The Ritualist (NorCal Voodoo)

As if the judging eye of a wrathful Goddess, the waning full moon casts aside her storm-cloud veils. Like obedient attendants, they drift away on the wind, that She might gaze upon the land below, revealed in her full glory. Tonight, the moon's single eye falls upon a rounded break in a certain forest's otherwise flawless black canopy. In the center of this break stands the hugest, oldest live oak on Gaia's face, giving the clearing the look of a second eye, gazing up into the heavens. The two ancient she-totems look upon each other, exchanging pleasantries. Soon enough, however, their attention turns to the clearing itself. It is the last night of the full moon. It is time to feed the Earth -- and themselves -- once more.1

The moon and the Ghost Tree wait in patient silence. They know the Ritualist will soon arrive.2

---3

This is the last one. Delve's tongue lolls at the side of his panting jaw in excitement. Sternly, then, he snaps his jaw shut, controlling his breathing. He must not be detected too soon. 4

In moonlit relief, the scene on the bed is appalling, but Delve knows from experience that it isn't yet complete. He must be patient. Fortunately, this one is much like all the others. He is too focused on his prey, too convinced of his privacy, his invulnerability.5

On the bed, the boy squeals. He is struggling feebly, pointlessly, with no effect except to further excite his tormentor. Blood flows from the teenager's gashed forehead into his terrified eyes, blinding him. His nude, athletic body bears the marks of prolonged torture. In particular, the distraught victim has been burnt with a cigarette in so many places as to seem afflicted with chicken pox. Even if he weren't suffering from blood loss, the fine silk bondage rope securing his limbs to the bedposts is more than strong enough to hold even a strong young man such as the current victim.6

The tall man standing beside the bed grins, grins, grins. He is panting in much the same way as Delve had. A cigarette dangles from his lip, almost burning his clean-shaven jaw. In one hand he holds a stained butcher knife; in the other, a lighter. The torturer's fly is down, and his deep enjoyment of the evening's entertainment is quite visible to the victim -- and to Delve, hidden in a closet behind them. The lurker has been here for hours, waiting. 7

Delve believes in biding his time. Patience will always be rewarded.8

This abandoned house has been the site of many murders. This man, Radley McCowell, is responsible for at least a few of them. Delve memorized the pattern of bodies found, then hid in the closet on days he expected a murder. In this manner, he netted himself two sacrifices. Now he expects to get a third. 9

Don't misunderstand. Delve isn't greedy. It's just that there are rules about these things. The Ritual must be performed correctly. Three are needed.10

If Mr. McCowell understood those rules, as Delve does, life might have turned out much better for him...11

Oh well. Too late now.12

Delve pities the boy on the bed. The waiting one does not know his name, but he is sure the boy has done nothing wrong. There is no spirit-stench of corruption tainting the young one. In contrast, the torturer blazes with unholy dark-light, impure almost-blacks, corroded reds and sickly verdant off-whites drooling and dribbling obscenely into each other. The spiritual miasma is nauseating, and has a horrible way of leaking into the observer's own energy-patterns. With every moment, Delve looks forward to the Rite more and more.13

But he cannot move too soon, or he will not be able to exercise justice. Only murder permits murder. 14

Delve knows Radley has killed before. Sadism, death, torture -- the energies of serial rape and murder drape McCowell's shoulders at all times, blazing in Delve's senses like the giant illuminated signs of a fast-food restaurant, beckoning him to feed even as they turn his stomach. But Delve has no concrete proof, and the evidence of his senses is not enough; after all, he could conceivably be mistaken. Only when he witnesses a murder can he act. This is the Law -- the only one that matters to Delve, anyhow.15

The bound boy's screams take on a new note. Delve shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present. McCowell has begun to rape his captive. As expected. Still, the lurker flinches against the sounds in the room, honestly wishing he could intervene now. But that would ruin everything. The dog-man's hackles stiffen all the way down his spine as he fights to control himself. His black-blotched tail stiffens upright, flexing back and forth as if fanning away its owner's restrained wrath. Involuntarily, a growl starts to form in the half-blood's throat. He hates rapists. He can understand murder, in a way, even if it isn't allowed the way the others do it. But this... 16

Delve's dry lips pull back from his teeth. His short dog's claws dig into his palms, their filed-sharp edges prickling as if he had squeezed a rose's stem.17

Suddenly, a wave of anxiolytic tranquility drops over Delve like a cool, damp sheet on a hot summer day. Soporific rapture suffuses him, dissolving agitation into ecstacy, as if someone had just shot him up with heroin. Indeed, he knows his endorphin system is getting a massage, but not from any drug. 18

Thrumming with silent pleasure, Delve bows his head in silence. Her honeyed almost-words materialize on the very edge of his awareness, smoky and sensual, full of carrion-crow feathers and the savory scent of righteous death. The lurker sways side-to-side unconsciously, eyes closed, to the rhythm of this inner not-voice, the ghost-music in his heart. He no longer hears the horrible sounds, or feels the disgusting tingle of corruption. His whole world is Her.19

One can heal from violation in the same life. One cannot heal from murder until the next. The boy will be compensated for his suffering. Fear not. 20

She speaks no more. Still, Delve feels Her humming deep in his mind, subtly maintaining Her centering touch. Grateful, swimming in divine grace, Delve snaps back to the moment. There is more fear, no more hesitation, no more abhorrence. He is proud to be one of Her weapons of justice, and he will perform flawlessly for Her. 21

Nothing personal, friend rapist. Just the Rules. 22

Holding steady, cool and ready, Delve crouches in the closet, waiting for his moment. The sounds no longer disturb him. He has been where the boy is going, and it is better than anything this world can offer anyway.23

Then, a choking sound. Gasping. Delve peers through the narrow crack of the slightly open closet door. McCowell has climbed atop his young victim, sitting on his chest. A leather belt is around the boy's neck. McCowell, grinning, bracing his feet, eyes gleaming like hungry teeth in the moonlight, pulling the belt tighter, tighter... 24

The torture-killer pulls hard on the belt for several minutes after his victim stops struggling, as if to be certain the boy is dead. He slumps, then, dropping the belt with a gusty sigh, as if of relief, or satiation.25

An instant later, Delve presses McCowell's own gun against his bare neck. "Dear me. We have been a bad boy, haven't we, Rad?" 26

Delve's toothy jaws blast hot breath into McCowell's ear as he whispers to the serial rapist-murderer. "Nothing personal, sweetheart. Cooperate, and this won't be too bad... compared to what he went through." A quick, flicking tail-gesture indicates the corpse on the bed. 27

Raw, scintillating hunger. Delve is panting again. "You brought extra rope, in case you needed more. Where is it?" 28

When McCowell tries to speak, Delve jabs him hard in the back with the barrel of the gun. At the same time, he runs his short claws down the man's naked back, so he can feel their filed-down razor-sharpness. "No noise. Point."29

McCowell audibly swallows a terrified sob, pointing to his piled-up clothes in one corner. Delve nibbles oh-so-gently at his prey's pierced lobe, mock-seductively. "Good boy," he breathes into McCowell's ear, loving the man's shudder. Delve uses his free hand to adjust the crotch of his jeans, leaning into his Mistress's song to bolster his restraint. That is not allowed... yet.30

"We're going to walk over there now. You're going to pick up the rope and hand it to me. If you do anything I have not ordered you to do, I will take twice as long to kill you as you took to kill that boy. If you obey, I will take only as long as the Rite requires. Your choice -- die purified, or die as less than rotten shit. Your fate is up to your, sweet-cheeks -- just like it always was. Now, let's go."31

---32

The ancient live oak's silhouette before the lambent glory of the Moon filled McCowell with fresh terror. Being lead to his own car on a choke-leash made of his own rope had been bad enough. The crazy bastard had refused to allow McCowell to put on anything more than a bathrobe. The drive, then the long walk through thick underbrush, had been a form of torture in itself. Particularly after that psycho he-bitch ripped the bathrobe off his back.33

But this... this was much worse than Radley had expected. Before, he had believed he had a chance to escape, perhaps even get the upper hand. On the whole long walk, Radley had fantasized about crushing the ugly long-face mutt's throat. 34

Shivering, Radley glanced desperately around, hoping to spot some way out, any way out. Even as he did, he knew he was screwed. 35

Some of the bones hanging from the huge tree's branches were animal, but all too many were recognizably human. Worse, they were arranged into Daedalian art-mobiles, decorated with feathers, paint, and beads, not simply hung as trophies. Some even seemed to be fashioned into macabre wind-chimes. The skulls of human and beast alike lay nestled into the tree's roots. 36

The worst part, though, was that a few of the heads hanging in the tree that weren't skulls yet. The stink of decomposition wasn't bad, compared to the way they seemed to stare at McCowell, watching him. Even the empty sockets of the skulls seemed to gloat at his fate.37

McCowell didn't begin to tremble, though, until he saw two other men, naked and leashed in exactly the same manner as himself, secured to low branches. This was obviously the work of a professional. No -- a connoisseur, an artist. 38

McCowell had known he wasn't the only predator in Paradise City. He hadn't realized there were any who preyed on their own kind. He had felt powerful, immune, free.39

Now he knew it had all been an illusion. Just like everything else in his worthless life.40

---41

Delve strides quickly across the clearing, shedding his backpack. Now that he has arrived, there is no time to waste. The Ritual must begin. 42

After stripping off his street clothes, he ties McCowell beside the other Chosen Prey. Then he moves to a place in the clearing where he can see Moon and Tree at the same time. There, the stocky dog-man falls skyclad to his knees, throwing his arms up before bending at the waist to press his face to the earth, arms outstretched before him.43

Immersed in love and awe, as if he has returned to the baptismal fount, Delve bows before his deities. 44

"I have brought the Three, Great Mothers," he whispers.45

You have done well, beloved son. Delve sways side-to-side, unknowingly, to the rhythm of the silent music thrumming in his soul. The Time has come.46

Delve rises. Without favoring the men tied to the Tree, he returns to his backpack, crouching. When the coydog rises again, a beast's skin lies draped across his back and shoulders, with its head resting atop Delve's, the forelegs pulled tied around his neck like a cloak. A drake-hide belt supports a leather loincloth and various ritual implements -- a bone wand, several knives and other cutting implements, and other, less identifiable things. As Delve turns toward the Sacrifices, moonlight glints in his eyes, sharpening the dog-man's leering gaze into a drawn blade. 47

"Your witnessed acts prove the nature of your spirits. You have been brought before She who birthed you, She who watched you, and She who will receive you once you have left this world." 48

The moon-thrall pauses, looking from one to the next in turn, studying their reactions. McCowell, the latest catch, seems ready to die of sheer fright and humiliation. He sobs quietly but openly. The next has his eyes squeezed shut, his expression tight and closed. Fear-stink rolls off that one like a fog. But the last one smirks slightly, as if he thinks he can get out of his situation and has nothing but contempt for Delve and the Ritual. Delve makes a mental note to "do" that one last.49

Allowing a tooth-baring sneer to twist his muzzle, Delve continues the Last Address.50

"I am the Left Hand of She-Who-is-Three-in-One, She-Who-Is-and-Was-and-Will-Be-Everything. As you have sinned, so shall you be sinned against. I take your sin onto my self, that you may continue into your next life unburdened."51

The smirk broadens. "I don't expect you to thank me. But try to make this easy for yourselves. Resistance will only lengthen your penance."52

"Fuck off, you crazy bastard!" The smirking one shouts suddenly, humiliated rage bloodying his face. "Don't pull some kind of religious shit over this. You're just getting off on it. You're no better than any of us!" 53

"Of course I'm getting off on it," Delve replies, rolling his eyes. As he speaks, he moves to his backpack and begins removing supplies. "Why would She use someone who didn't have the testicular fortitude to do what has to be done? Besides, one who loves his work will always do a better job. Silly boys," Delve mock-gently reprimands, shaking a claw at the man. He smiles almost lovingly at the three sacrifices. "You'll understand soon."54

With the stones placed, the symbols drawn, the candles lit, and the paraphernalia arranged, Delve stands up again, regarding his captives.55

"Who wants to go first? Not like you have a choice," the Ritualist grins. "You stopped having a choice about your fate when you decided to break the Old Laws."56

---57

The Sky-Queen's perch in the sky had noticeably elevated by the time Delve gets McCowell prepared. When Delve had approached, the hebephile serial killer panicked, bolting against the choke-rope in a frantic, suicidal escape attempt. It took quick action on Delve's part to save the man from choking. 58

Then, the suspension. McCowell did everything in his power to make that part of the ritual difficult. Fortunately, after half-suffocating on the ground, that wasn't much. His stubborn limb-waving still made the task take longer than usual, however. By the time all four limbs were tied and ready for lifting, Delve was panting from exertion rather than anticipation. 59

Finally, however, the prey is trussed and ready. Mocking breezes shove and tug at the dangling man, setting him swaying gently, laughing their wordless malice into his ears. Faintly audible weeping sounds drift to Delve's ears as he kneels within sight of Earth, Moon, and Tree, bowing his head. 60

"The Chosen Prey have been chased and captured. The First Sacrifice has been tethered. What is Your verdict, Great One?"61

For a stock-still instant, there is silence. Even the wind seems to halt, awaiting the word of the triune goddesses. Abruptly the heart-music swells and expands, encompassing the three hapless men under judgment as well as Delve and the observing spirits.62

These have turned their backs on the Ways of Beasts, the Old Rules of Man, and the Law of their own society. All three have sworn themselves in service of Yeh-Ho-Vah. Therefore, they shall be Judged against those laws which they have sworn to obey.63

In the brief pause between this announcement and their divine sentencing, McCowell sheds copious tears. Delve opens his mouth slightly, drawing the appealing salty-wet scent with his tongue, until his Mistress speaks again.64

They have sworn never to commit crimes of Envy, of Lust, of Wrath, of Gluttony, of Pride, of Greed, or of Sloth. We have looked upon them, and known their ways. As they have violated their promises, so shall they atone. They shall suffer the Rite of Seven Sins. 65

This is Our verdict.66

Terrified sobs seasoning the breeze. Cool air around his body, no longer confined by clothing, fanning the heat of his anticipation. 67

Delve rises. As he turns toward McCowell, his tongue lolls from his mouth. He is panting again.68

---69

"I got to tell you, it's the weirdest God-fucked shit I've ever seen, Boss," the cross-fox growled, laying her ears back against her sleek, short-maned head. 70

"I bet I've seen weirder," her superior sighed. Captain Murdock rested his head wearily against his fist. "Reconstruct the scene for me."71

"That's the problem, sir," the detective continued. "We've only got scraps of bodies, obviously dumped. Many of the bones and much of the flesh is missing. We don't even have enough flesh to make up one whole body. The only ways we could tell it was multiple vicks is duplicate bones and scent, plus DNA confirmation."72

Captain Murdock felt a migraine coming on. Figures. I finally get Acetyl the Cannibal executed, and another one pops up to replace him. He frowned. It was almost as if... 73

The police chief shook his head, abandoning the thought. He knew Acetyl was guilty. The man had confessed of his own will, and lead police to several of his dump sites. 74

"It must be a copycat. Executions always brought out copycats," Murdock grunted. His detective nodded thoughtfully.75

"Yes, sir. The signature and MO diverge from his work product profile, for what it's worth. Acetyl wasn't into road-side body dumps."76

But there was a troubled look in the fox-woman's keen black eyes that gave her superior pause. "What is it?"77

"Sorry, sir," she apologized. "It's just that... I was on the Rainy Day Killer task force. Remember, I took scent pads at some RDK scenes, a male canid's marking? No DNA recovered, no match ever found?"78

Murdock didn't need to hear anything else. He knew where she was going. The assumption had always been that the scent-marking was from one of the victims, staged by Acetyl. The convicted serial murderer certainly never disabused them of that notion. And there was never any other concrete evidence that the drug-addicted cannibal had ever been anything but a loner. He certainly didn't have a "team player" personality.79

No concrete evidence until now, that is.80

Its announcements duly made, the migraine came roaring into being, digging its claws into the police chief's inner forehead. He sighed, rubbing at his forehead.81

"Do your best, Detective."82

"Yes, sir."83

She left the room, ears back, head down, tail held low to the ground. Captain Murdock glanced at the clock and realized he was off-shift. 84

The whisky in his desk drawer eased the migraine, but did little to help the queasy feeling in his stomach.85

---86

Delve shudders. A low, keening growl escapes his clenched teeth. The thick warm scent of himself pokes its astringent fingers into his sensitive nostrils. Rolling on his side, he opens his hand, unable to touch the over-sensitized organ in the wake of the orgasm.87

His eyes open slowly. He doesn't see his own semen drying in the thick fur of his chest. 88

He sees McCowell's face as the obsidian scalpel sliced away his penis like a sausage.89

He does not hear his neighbor's children, laughing outside in their yard.90

He hears the second man's sobbing cries as Delve's short rose-thorn claws hooked around his covetous eyeballs, ripping them away.91

He does not feel the cool air on his still-erect penis. 92

He feels the warm slickness of a rapist's intestines, penetrated through the abdomen. Why go for anal when you can have offal?93

Delve groans, curling up around his insistent arousal. Memories of last night, so vivid, refuse to retreat. He will have to resort to opiates soon, just to tame his rampant lust, or else risk breaking a few rules himself.94

And yet, he knows, all too soon, the memories will fade. Even now, as the endorphin haze of his latest orgasm fades, even feeling the raw soreness of his intimate ares, Delve still can't help thinking:95

Isn't it next month yet...?