No Humans Involved (Otherworld 7)

Jeremy chuckled. The ghost started spitting threats and insults. I tuned him out and kept feeling along the wall.

"I've got it," I said as Jeremy pulled out a light stack of boxes for me. "You go on back."

Jeremy's head shot up, his gaze flying to the ladder. A laugh rang down it. He grabbed my arm and looked around.

"Now you're in for it, bitch," the ghost chortled. "A real prisoner. They'll like that."

I swung the flashlight beam around and stopped on a mountain of crates to our left.

HANGMAN

THE CRATES WERE STACKED three or four layers deep. Jeremy moved the front one just enough to squeeze through the gap, and waved for me to follow. He kept going, shifting stacks and sidestepping through. At the final row, he stopped and motioned for me to turn off the flashlight. I did just as he lifted a top box and stacked it on another.

Darkness fell. Feet clanked down the ladder. The swoosh of another moving box. A hand slid around my waist and guided me in farther.

The lights went on, and I saw that he'd cleared all but one box from a stack against the wall. A cubby seat. The crate was too small for us to sit side by side, so he gestured for me to turn and back onto his lap.

"You think that's going to save you?" the ghost sneered, his head sticking out from a crate. "They can still see you."

I was about to pull back farther, then took a better look. The path Jeremy had carved for us was zigzagged, meaning we couldn't see the main room from here...and no one in the main room could see us.

"Liar," I mouthed.

The ghost stalked off, probably hoping to alert the cult. Good luck with that.

The group filed in, chatting about their kids' baseball tournaments, layoffs at work, trouble with a broken dishwasher. I counted at least six distinct voices.

Scrapes and thuds followed, as if they were setting up something, probably an altar. They kept talking, the man with the appliance problem now soliciting advice on whether it was more cost-effective to hire a repairman or just replace the unit.

I wriggled back onto Jeremy's lap. He readjusted his hold on me, arms going around my stomach, as if reassuring me I was safe.

"They can't see us," he whispered.

His breath tickled the back of my ear and I shivered, thoughts of discovery vanishing as I became very aware of his body against my back. I shifted again, squirming in his lap, and felt him harden beneath me. I went still and concentrated on what was happening on the other side of the room instead. Wasn't easy, but after a moment, I made out the slap and hiss of matches being struck.

A faint smell of smoke, then the pungent scent of musky incense. The clink of thin metal. The glug of liquid. I pictured hammered chalices being filled with blood-red wine. In the background, one woman told the horror story of a recent appliance repair encounter--paying more to fix a ten-year-old stove than she'd have spent on a new one.

The low rumble of authority. Botnick. The voices faded, shuffles and clinks taking over as they arranged themselves, probably in some ritual circle.

Botnick intoned something in a foreign language--presumably an invocation to Asmodai. I'd spent enough time in spiritualism to know how these pseudorituals worked, and Botnick seemed to have it down.

When he finished, the Disciples took their turns pledging their body to Asmodai in English one by one. Eight people, including Botnick. Four men and four women.

I listened carefully to each voice, on the off chance I'd recognize one. Unlikely, but I listened anyway. From Jeremy's shallow breathing behind me, I suspected he was doing the same.

The ritual resumed with more foreign chanting from Botnick, his voice rising now to an impassioned boom. I longed to ask Jeremy what Botnick was saying--whether he could translate--but doubted it was more than gibberish.

Botnick's voice reached a fever pitch, then stopped, and all went silent.

"Now," he began. "We dedicate ourselves to the demon of lust, king of hell, prince of revenge, our Lord Asmodai."

Footsteps sounded, then a few foreign words, a sharp intake of breath, a choral chant, receding footsteps. The sequence repeated, then again, and I pictured each member walking to the middle of the circle for the dedication. Jeremy sniffed behind me and made a guttural noise, as if confirming a suspicion, and I knew what they were "dedicating." Blood. Dripped into a communal chalice, most likely.

The last member took her turn. Then a match was struck. More chanting. A faint, oddly metallic smell wafted over. Jeremy exhaled sharply, as if expelling the scent from his nose. The blood. It must have been dripped into a censer, not a chalice, and burned in dedication.

The chanting stopped.

"We receive the blessing of Asmodai," Botnick said. "And in return, we offer the mortification of our flesh, for his pleasure."