool of gasoline doused at his feet.
The vapor caught with a sudden, roaring WHOOSH. Blue and orange flames crept up Walter's legs before engulfing him in a column of fire. The hemp ropes burned away, but his body remained fused to the unburnt tree.
"Praise be to the Flame!" Abigail yelled.
The circle joined their voices into the canopy: "Praise be to the Flame!"
Abigail took Sara's hands in hers, her eyes beaming with cold warmth. "This life is now dead. Let's get out of here and enjoy our new lives, Sister."
Sara nodded as the others agreed, walking off together into the deeper woods and into the morning dawn fog.
Praise be to the sovereign flesh.
Praise be to true justice.
End of Mark VIII.
