Posts Tagged ‘blood sacrifice’

This is the second draft of a scene with one of the bad guys, Elias; a greasy, white-haired, lonely old man in a forgotten Czech village. Elias has a flair for gadget invention. He’s on the phone with his son, who he doesn’t have much faith in– his grandson is the heir apparent, apparently.

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black manjushri


“Papa… you know I want nothing more than honor for our family. I… apologize. I will work harder with Isaac to perfect this suit.”

Elias snorted.

“Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t help him at all.”

More silence.

“You will never forgive me for my past mistakes, will you, Papa?

The old man turned his head and closed his eyes. He opened them to find his tabby, Nikola, sitting in the middle of the room, watching him. He jerked his head back to the phone.

“I go now,” he said. “Make things right.” He hung up, leaned back, and stubbed out his cigar.

Elias’ living room was a junk trap, filled with the spare parts of years’ worth of half-finished projects: glass beakers, electrodes, banks of switches, gemstones hung in copper mesh, brass tubing; an assortment of taxidermy including crows, wolves, lizards and mountain lions, and– taking up an entire corner– a fearsome, many-armed statue. Its eyes stared straight ahead; wrathful and crazy, the whites were visible all the way around. Its tongue stuck straight out, covered in what looked like congealed blood. Dismembered heads hung from its belt, all manner of weapons clutched in its hands. Underneath its feet lay crushed and suffering creatures of every ilk, both man and beast. Out in front, on a low wooden plinth, sat bowls of water, rice, candles, sweets, and carefully arranged flowers. It was the only area in the apartment that wasn’t covered in dust.

Elias struggled to his feet and grabbed his cane. He shuffled a few inches and stopped. Looking down at the knobbly piece of bamboo that had supported him for the past fifteen years, he sneered– and threw it across the room. He willed himself over to the statue and knelt on an embroidered pillow at its feet. Hands together at his heart, he closed his eyes, whispering soft syllables in rhythm, in melody.

He emptied the water-filled bowls in turn, wiping each one dry with the care of a surgeon. He set them back in place and, retrieving a crystal pitcher from a small table next to the statue, refilled them with clear, fresh water. Sitting back on his haunches, he smiled as though his own father were patting him on the head.

From a hidden drawer in the table, he removed a long suede bundle. He unfurled it layer by layer, revealing the polished bone handle and golden sheath of the knife inside. The blade flashed in the light that struggled through the windows.

With a slow, methodical pull, he sliced open the meat of his right palm. Blood flowed warm and free over his hand, dripping into the bowls below him. He stood still for a moment. The sound of his breath filled the room. He smeared a fresh layer of gore on the statue’s tongue. He closed his eyes and brought his hands together once more at his heart. The ancient, unused riverbed of his tear ducts produced tiny, discolored beads in the corners of his eyes. This time, the sounds that came from his mouth were clear:

“Please, lord…”

Drop after anemic drop fell from his palm into yet another bowl at his feet– a bowl fashioned from a small, upturned human skull.

Nikola watched, unblinking, from his spot on the floor.


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