Twisted Ginni by Nicola Rose
Prologue
“The sun will turn into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.” Of the six people addressing the crowd from a rickety wooden stage, the largest man had the strangest voice. Deep and rumbling, powerful, authoritative, yet somehow lyrical. The kind of voice that simultaneously demanded awe and fear.
The congregation had been whipped to a chaotic frenzy only moments ago when the woman by his side spoke. Now, they calmed, listening intently to every deviant word to fall from his lips.
Three men and three women linked hands on the stage. Dressed not in the hooded robes that one might expect from a satanical cult, but in freshly-pressed suits. Both men and women dressed for a boardroom, not a ritual sacrifice. Unlike the crowd, who were dressed exactly to the stereotype — naked, save for a few leather collars and bondage straps.
Overhead, the cloud cover broke, revealing a full moon during a lunar eclipse. A great shadow cut across almost the entire surface, leaving only a thin sliver of brightness.
“After all the years of waiting, the end is near.” A different man stepped forward. This one shorter than his predecessor, eyes too close together, pinched mouth, nevertheless striking in his commanding presence. A brief whoop went up from the crowd but soon hushed with the raising of his hand. “Our preparations will not be in vain. Our hard work and efforts at raising our boys the right way will be rewarded. Each and every one of you has played your part, and all will find a place in Their legions.”
The cries of joy erupted again, drowning out the pitiful whimpering from the one other person on the stage — bound and gagged.
“But how do you know it’ll work?” A long-haired man in the audience yelled over the dying cheers. “They’ve been missing for days. Why haven’t you found them?”
The beady-eyed man nodded thoughtfully. “They’re not missing, we know exactly where they are. But they’ve been in training from the moment they were born — it matters not if they’re present during the rituals. They’re branded, tied to the connections across the veil. They could be one thousand miles away and it wouldn’t matter, so long as we continue to play our parts correctly. The end is coming, whether the sacrificial blood is drawn by their hands or not. They can’t hide from it, no one can.”
“But what if—”
“Enough!” The largest man resumed center stage, instantly quieting the anxious crowd. “Have faith in your Council or suffer their wrath. Are there further objections?”
Silence fell.
Save for that incessant whimpering that wouldn’t die.
Reaching out, he pulled the girl’s head up by her pretty blonde hair. Wide, black-smudged eyes pleaded up at him. Her face painted like a skull, a white dress clinging to her fevered skin. Right on cue, the moon entered full eclipse, not darkening, but suddenly glowing deep orange.
“Andras, Prince of Hell, 63rd of the 72 Spirits of Solomon, accept this offering and hear our word.” A petite woman with fiery red hair pulled into a tight bun stepped over and jammed a hideous raven head mask over the largest man’s head. Messy black feathers stuck out in all directions, freaky glass eyes unblinking. The girl cried out at the sight.
The woman casually smoothed down her blouse, just another day at the office, before picking up another full-head mask.
The excitement in the crowd bubbled.
“Phenex, Prince of Hell, 37th of the 72 Spirits of Solomon, accept this offering and hear our word.” The second man spoke and the woman placed the head of a beautiful phoenix upon his shoulders. Such contrast to the creepy raven, this bird was all sparkling red and orange plumage, not a feather out of place. The girl thrashed against her restraints.
At the sight of her anguish, the crowd exploded with the thrill — dancing and jumping, shouting and laughing. Bodies slick with sweat and anticipation.
“Samigina, Prince of Hell, 4th of the 72 Spirits of Solomon, accept this offering and hear our word.” Upon the third man’s head was placed the mask of a horse. Wild eyes and an open mouth with enormous yellow teeth. Grotesque.
Without warning or mercy, the raven-man struck fierce and true, his blade slicing the girl across her neck. Blood sprayed over his pinstripe suit.
Not too far away, three young men felt the successful ritual deep in their bones, burning in the demon sigils branded onto their skin. For a short while, their demon counterparts overwhelmed their bodies and minds.
And now, they knew.
Any lingering hope for salvation died as the eclipse ended.
Soon, Hell would rise up, and the world would fall.