'Pray,' she heard Marguerite say. To Mickey Mouse or Joe Dimaggio, just pray.
Returning the gourd to the altar, the Mother started sprinkling designs onto the floor like Marguerite had done. The Mother straightened, breaking into a chant. Frank was momentarily distracted from her pain, amazed at the deep bellow issuing from the Mother, rising over the cacophony of the drums. Frank tried to recognize the language. It was like none she'd ever heard.
The Mother spoke to the lead drummer and he changed the tempo again. The drums thrummed faster and tighter. Reaching into one of the boxes, the Mother pulled out a pigeon. She held the bird over her head, braying like she was Mephistopheles. Ripping the bird's head off, she walked around the room sprinkling blood on everyone. The drummers sang responses to her chant. She did the same thing with another pigeon, then repeated the procedure with a rooster. The bodies were dumped into a black kettle in front of the altar.
The girl who led Frank into the room brought in a lamb covered with a red cloth. Frank understood that the sacrifices were getting larger. Kneeling before the altar, the Mother sang, 'Obi aro obi aye obi ofo.'
Frank answered,
She pictured the wet brick building. The street address. She watched the Mother dress the lamb with the sticky stuff in the gourd. The animal didn't protest at all and Frank wondered if they'd drugged it. Christ, she wished they'd have drugged her. Her arms were finally getting numb but her back was wrenching into spasms. She twisted into them as best she could.
The drummers chanted, 'Firolo, firolo,' and Frank sang,
The Mother walked toward Frank, intent and business-like. She jammed something into Frank's mouth and Frank spat it out. It tasted of coconut and pepper. The Mother picked up the wad and rubbed it into the lamb's forehead. The twin who'd brought the birds in tied the lamb's legs together. He flipped it onto a bed of banana leaves by the altar and nodded at his brother. The twin glowered at Frank. She lunged at him as best she could. He started and she grinned, shouting, 'Made you jump, stupid motherfucker.'
The brothers stretched the lamb lengthwise and the drummers wailed on their heads between their legs. The Mother bawled one of her ditties and her six blind mice offered the answering refrain. They did that three times, then she neatly severed the lamb's throat. Its blood spouted into a brightly painted tureen.
The first twin cut the lamb's head off. The Mother poured salt into the neck, swabbing the wound with a clear, sticky goo. Chanting, her drummers answering, the Mother carried the head to Frank. She lifted it, letting warm blood rain onto Frank's face.
'Washed in the blood of the lamb,' Frank murmured.
The Mother laughed deeply, like a man. She nodded at the twins and they walked behind Frank. They dropped her arms to her ass.
She couldn't feel them, but the blood rushing into the surrounding area felt like her veins were infused with acid. She flinched at the pain, cursing these bastards for even getting that much from her.
The tempo of the drumming was furious, like Hell's own cattle herd stampeding. The Mother put the lamb's head into the pot with the birds. She carefully cleaned her knife. It was long and grooved, a wicked looking instrument. Frank turned away from it. She just hoped it was sharp.
Frank could relate to Father Merrin scrabbling through the dusky ruins, with Pazzuzu's face leering over him as his final confrontation played out to its irrevocable conclusion. But the priest had gone down swinging. In the end, he had his pride. Was that why he fell? Did he choke on his own arrogance?
The Mother came toward Frank. She held the knife with both hands, as if offering atonement. The blade winked in the burnt light. Bile rose in Frank's throat. The Mother stood before her, the boys behind. She passed the knife to the twin who'd been assisting her.
'Lucian has been touched by Ogun,' she said reverently. 'He's allowed to handle the sacrificial instruments.'
'Glad we cleared that up,' Frank spat, 'I like to know who's gonna slit my fucking throat.'
The Mother's words were audible above the din of the drums, but Frank's were swallowed alive. She stared into the terrible blackness of the Mother's eyes. All things repelled by daylight glinted from those twin hells. In them, jinn and lilim cavorted by smokeless fires, the desert night stirring restlessly beyond them. Hobbled inside the pale, Azazel's goat bleated for mercy. Jackals paced restlessly with the hyenas, awaiting the blooded sacrifice. The moon turned away, but the stars looked on with indifference.
Soundlessly, the Mother spun the old tale, luring Frank with promises as old as the sands upon which they were made. This wasn't the first time the dark covenant had winked at Frank or cocked a crooked finger at her.
Frank closed her eyes against the desolate visions. She listened to the Mother's laugh, echoing as if from a black and reeking well.
Grabbing Frank's shirt, he ran the knife along it. He pulled the cloth apart and bared her chest. Deftly running the blade along her arms he stripped the rest of the shirt free.
Frank didn't like that one little bit, but it was buying her time.
Lucian yanked her jeans down with her underwear, slitting them loose from the chain. For the first time in her life, Frank wished she wore a bra. One more thing to cut away. One more minute to buy.
Frank no longer hoped a miraculous intervention would save her. She just wanted to live a few minutes longer. Life had suddenly become intensely sweet and she wasn't ready to give it up. She wanted to cry, but refused to feed the Mother's triumph.
The Mother returned to her altar, took up the chanting in that unnervingly male voice. Frank was almost senseless with gratitude for the extra moments. The Mother brought a bowl to Frank, rubbing her up and down with an orange oil. Frank avoided those Stygian eyes. She didn't want them to be the last thing she saw.
She thought about Gail and the tin heart still in her pocket. She was pissed she wasn't going to be able to give it to her, more pissed she hadn't said, 'I love you' on the phone. Frank cursed her cowardice and her anger refueled her.
Marguerite had said she was a warrior. Always fighting. Always.
