The Second-Hand Painting

‘Not much gothic rock, is there?’ Ophelia said, placing a CD on the counter.

‘We only stock what people donate, dear,’ the old woman replied. ‘I could check the stockroom?’

‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’ She watched the cashier hobble away.

Ophelia swept her nail-bitten fingers over the mood rings and slid one onto her wedding ring finger. It shifted from blue to amber under the shop’s dreary light.

From above the counter, painted green eyes watched her. She gazed at the portrait of a rugged gentleman dressed in a black frock coat. He stood tall beside an ornate chair, and his scarlet lips twisted into the grin of someone who knew her darkest secrets. Fucking eerie, she thought. I must have you.

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ the cashier said. ‘No more CDs.’

‘Never mind.’ Ophelia pointed. ‘How much is that painting?’

The cashier turned and removed it from the hook. ‘There’s no price on it, dear. I don’t think it’s for sale.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘It’s all for sale.’

‘There’s always a price,’ the cashier said, scratching her chin.

Ophelia snatched the painting by its ornate, gold frame and inspected it. ‘Did the tag fall onto the floor?’

The cashier wheezed as she bent over to search for the price tag.

Ophelia scribbled a number on the back with her eyebrow pencil. ‘Oh, here it is,’ she said. ‘Two pounds.’

‘A bargain,’ the cashier said.

Ophelia returned to her shabby apartment building. In the hallway, Albert stopped her.

‘Doing a bit of Christmas shopping?’ he said. His blubbery lips curled into a smile that revealed his nicotine-stained teeth. ‘I hope you didn’t spend too much on me?’

‘Albert, you got the rent?’

‘Yes, I got it,’ he said. ‘But you’re looking too skinny, so I brought you some homemade lasagne.’

Ophelia unlocked the door, and he followed her inside.

He set the plastic container on the coffee table. ‘Need me to hang that painting?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly. That’s a man’s job,’ he said. ‘You want it in the bedroom?’

She propped the painting against the small couch. ‘No, it’s going in the hallway.’

‘Well, it’s decided,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch my hammer.’

The night came with relentless, drumming rain. Ophelia settled into her dinner routine with a horror film.

‘I have a special treat for you, Mister Nosferatu,’ she said, and forked sardines from a tin into her cat’s bowl. Her black Siamese devoured the pungent fish as Ophelia dug into the lasagne.

In the television’s flickering light, she plucked a curly dark hair from a mouthful of bland béchamel sauce. She examined it and gagged. That’s the last time I accept anything from that frog-faced fucker.

The alarm clock showed three in the morning. Ophelia writhed in her damp bedsheets. In her dream, the painted gentleman lingered at her bedside. He leaned in, his soft lips brushing her earlobe. ‘I must have you,’ he whispered. His fingertips trailed through her thick pubic hair. She inhaled a sharp breath as his fingers slipped inside her and massaged her vaginal wall with a gentle rhythm. Red patches bloomed across her pale stomach. He climbed onto the bed, and her pelvis arched to meet his erection. It filled her up and sent her heart rate into overdrive.

It was almost ten-thirty when Ophelia woke to the persistent buzz of her doorbell. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes and answered the door. ‘Yes, Albert?’

‘Filia, I must apologise,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have commented on your weight.’ He handed her a bottle of white wine. ‘Here, I brought this for you.’

She spotted the one ninety-nine sticker price. ‘Thanks?’

‘Are you okay?’ Albert said. ‘You’re quite sweaty. I didn’t interrupt you polishing the pearl, did I?’

‘No. The apartment is too hot,’ she said. ‘It’s the radiators.’

‘Well, get the kettle on, and I’ll check the valves.’

As Albert tinkered with the radiator, Ophelia spied on him through the cracked bedroom door. He held her worn briefs to his bulbous nose and slid his fat tongue along the stained gusset. She covered her mouth with her trembling hand and rushed to the kitchenette. ‘Is it fixed yet?’ she called.

‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to call a plumber.’

At night, Mister Nosferatu pawed at the snowflakes swirling past the front window. Ophelia drained her glass of Albert’s vinegary wine and stood before the painting.

‘Visit me tonight,’ she whispered, and wandered to the bedroom. The room spun, her vision fizzed with vibrant colours, and she fainted.

An hour later, her eyes snapped open to footsteps thudding in the dark. She pulled herself off the floor and noticed a silhouette crouched in the hallway.

In a raspy voice, it said, ‘You’re such a disappointment, girl.’

‘As I told you on your deathbed, Mildred, go to hell.’

The silhouette dragged itself upright and stumbled backwards towards Ophelia. Its hand scuffed the wall and created an agonal gasp.

‘You can’t hurt me anymore. It’s all a dream.’

The shadow inched near. ‘I’ll see you soon, child.’

Ophelia scrunched her nose at the shadowy, bloated face of her mother. She flicked on the light. The hallway was empty. She expected to wake up at any moment.

When she realised she was awake, dreaded thoughts carouseled her hazy head. A hallucination. It’s Albert. The food. The wine. He’s spiking me. It all makes sense. I need to call the police. But where will I go?

A faint cry drew her to the painting, now a black canvas. ‘What in the world?’ she said. As her hand slid over its furry surface, bestial teeth emerged and savaged her wrist. She collapsed, wracked by electric pain shooting up her arm.

In the morning, Albert found Ophelia slumped on the bedroom floor. He shook her until her eyes sprang open.

‘Filia, wake up.’

‘Albert, what are you doing?’

‘I came with the plumber. You didn’t answer, so I let myself in,’ he said. ‘You’re cut. What happened?’

Ophelia glanced at the gash on her wrist. ‘The wine glass,’ she said. ‘I fainted and must have fallen on it.’

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s clean you up.’

When Albert left, stars glimmered in the evening’s lilac sky. Mister Nosferatu pounced onto the bed and snuggled against Ophelia. She stroked his chin. ‘My favourite sweetheart,’ she said.

As time passed, the room grew black. Sweat dewed her forehead. She swallowed the painkillers Albert left her, and her eyelids grew heavy. Such a disappointment, she thought, as tears slipped from her sleeping eyes.

A finger trailed her damp armpit hair and disturbed her slumber. ‘You’re back,’ she whispered, half asleep. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I must have you,’ he said, and pushed his fat, vinegary finger into her mouth.

She spat it out and turned on the lamp. Albert stood naked near her bed. His plump hand lifted his greasy, gelatinous gut, and he tugged at his acorn-sized erection. He snorted as ropes of hot sperm shot against her lips.

Ophelia snapped awake, hyperventilating, as she surveyed the dark bedroom. I need to get out of here. Calm down. It was a dream. It was a dream.

A meaty hand smothered her mouth and forced her head deep into the pillow. Her fearful eyes studied the silhouette bearing down on her.

Its face shifted from Albert’s pathetic snarl to the painted man’s devilish grin, then to her mother’s scabby lips. She kicked and fought, desperate for air, until an unbearable weight crushed her trachea.

Two weeks later, the rotten smell seeped under her door and alarmed the neighbours. The news reported on her murder, revealing that her cat had survived by feeding on her corpse, defleshing her face to the bone.

‘The last girl who lived here loved the apartment,’ Albert said.

The girl glanced around. ‘Why did she leave?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, and rubbed his fat earlobe. ‘I came back from my holiday in Thailand, and she’d gone. Guy troubles, I reckon. You have a boyfriend?’

‘Not at the moment. I’m focused on my career.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a hair technician.’

He ran his hand over his bald head. ‘Can you do anything for me?’

The girl smiled. ‘It’s a fantastic space for the price, Mister Brown.’

‘Call me Albert.’

‘Okay, Albert. I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘Excellent.’ He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘I’ll start the rent on Monday, so you’ll have three days to move in and settle.

‘Thank you. That’s so kind of you.’

‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I live on the same floor, but you won’t see much of me.’ He handed her the keys and made his way to the door.

‘Albert,’ she called. ‘What’s the deal with that?’

He turned to her. ‘Deal with what?’

She pointed to the hall’s end. ‘That creepy painting of the man sat in the chair.’

Wedding Gift

After showering, Reinhardt drove his black Porsche to a photo shoot in a luxury condo outside of Berlin: a commercial for men’s body wash. Which meant taking another shower. Following the director’s orders, an old man who wore a brown leather jacket and red foulard, he stripped and showered in a stall covered with Italian marble. Wash your arms and chest, raise your legs one at a time, slowly lather your muscles, finger the foam, rinse off: the director issued staccato instructions. 

The camera followed Reinhardt’s every move, focussed on water dripping down his pecs, back and quadriceps, to be edited and broadcast when the manufacturer chose, after approving the images. He knew his body pleased, hence the phone call from his part time agent, who had also landed him roles in the porn industry and a couple of small movie parts, plus modelling gigs now and then. 

They all paid well, especially the commercials. Not as much fun as fucking but equally lucrative. He enjoyed the shower, moved his powerful physique suggestively, and suspected the woman who operated the camera focussed on his stirring genitals, responsive to the female gaze, even though they wouldn’t appear in the final cut. She was a bright and cheery thing, her hair blonde and loose, maybe too skinny. As he soaped, he imagined her lips around his rising cock. He didn’t attempt to hide it since he was never embarrassed when nature took its course. Besides, a cock hardening at inopportune moments often led to exciting times afterwards, but not today. 

The camera woman, however friendly and seemingly unaffected by his naked body, was all business. When the shoot was over, Reinhardt noticed that she had quickly glanced and smiled at his dick before leaving. He’d miss his gym workout today because he had a busy schedule ahead of him. An artist living in a Berlin suburb, paralyzed from the waist down, had hired him to pose for a drawing session, and then lift him out of the wheel chair, place him on a bed, head hanging over the edge of the mattress, and deep throat him until he shot his load and the man gulped it down. He needed to feed on Reinhardt’s superman strength and vitality, he had said in a text. A three-hour session. 

After that, Reinhardt had an early supper meeting with a middle-aged married couple who wanted a young bull to dominate them, the husband to be humiliated and degraded. He had suggested going to the Alexanderplatz to discuss scenarios and terms of agreement, but they didn’t want to risk running into someone they knew. They agreed to meet at a Macdonald’s a few kilometres from their home. 

His cousin’s wedding in Leipzig was in two days to which he had been invited. Having neglected to buy a wedding gift, he had no time to search for one, but he guessed 200 hundred Euros in a card would suffice. His cousin Hans was a chemistry professor at the University of Leipzig. Reinhardt’s mother compared his achievements with her son’s, and heaved her bosom in disappointment. She had this unaccountable admiration for professors. Having fucked, flogged, and pissed on a few, Reinhardt didn’t share her feelings. 

Hans was marrying an English girl who was doing graduated work in German philosophy. When his mother showed him a picture of the woman, Reinhardt’s felt a tingle in his balls. A redhead, which he loved. He wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her in her wedding dress, if circumstances permitted. He became so entranced by the idea that his cock pushed hard against the constraints of his Calvin Klein underwear. 

In Leipzig, the nuptials were taking place in the famous Thomaskirche, where Bach had been kappellmeister and was now buried. After booking into his hotel, and changing clothes, he drove to the church. Once parked, Reinhardt loitered outside the church doors, waiting for the bride’s limousine to appear, which it soon did. He stepped aside so as not to be in the way, but got a good look at the woman swathed in reams of white silk and tulle, surrounded by four bridesmaids in yellow gowns. He rubbed his genitals discreetly as he caught a glimpse of her pretty face and glimmering red hair before her maid of honour lowered the veil. 

Yes, he’d love to fuck Jane in the gown before her husband did. Maybe he could get Hans to watch his bride ravished by his cousin. Hans was a recessive kind of beta male, subservient to his superiors, soft-spoken, limp brown hair, sloping shoulders, and more at home in a library than a party. He’d be easy to cuckold and probably, if he confessed to the truth of his desires, wanted to be. 

Well, Reinhardt could help him realize his deepest, most perverted dreams since Hans admired powerful men, like some academics who still paid Reinhardt to humiliate and fuck them. Maybe Hans was secretly into Nazi uniforms and craved licking his superior’s black leather boots. He had worn such a costume to please a girl he had liked, no money involved, and now had a few customers, male and female, who paid to be fucked by a Kommandant and grovel at and lick his boots. He decided to get to know his cousin better, become a caring friend, dominate the professor of chemistry and freely fuck his wife. Whenever he wanted. A not impossible dream. 

He remembered a porn flick in which he played the groom’s best man and fucked the bride in the limousine before she arrived at the church, having to readjust her hair and veil, his cum leaking out of her cunt. He had loved that scenario. The bitch in that porno also had red hair. Another episode he had watched with the crew: bride and groom kidnapped and gangbanged by four skinheads in tight, blue mottled jeans and high-laced boots, the groom tied up on a chair in an abandoned warehouse, his tie stuffed in his mouth, as he was forced to watch the skinheads rape his wife, still in her dress puffed up like a cloud around her waist. 

So many brides fucked in porn on their wedding day: must be a universal fantasy: one of his favourite scenes depicted a black man, a wedding guest in a tuxedo, hoisting a white bride around his waist in a shower stall and fucking her until her bridal gown got thoroughly soaked, and he left her huddled in the corner like a lump of wet laundry. The astonished groom watching all the time and rubbing his crotch.

Why he was thinking about this, Reinhardt didn’t quite know. Well, he did know, as he thought about sex all the time. And his cock was his guide, the source of his decisions in many ways, unerring in its instinct to choose the right partner or partners, as if there was such a thing as phallocentric certainty like a physical law of the universe. His cock acted according to infallible principles like gravity. As the bride entered the church, it grew bigger and harder. So, the cock knew the truth of the matter. Despite his belief in its truth-telling powers, Reinhardt was intelligent enough to know that his desire was irrational, a mere fantasy and urging of superman virility at the sight of a pretty, red-haired, potentially submissive cunt, whom he could own, if he chose. 

He was master of his cock, master of any situation in which he found himself. Just as he chose to develop his body and keep it splendid and pure, so he could stride with confident authority in the universe of his own making. He could choose to ignore the demands and logic of his insatiable Schwanz, but it was stubbornly insistent at the moment. Even in a church famous for its kappellmeister, where people said all kinds of religious things in which he didn’t believe, the cock wanted action. 

The reception would be held in a hall at the university, and there Reinhardt would dance with his cousin’s bride. He would speak to her warmly, shower her with compliments, and hold her a bit closer than one ordinarily would, and suppress any urge of his cock to fuck on the dance floor. He’d welcome her as the newest member of his family, and he was so happy to know that Hans had married such a beautiful and intelligent woman. He would also reconnect with Hans and become very friendly with him. Hans would always defer to him. 

Even though they hadn’t seen each other for a few years, he remembered how they had played together as boys. Despite being two years older than Reinhardt, Hans always followed his orders and did whatever he wanted. At thirteen Reinhardt had shown Hans his vigorous cock, and Hans, flustered and hesitant, obediently revealed his, less impressive. They had jerked off together, looking at internet porn, and Hans had stroked Reinhardt’s cock and fondled his cousin’s balls. Reinhardt regretted that he hadn’t then persuaded Hans take it in his mouth. What he didn’t do as a boy, Hans would most definitely hunger for as a married man. 

They’d arrange to get together after the wedding. He, Reinhardt, would drive to Leipzig where Hans could show him the university. And soon he’d be inviting Reinhardt to his house for dinners. The images of fucking Jane in the marriage bed in her wedding gown shook him to the roots of his being. Despite the urging of his cock, he wasn’t in a porn flick now where impossible fucks occurred at a whim. Still, he’d shag Jane and give her the generous blessing of his vital seed deep, maybe impregnate her. Of course, properly trained and eager to felch, Hans the professor would beg for permission to suck his bull’s cum leaking out of his Jane’s lovely ass. Or join Reinhardt in the shower to gobble his superman Schwanz and swallow alpha juice like a thirsty pig. 

What would his mother think if she ever knew that the professor, whom she praised to the sky for his academic achievements, had become her son’s worshipping cocksucker and obedient slave? Although it would take time, he could hardly wait to give the couple the perfect gift of his domination, better than Euros. The first organ chords clanged out, not his favourite kind of sound or music. The bridal procession was about to begin. Reinhardt slipped into the church and sat alone at the back, his plans for the future heating up inside his Hugo Boss suit. 

American Pagans

Becky had been spending a lot of time in the company of a girl with the antique name, Edna. Edna Rosenberg. 

Edna “Ravenchild” Rosenberg.

“Ravenchild?”

“Yeah, we’re all picking pagan names. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Becky admitted. “I’m supposed to come up with something like that?”

“Yeah. We all are.”

“Ravenchild?”

“Ravenchild. Exactly. Doesn’t it sound cool?”

“Uh-huh…”

It was dusk. They were hanging out in the parking lot outside Bennigan’s, waiting for Donna Sokolski—Donna “Winterhawk” Sokolski—to get out of work.

“So, what name should I be?” Becky asked, lighting a cigarette.

“I don’t know. You have to find your own name. You have to dream for it or chant for it. You gotta beseech the Goddess. She will then reveal your true pagan name.”

“Okay. Beseech the Goddess. Gotcha…”

“Yeah. I meditated for, like, over twenty minutes until the Goddess blessed me with my name. Ravenchild.”

“Okay. I’ll try that.”

“Cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“So, um, what exactly am I supposed to do at this thing again?”

“You don’t have to do shit. You and Donna are just there to observe. You can’t enter the Cone of Power until you’re initiated.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Here comes Donna. It’s about goddamn time.”

Donna Sokolski was a short, plump girl of nineteen. She wore small round glasses and always appeared to be squinting, as if her thick lenses obscured her vision rather than enhance it. “Hey, guys,” she said. She was still wearing her waitress uniform and smelled like food. She was holding a Styrofoam take-out container and she opened it toward them. “Broccoli Bite?”

“No thanks,” said Ravenchild.

Becky said, “I’ll take one. Thanks, Donna.”

“Sure, no prob.”

“We better get going,” said Ravenchild. “The sun’s almost down.”

The three women climbed into Ravenchild’s red Volkswagen Jetta and soon they were speeding down highway 12.

“Hey, you got a pagan name yet?” Donna – Winterhawk – asked Becky.

“No. Not yet. What about Bumblebee?”

“Bumblebee?” said Ravenchild.

“Yeah.” Becky said. “I always liked bees. They’re associated with flowers and honey. They’re pretty but they’ll also sting you if you give them any shit. I saw this documentary once that said bees have, like, their own language. They’re, like, the smartest, most organized insects around, bar none. It’s really kinda cool.”

“That’s retarded,” said Ravenchild. “You absolutely can NOT be “Bumblebee.”

Becky deflated. Fuck you, bitch! This whole thing was fucking lame anyway. Fuck you AND your goddess! was what she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Oh. Okay. I’ll think of something else…”

“I told you. You have to pray to the Goddess to get your name.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, Edna.”

“What?”

“Oops! I mean Ravenchild. Sorry…”

“You better snap out of that shit when we get there.”

A few minutes later, Ravenchild pulled off the highway and soon they were bouncing down a rutted dirt road. Low-hanging branches hissed against the sides of the car. They stopped at the edge of a small clearing surrounded by pine trees and blind night.

Three other cars were already parked in the clearing.

Ravenchild shut off the engine. “This is it. I gotta change first.”

Once Ravenchild was costumed in a toga she’d fashioned from a white bedsheet, she led Becky and Winterhawk into the woods.

A narrow path, thickly carpeted with damp red-pine needles, unspooled through the dark forest, making their footfalls eerily silent. After a few minutes, Becky could see a flickering light winking through the trees. She realized her heart started beating faster the closer they got to the fire.

They joined six more robed people standing around a small bonfire. Four women and two men. Becky had met them all before at Edna’s house but this was the first time she’d seen them in their pagan regalia. Things were getting creepy, Becky thought. Her heart rate continued to race.

“Welcome, sisters,” said a tall, red-haired woman that Becky had met as Winifred O’Brian a couple weeks ago.

“Hi, Winnie,” she said.

“Hi Becky. You can call me Silverfox now.”

“Okay. Silverfox. Pretty name.”

“I know, right?” She turned toward the others. “I guess we’re all here now. We might as well get started,” said Silverfox. She pulled a long curved dagger from the folds of her robe. She held it out toward the fire.

“Wait!” Winterhawk interrupted. “We’re not all here yet.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Ravenchild, an edge of suspicion in her voice. “I count nine.”

“I told my boyfriend he could come. He’ll be here any minute.”

“You did what?” Ravenchild lowered her hood to face Winterhawk. “You can’t do that!” she yelled. “You’re not even in the coven yet! You can’t just invite people to a ritual until you’re a member of the coven!”

Winterhawk looked down at her feet. “Oh. Um, sorry, Edna. I didn’t know.”

Becky was startled by a sudden crunching noise behind her. She turned. A small goat was tied to a tree. It bleated at her and then went back to eating twigs.

“Hey,” she said. “Where’d you get the goat?”

“I can’t fucking believe you invited your boyfriend,” said Ravenchild.

“Calm down, sister Ravenchild,” said Silverfox. “It’s not the end of the world. The ritual won’t take long. But let’s get started. Maybe we can finish before he gets here. It could be worse. Remember, you wanted for us to be skyclad. At least we ain’t naked right now.”

“I’m really sorry you guys,” said Winterhawk.

Ravenchild glared at her for a few extra seconds, then flipped her hood back up.

Becky turned from the goat to Silverfox. “Hey, what’s the knife for?”

“It’s called an Athame,” Ravenchild corrected her.

“Yeah? So, what’s it for?”

“For the sacrifice. What do you think?”

“You’re gonna kill the goat?” Becky said, horrified.

Silverfox nodded, smiling. “M-hm.”

“Oh my God.”

“Hey, Becky? Shut the fuck up,” Ravenchild said. “You’re here to observe. You’re supposed to do that with your mouth shut. Capice?”    

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d be killing a…” She stopped. Voices were traveling up the path toward them.

“Now what?” said Silverfox.

“Hey hey hey!” said a deep, man’s voice. “Let’s get this showboat on the rowboat!” He was carrying two 30-packs of Budweiser. Six other people followed him. They carried the smell of pot along with them.

“What the actual fuck,” said Silverfox.  

Winterhawk kissed the man holding the beer. “Hey, Tony,” she said.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” said Ravenchild, shaking her head.

The goat bleated.

The man plopped down the boxes of beer, ripped open a 30-pack and started passing out cold wet cans. “Okay! Who needs a brew?” he said. “What’d you guys bring?”

Winterhawk pulled him aside. “Hey, um, sweetie? You didn’t tell me you were bringing the whole gang.”

He shrugged. “The more the merrier, that’s my policy!”

“Yeah, well, I guess I didn’t make it clear that this isn’t actually a party.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he said, looking at the toga-clad gathering. 

“Yeah, well, anyway, we’re kinda in the middle of a ritual right now. You think you guys could hang back and mellow out for a while?”

He shrugged again. “Yeah, sure babes. What kinda ritual?”

“I don’t know. The regular kind…”

“Hey! Look at the goat!” said a girl’s voice. Becky watched as a pretty blond girl knelt beside the goat and stuck out her hand. “Does he bite?” she asked Becky.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

The blond girl stroked the goat’s neck. “This is so cool! I used to love petting zoos.”

“Can we get started?” said one of the robed men, a skinny, twenty-something named Edgar “Wolfman” Petrovski.

“Hey, do goats really eat tin cans?” the blond girl asked Becky.

“I have no idea.”

“Excuse me!” Ravenchild elbowed the blond aside and untied the goat. She led it over to Silverfox on the other side of the fire.

“Hey, what are they gonna do with the goat?” asked the blond girl.

“Kill it,” Becky said.

The blond’s eyes widened. “What? Are you shitting me?”

Becky shook her head. “No. It’s a pagan thing.”

“But they can’t do that!”

“Quiet!” Ravenchild hissed at them.  

The blond girl pulled Becky away from the fire and whispered, “Are they really gonna kill that poor little goat?”

“That’s the plan. Fucked up, huh?”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.”

She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Eve by the way.”

Becky shook her hand. “Hi Eve. I’m Becky.”

“Good to meet you, Becky.”

“You too.”

“So, are you like a witch or something?”

Becky laughed. “No. I’m just here to observe.”

“You’re here to watch a goat get stabbed?”

“I guess. Sad, huh?”

“Yeah. Very. And very fucked up…” And then she said, “Come on, let’s get a closer look.”

They returned to the fire. Silverfox was standing over the goat. The dagger— Athame—clutched in both hands.

Silence descended as she raised the knife. She held it over her head for a few long seconds. Then she lowered it again. “I don’t think I can do this.”

The goat was grazing at her knees, munching twigs and pine needles. She held the knife out to Wolfman. “Can you do it?”

He looked at the knife for a moment, and then stepped forward and grabbed it.

“Hey, hurry up!” yelled one of the guys who’d arrived with Tony. He was a large, bearded man wearing a backwards baseball cap. “I’m starving.”

“Shut up!” Ravenchild told him. “We’re not eating the goat!”

“You’re not?” said the man. “That’s a fucken waste of meat. You shouldn’t kill anything you don’t intend to eat.”

“Will you please be quiet please,” said Wolfman, lifting the knife.

“Sorry, dude,” said the man after a slurp of beer.

“In the name of Diana, Goddess of the hunt and the moon and the trees, I offer this sacrifice.”

Silence. Then the fizzing crack of another beer opening.

A belch. Laughter.

Someone tossed an empty can into the fire. The backwash quickly sizzled away.

Wolfman held the knife poised over his head. His hands began to shake. “I’m not sure I can do this either.”

“What a bunch of shit!” said the man with the beard. “I’ll take care of this.” He pushed Wolfman out of the way, and then yanked a pistol out of his jacket pocket.

“Sayonara, goat!” he said and then shot the animal through the top of the head.

Eve screamed and hugged Becky, hiding her face against her shoulder.

“Jesus Christ!” said Wolfman, staggering backwards. The goat had folded, dead.

Becky broke off the embrace and looked into Eve’s eyes, noticing again how beautiful she was. “It’s okay,” she told her. “It’s over now.”

The bearded man elbowed Wolfman. “Hey gimme that knife,” he said. “Let’s get this puppy dressed and roasting on the fire!”

“Roast goat! Hey, that rhymes!” said Winterhawk’s boyfriend, Tony.

“Well, I don’t need to see this,” Eve announced. “I’m calling it a night. Anyone need a ride?” she said. 

Becky said, “I do,” and left with Eve, eager to get away from the pagan ritual. She knew the smell of cooked goat would make her sick. 

Becky left with Eve and they headed back to Bennigan’s for white wine spritzers.