Sarah’S Beast

By Frank Purle

Los Angeles California, the crowned jewel of the west. A place where anything is possible. A place of wealth, glamour and greed. An apocalyptic city built on the broken dreams of thousands of men and women looking to make their fortunes, looking for that brass ring , looking for the opportunity to walk a red carpet. If your lucky enough you can find its secrets, the keys to everything, the keys to POWER.
Shunning a privileged life Sarah leaves the comforts of wealth. Embarking on a quest of self discovery, Sarah hopes to find an inner peace, a place for herself in the world. Lured by the beast that is Los Angeles, Sarah arrives and sets up roots, meets a man and has a child hoping to find her place in the world. But even with all this, she is empty, without love or empathy for those around her.
Walking on Wilshire Blvd Sarah discovers a door to a small establishment, As she walks through, Sarah discovers a place of new wonders, a place of acceptance, a place with its own Gods. As Sarah starts her walk down the left hand path her quest for peace turns to a lust for power and control. A quest to rule with her God at her side. However there is a price for this type of power, will Sarah be able to make the necessary sacrifices? Will she find the love and acceptance of a God as old as time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524656034

Frank Purle

Frank Purle,the author’s pen name, received a graduate degree in history at an Idaho university. Upon relocation to Arizona the author taught literature, history and international relations for several years. During this time the author earned a Master’s Degree in international relations an Arizona university and went on to teach at a small college as well as within the Arizona prison system. The author now resides near Salt Lake City, Utah. This book is the author’s first work of fiction.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Black Mass

Sarah stood behind the wooden beam where Derek had deposited her. The opium incense burned her lungs. While she waited for the ceremony to begin her eyes surveyed the many changes the musty basement had undergone. They rested upon the altar assaulted by the twisted loveliness, which prevailed that night. Since morning it had been transformed from a mere platform into a glittering array of gold, velvet and candlelight. Black candles were everywhere, bathing the dais in flickering enchantment. Her gaze was captured by the hauntingly seductive crucifix hanging upside down on the back wall of the altar. It was a magnificent work of art. She estimated its length to be about six feet and its width four. The wood finish had been disproportionately stripped which left it an uneven, pale Yellow in color. The eye sockets and under cheekbones had been left the natural hew. The affect was startling as the candlelight flickered bits of light upon the face of Christ. His countenance appeared to twist itself into a hideous flow of comical sneers. He had the look of one who was immensely enjoying a private, dark joke. She stared at the sneering Christ for a long while, mesmerized. After some effort, her eyes left the haunting face and fell to the dais.

On the left stood a delicately carved table draped in black lace. The candlelight reflected the brilliance of gold underneath. She knew this to be the sacrament table. The altar itself a good six feet long, commanded the center of the platform. It was covered now, draped in black velvet. But she remembered the strange table from the morning’s festivities. It consisted of an ornately carved slab of oak, which rested upon the squatting legs of some indiscernible primate. The massive legs tapered gracefully to meet four equally exaggerated feet with jutting toes that gave way to fierce talons filed to a lethal point. It gave the look of being centuries old and infinitely wizened by the blood that stained its insatiable pores. She sighed at the remembered magnificence of the table. Yet, she had to admit it was successfully rivaled by the velvet cover that concealed it. Upon the overhanging portion of the covering was the embroidered likeness of Baphomet, the Old Horned God. Once again the work of a master craftsman showed through. The figure had the head and hooves of a goat and the torso of a man. Two long, contorted horns grew from its head, between them sat a large, black candle emitting volcanic-like flames. A gold pentagram interrupted its hairy forehead. The God’s right hand pointed north while the left pointed south. The index finger of each hand drew attention to a crescent moon. Upon each forearm was a Latin phrase she could not yet decipher. The belly of the God was a silvery green with fish-like scales. Around his girth he wore a girdle of gold about which two serpents were intertwined. He was endowed with large, female breasts embroidered in a pale blue thread. His sexual organs, like a hermaphrodite, consisted of a penis as well as a vagina, both exaggerated. He sat cross-legged upon a cube, the symbol of four, the square and the foundation of all things. His hooves rested confidently upon the earth. Underneath this imposing needlepoint feat was the Latin phrase AD MAJOREM SATANAE embroidered in blood red. Sarah knew it to mean to the greater Glory of Satan. Gazing at it, she had difficulty deciding whether the work was revolting or compelling. It undeniably stirred her deeply. Finally, she opted for compelling. The unblinking almond-shaped eyes seemed to mock her awe. At the same time they were inviting, daring her to taste the delicious fantasies of Hell. She was ready. But she knew tonight would not be the night.

She stood in the darkness despising the fact that she could only observe. The congregation entered. Each member passed the portals of the furnace room and saluted one another with the raised, horned hand. They came skulking in, snarling, grunting, sniffing and emitting grossly exaggerated animal howls. They wore black velvet cloaks intricately embossed with demonic symbols and a hood-like mask representing the animal familiar with which each identified with most. There were snarling yellow dogs, wide—eyed cats, sumptuously bedecked roosters, colorful toads, rats with suggestively exaggerated snouts, crabs, spiders, and grinning, multi—colored snakes. The mask’s expressions were frozen in perverted joy, as though each were enjoying the pitiful cries of its prey cowering before it. Sarah understood she was witnessing the predator’s final leap to victory. She wondered when the time came which familiar she would choose. The grinning viper seemed to whisper a hiss at her. The sound tickled her ear and a wave of goose bumps traveled up her neck. Its long, flickering tongue strangely appeared to lash out to her in a heated instant. She found its multi-colors symbolic, for who was more chameleon like than she? She was many things to many people but she was never the real Sarah. Perhaps Derek knew her but she could not be sure that even he, the coven’s High Priest, was capable of recognizing her true self. Was she capable of it? Sometimes. Other times a seething tide which she could not define swelled inside her somehow, obscuring herself from her own inner eye. It frightened and confused her. But it also excited and challenged her. She understood that it had to be satisfied or controlled, or else she would be torn apart. The dilemma teased at her mind drawing her inward. Abruptly, Sarah shook her head forcing herself to focus back upon the matter at hand. Yes, she decided. When it came time to choose she would embrace the viper.

The congregation approached the altar. Sarah could see their nakedness beneath their cloaks as they moved. Each body glistened with oil and sweat. In their excitement many of the men sported premature erections. Moisture left slug like trails upon the rich blackness of their garments. The women fingered themselves as they crouched and grunted toward the dais. Sarah clutched the wooden beam, its hardness comforting against her mounting desire. The atmosphere, made thick by the burning opium pots, and the sensual, guttural groans of the congregation made her weak with need. She shook her head violently fighting for clarity. Resting her head for a moment upon the beam she pried her fingers from the wood as she felt herself cool. But then there was Derek and all was lost; beautiful, magnificent Derek. High Priest extraordinaire, coveted to his god, shepherd of his flock, looking this night every inch the bridegroom. Two young men Sarah had never seen before led him into the room. They chanted monotonously as they swung their censors of opium before them. Their hoods were thrown back clearly revealing their faces. One was very tall with sandy hair curling along the nape of his neck attempting to capture an ear. His chubby companion was much shorter and was endowed with startling red hair. His face was a mesh of burnt orange freckles. To Sarah he looked rather ridiculous in this setting. He looked more suited to the muddy Mississippi as one of Twain’s impish outcasts.

Derek strolled down the aisle splendid in his aloofness. The hushed congregation followed his every step with unabashed adoration and eagerness. Watching him, as always, caused a maelstrom of bewilderment, desire and awe to sweep through Sarah. Here was a man made splendidly; broad of shoulder, tapered waistline and smooth muscular thighs, which gave way to long, almost slender legs. His piercing sapphire eyes sat deeply in his dark face screaming of a wild animal vitality. Yet his countenance betrayed nothing but a peaceful indifference. The incongruity caused untold turbulence in everyone who gazed over-long upon him. His slender face was accented with the graceful arrogance of an aquiline nose and high, jutting cheekbones. His sensual mouth, with its soft, full lips, set itself carelessly in a condescending whisper of a smile. His fawn-brown hair waved and curled in uncontrollable masses about his shoulders and toppled forward, colliding with the disdainful arch of his brow. He walked down the aisle, his body erect, almost stiff. Yet he moved with the sensual, lithesome, uncaring grace of the untamed cat. He wore the gold and purple cloak of royalty about his shoulders. Gold, opulent serpents and gloating demons added embroidered brilliance to the deep purple velvet. His garment parted ever so slightly with each step revealing far too little and leaving every observer in the room with a desperate ache.

He approached the platform and stood behind the embroidered altar. He slowly turned to his people and began to recite the incantation in a loud, resonant voice. It was the Lord’s Prayer, only backward. During his litany, the animal congregation moaned and swayed in unison with his words. The droning monotone eventually died down and all eyes fell upon the door to the antechamber. Upon it was a painting of the Old Horned God all in red except for a tangled wreath of wildflowers angled nonchalantly upon his brow. The door opened. Derek’s second-in-command, the fish-faced creature named Catherine, led out the woman Sarah knew to be Barbara. Sarah tried to calm herself. Barbara had been prepared for this night. The witch had to be strong. But what if she wasn’t? Catherine’s words of that afternoon flooded back to her as she stared at the fragile woman on the dais.

She will need every ounce of strength she can muster. Satan will be with us tonight, Sarah. Barbara will meet him tonight. She must receive him and receive him well or we’ll all be in deep shit. She won’t be the only one to face the consequences.

What do you mean?

Just what I said, Sweet cakes. We’ll all pay. We’re talking about big time stakes here now. Tonight is not going to be just a bunch of local yokels feeling each other up. It’s the big time.

God, how Sarah hated this vulgar bitch. She choked down bitter acid as it threatened to make her sick. Staring at Catherine’s tight, thin leer all Sarah could manage was a terse Meaning?

We need her to marry the one and only Mr. Conrad Provine. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Sarah shook her head. No? Well, it’s excusable since you’re fairly new here in California. Conrad Provine happens to be the major stockholder and board president of an extremely powerful quasi—political computer corporation. It has branches all over the world but its main nucleus is right here in good old sunny California. Anyway, it’s quite an ambitious endeavor for us all, even with someone as juicy as our Barbara. Needless to say, if we pull it off, it’ll he quite a coup for Derek and the coven. Overnight we will achieve international recognition among our peers. Even more important, we’ll have power, power and more power. Catherine released a long, slow sigh before she continued. "Unfortunately, all of this hinges on our pretty little Barbara.

Sarah couldn’t resist an acid You don’t approve? Catherine ignored the jab. My dear, it is not a matter of approving or disapproving. It’s a matter of strength, fortitude if you wish. And Barbara certainly has neither. Oh, don’t get me wrong; I’m quite fond of the dear, sweet girl. But, you see, that’s the problem. She’s too dear, too sweet and far too fragile for such an undertaking. Even if she survives tonight’s test, which I seriously doubt, she will never know what to do with the power. No, the task is much more suited to a Machiavellian like myself. In response to Sarah’s arched eyebrows she continued, But I am also a realist. Unfortunately, our Mr. Provine would never, by any stretch of the imagination, be drawn to someone as homely as me.

Sarah couldn’t help it. She was in complete agreement. Although she thought she was being tactfully silent on the matter, she knew Catherine couldn’t attract a gnat. She was a tall, thin woman with stringy blonde hair, which hung in greasy clumps behind her ears. She had a short, Chin that melted into a scrawny neck and which was completely overshadowed by her beak of a nose. Her eyes were large, moist and protruding like those of a frog, appearing far too large for their tiny sockets. When she blinked it was with a slow, sensual motion, which did not entirely cover her eyes. Consequently, she appeared to be ever watchful, an attribute which caused great consternation and discomfort among the other members. Her tight, thin mouth seemed to be permanently pinched into an attitude of disapproval. Under these circumstances Sarah knew it would be ridiculous for her to contest the point. Instead, her silence made Catherine defensive.

"Come off it, Sarah. I have no rosy delusions. I know how ugly I am. In most cases it simply doesn’t matter. I was merely stating that, had I Barbara’s looks or she my nature the scheme would have a much better chance at succeeding. As it is, well, like I said before, I doubt very much if she will even pass tonight’s test, let alone go on to bigger and better things.’

Sarah couldn’t help pushing her. Why shouldn’t she pass? I mean, Derek has told me all about the Black Mass and there doesn’t seem to be anything all that difficult about it. At that Catherine threw back her head and laughed her husky, guttural laugh.

"I have no doubt, my friend, that when your time comes you will surpass us all. However, Barbara has not the stuff of which you and I are made. This week has been a perfect example. As you know from your studies, a witch must undergo arduous preparations in order to withstand the affections of our Dark Prince. And what does she do? She chooses the least demanding ordeal to endure. Even Derek could not dissuade her from it. When he suggested that more should be required of her, especially due to the importance of the occasion, What did she do but wring her hands and cry until even the great Derek gave in.’ At this she spat on the rough cement floor in contempt.

No, the girl has no stamina, no self—discipline. She relented to fasting, but only under duress and then for only seventy-two hours. Plus, the stationary position she chose is the least demanding of all. I tell you, Sarah, it’s disgusting. Such weakness has no such place here. All she could manage was to lay, naked, stretched out upon the floor with her arms over her head. The golden sword was then placed across her abdomen to signify Beelzebub’s possession of her. That’s about it. She merely had to remain in that position, silently, for three days without moving. And she couldn’t even do that! After the first sixteen hours she had to be drugged because she wouldn’t quit whining! Now I ask you, Sarah, is that a person who can satisfy Satan? I think not!

Well, I don’t know, Catherine. I mean, I haven’t the slightest idea what it’s like, I mean, how difficult can it be? After all, Satan or no Satan, Derek is only human. Flesh is flesh. How strenuous can it be? Catherine’s disdain notwithstanding, she sneered, Oh, Sarah, you have so, so much to learn. And learn it you will, of that I have no doubt.’ Then her voice softened after a thoughtful pause. But within you burns aflame far brighter than any I’ve ever seen. You may not fully recognize it yet, but when you do, the ordeal will be Satan’s, believe me. You feel it too don’t you."

Catherine’s question was a statement; a verbal affirmation of the strange tide crashing relentlessly against Sarah’s consciousness; an undefined surge of energy that would not let her rest. Yes, she felt it but she bristled to think that Catherine knew. She averted her eyes so Catherine would not be made privy to her restless confusion. Yet, Catherine understood. No words were necessary between the two adversaries. They were the same. When Sarah did not reply Catherine continued.

Let me tell you something, Sarah. You are part of a great design. One of which you cannot comprehend as yet. Even I, as Satan’s consecrated handmaiden, cannot define it clearly and I’ve been around for a long time. But when the time comes we’ll both be made to understand and the knowledge will make us strong enough to endure it. You will have many tests to face to earn your future, Sarah. One of them is the altar. Believe me, when you are upon the altar with Derek standing above you, flesh will not meet flesh. I promise you that, I know.

Sarah immediately came to life. You know what, Catherine? When Catherine only stared at her in return Sarah pleaded. Tell me. Come on. . Please? The saying of please physically hurt her to say. She hoped Catherine hadn’t noticed but very little ever escaped the fish-lady. Even so, she merely pursed her lips determined to say no more.

Sarah decided to relent a bit and confide in her nemesis. Strange how she knew Catherine, of all people on this earth, would understand exactly how she felt. Come on, Catherine. If it is for me, well then, I need to know, don’t I? Don’t be afraid. I’m not. I want it. I welcome it whatever it is. Yes Catherine, I burn for it, even if it ends in death. Don’t you understand? She took Catherine by the shoulders and shook her gently. If what we feel is true it means there’s a reason for all this. This trip through Purgatory we’re all forced to take; a reason for the drudgery, the achingly endless days of nothingness. Think of it, Catherine, an end to it! An end to all that is and a beginning to all as it should be. Please, Catherine, help me. Tell me what you know.

Catherine spoke quietly. "All right, Sarah, I’ll tell you." As she spoke her eyes adopted a glazed, faraway look and she ceased to see Sarah. "There is no comparison. Satan’s member is enormous, and covered with scales. To describe to you the agony it initially causes would be fruitless, like trying to explain the color red to a man born blind. That is why the ordeal in the antechamber is so crucial. One must remain stoic. There can be no whimpering, no crying. If there is the entire coven must suffer the consequences.

As he begins to move inside, the scales rip away at the flesh. Even I ached to cry out but I didn’t. I don’t know how but I didn’t. At first it’s like ice, hard and cold, wounding and tearing. But miraculously, it suddenly becomes warm. Then the miracle become a nightmare as his member becomes a white hot poker moving inside you, searing and scorching your flesh. Have you ever accidentally scratched a burn, Sarah or mistakenly scraped it against a rough wall? If so, then you may have a tiny inkling of what I’m talking about.’ Despite her detachment Catherine could not fail to enjoy the satisfaction as she watched Sarah blanched. "Then suddenly you’re quivering. Your body climaxes but your mind can’t register the pleasure. It goes on and on, well into dawn. Over and over you climax. Over and over you feel nothing. You only know vaguely what your body is experiencing. You can only feel exhausted gratitude for the numbness. Afterward, no mortal man can make you happy. Oh, you’ll try a few times but eventually you’ll give up. You will belong wholly to Satan. You live for the time he comes, once again to lay with you. You live for it and you slowly die because of it. That is how it is with me. That is how it will be with you.

There was a long pause between them. Catherine was transfixed in her faraway vision and Sarah, her blood rushing, was transfixed upon Catherine, The sudden crash of a pew, accidentally dropped elsewhere in the room brought women hack to reality. Each moved uneasily upon the bench. Sarah smiled uncertainly at Catherine. Wordlessly, with their eyes locked, Catherine slipped her hand between the buttons of Sarah’s blouse and circled a nipple with her fingers. Sarah became numb with indecision. Her first impulse was to shove Catherine away. Instead, she slowly opened her legs. A shaking hand pushed Sarah’s skirt just above her knees. Methodically, Catherine’s hand felt its way up Sarah’s thigh. Perspiration broke out on Sarah’s upper lip, but she didn’t wipe it away. Their eyes remained locked. Catherine’s fingers pushed inside Sarah’s lace panties and found her moistness. Her adept fingers circled Sarah’s erect clitoris. Catherine’s silvery tongue curled suggestively in unison with her fingers. She continued to tantalize and pinch until Sarah’s body shuddered in release. Catherine removed her fingers from Sarah’s underwear, placed them in her mouth and sucked the moisture. Within moments her body also convulsed. They remained silent, both staring at the nothingness before them. After a few moments Catherine spoke, her voice husky and dry.

"Do you understand now why Barbara will fail?

Yes, Sarah whispered.

Sarah’s attention was brought hack to the events at hand. She watched as the two assistants laid Barbara upon the altar. Her buttocks rested upon the edge of the table with her legs dangling limply to the floor. The sandy-haired altar boy lifted her hips with both hands while his comrade slipped a black satin pillow underneath. Then they spread her ankles about four feet apart on the floor. The freckle-faced escapee from Twain’s imagination spread the lips of her vulva while his companion dipped his fingers into a gilded howl containing a perfumed oil mixture and stroked her clitoris with long, rhythmical precision. The glistening oil clung tenaciously to her mons veneris.

The effect upon Sarah was electric. Through the flickering candlelight Barbara’s pubic area appeared to be bathed in beads of perspiration. The illusion was an agony of anticipation. From the low, guttural moans of the congregation, Sarah understood they, too, knew her lust. She struggled to break her gaze from the drama occurring upon the platform. She concentrated upon the groaning members. She could see through the opium mist the females standing, legs apart, moving in slow gyrations with the rhythm of the altar boy’s strokes. They clutched themselves with both hands, their unfaltering gaze never leaving the dais. The men were equally engrossed in Barbara’s anointment. In the fashion of the women they relieved themselves with slow, tantalizing manipulations. The entire congregation, men and women alike, worked as one entity with one destiny. Sarah wanted to join them. Gradually, she sank deeper and deeper into the warm ooze of the sensual. She halfheartedly tried to shake herself loose from it but at the same time she delighted in the sensation.

Derek stood above Barbara, his eyes never leaving her glistening vulva. He appeared untouched by its magnetism. Sarah was able to push back for a time her body’s unreasonable demands by focusing upon his cool indifference. Barbara remained just as aloof. It struck Sarah as ironic that the two chief protagonists in this compelling drama, the two who shaped the behavior of every person in the room, seemed completely apathetic to its outcome. Sarah was immediately arrested by the realization that Barbara was obviously drugged. As for Derek, if it was indeed Derek she saw, there was only the stoicism of an abnormal detachment.

The altar boys now positioned Barbara’s arms above her head. In each of her open palms they placed a crudely formed black candle traditionally made from the fat of human flesh. The tall young man then held above his head a wooden crucifix much like the one upon the wall. He broke it in half with little effort and placed it beneath her head along with a small, black satin pillow. Once again Derek began his recitation.

Derek’s words were the same as before Barbara’s appearance but his tone was higher, more frenzied. As his voice became more frantic so did the actions of his people. They were manipulated by the hypnotic inflections of his voice. They swayed, stomped and grabbed at each other, pulling back just before touching. It was not yet time. Sarah felt the control of Derek’s voice as well. There was no one to whom she could reach out. She hugged the beam in desperation.

Derek’s incantation became more guttural. He spoke low, his voice emanating from deep within his being. He turned to Barbara abruptly and stepped closer to her until he silently stood between her legs. The hall grew hush with expectation. Every breath froze. His hands went to her, then to himself and spread her oil onto his member. His eyes rose and rested upon his assistants. They responded at once. They crouched down near Barbara’s head and began rubbing her body with long, swaying motions. Each rubbed and clutched at her belly, her sides, and finally, her breasts. Both petted and cajoled each nipple erect. Still there was no reaction from the frozen beauty. The altar boys completed their assignment and faced the congregation on their haunches, legs spread wide apart. They threw off their cloaks to reveal their virility. They sat there, impassively, hands on hips, gazing at the crazed congregation.

Derek reached out and clutched Barbara’s thighs as he knelt before her. Slowly, he extended his tongue, setting it in a swirling motion. A heavy silence fell over the congregation as they watched the tongue make its slow descent. He set his lips upon her oily sexuality, smearing his face with the shiny mixture. The entire room was made privy to his tongue darting about between her Lips. His teeth nipped alternately at her inner thighs and oily mass of hair. Sarah’s fingers dug into the splintered wood. She felt driven to shake Barbara. How dare she just lie there! She became infuriated with her. She screamed. She screamed for a long time, long before her voice met her ears. She heard herself spew forth vile, filthy words along with the insatiable cocks, toads, spiders and crabs. Her mind screamed out just as violently against it but it could no longer control the will of the body.

Derek alternately stood and knelt, reciting the incantations then kissing Barbara while the altar boys rose from their station and, as if on cue, approached the sacrament table. They pulled back the delicate black lace, gathered up the sacrament wafers and threw them upon the floor before the altar. Sarah knew these Cakes of Light were made of meal, fresh honey, perfume, red wine, olive oil and the menstrual blood collected from the coven’s female members. The congregation trampled upon them immediately, delegating them to crumbs then urinated upon them. Three squatted, relieved themselves of body waste, cleaned themselves with the discarded sacrament lace and spread their defecation among the crumbs. The stomping continued through urine and feces alike. At the same time, each member violently repudiated Christ and vilified the Virgin Mary.

Once the frenzy of the group subsided, the freckle-faced altar boy took an elaborately ornamented gold chalice from the table. He scooped up a handful of the soiled wafers and placed them inside the cup. As he did so, his companion disappeared into the antechamber and brought forth an infant lamb. He solemnly displayed the small creature to the coven, both arms extended high. Their howls of approval resounded throughout the hall. The members settled as he gently, and with great reverence, laid the animal upon Barbara’s oiled belly. The tiny creature remained still for a moment, then responded to the warmth of Barbara’s body and began to suckle with the hunger of youth at her softness. Such a pure act of innocence perpetuated out of an instinctive need repelled Sarah. It broke the spell. Her body burned. She wanted no tender innocence to interfere.

The congregation silenced itself. The lamb struggled upon Barbara’s soft abdomen as the black-handled ceremonial knife was handed to Derek. He moved to Barbara’s side, facing his people. Sarah fought back an unexpected and sudden urge to weep for the defenseless creature. Yet, with a far more powerful compulsion, she craved its blood. She ached to fill her nostrils with the heat of it. She wanted its sweet stickiness smeared upon her face, suffocating her with its richness. She wept, knowing she would be denied. She wept silently, the sobs racking her body. She would not share in the victory of the lamb’s blood. She recognized Hell.

The lamb began to cry. It had come to realize the soft belly upon which it lay was not that of its mother. Derek gently lifted the bleating infant by the tuft of wool on the back of its head, forced its chin up and swiftly cut its throat. The babe met its death in silence, its struggle over except for the spasmodic twitching of its tenacious limbs.

It was magical. An incredible steaming beauty filled the air. Derek lifted the chalice to the lamb’s wound, filled it with the red elixir, then raised the cup with both hands and shouted in his clear, prideful voice, Lamb, which the priests of Adoni have made a symbol of sterility raised to the rank of virtue, I sacrifice you to Lucifer. May the peace of Satan be with you.

Having spoken, Derek raised the cup to his lips and drank deep and full. Bright, delicious blood trickled down his chin. He made no attempt to wipe it away. Just before he emptied the cup, he stopped, walked to the edge of the platform and sprinkled the steaming mixture of blood and wafers upon his followers. They went wild. The lamb’s blood incited them into one mindless, frenzied entity. They stomped and howled. They clawed at one another. Sarah drooped heavily against her wooden beam. There would be no drops of blood for her. No release.

Derek turned once again to Barbara. She lay there staring at the ceiling, still clutching the black candles in her palms. The slaughtered lamb lay limp upon her belly, its life-blood oozing down her side. It followed the dictates of her body hairs as it dripped methodically from her thigh. Incredulously, shamelessly, Sarah felt compelled to lick it, to fill her belly with its sweet gum. She bit her hand until the taste of blood splattered upon her lips. It did not help. Her life’s blood felt cold and foreboding. She shivered.

Frustration gripped her as she watched. The lamb’s redness matted itself in Barbara’s pubic hair. A crimson pool settled between the soft mounds of her breasts. Ribs were outlined as it dripped down the velvet cloth and, ultimately, upon the waiting figure of Baphomet. Scrupulously, the drops saturated the twisted horns. They made their way down the face, following the deep grooves created by the stitching. Clots formed upon the god’s hairy chin. The lines of red mercury became fewer as they made their way down his neck and met his shoulders. A final tributary trickled lonesome between his ample breasts. The blood was no longer fluid. The congealed mass formed an intricate web—like pattern transforming the separate forms of Barbara and the god into one surreal entity. Sarah stared at the god’s face and it occurred to her that its countenance had changed. His expression was no longer one of scrutiny but of hypnotic ecstasy.

Derek stood above Barbara, watching as the blood traveled its route. He once again knelt between her thighs. He did not kiss her. Instead, he silently knelt there until the lamb had overflowed upon his manliness. He rose slowly. A breathless hush descended upon the room. Suddenly he clutched her thighs and swiftly drove himself into her, blood meeting blood. Her scream shattered the illusion. She was the speared beast defying its agony. Yet, her body refused to reflect her pain. She was just as before, except for her unending scream. Sarah recalled Catherine’s words. Satan’s member is enormous… covered with scales, it is like ice, wounding and tearing. Sarah understood. Yet, other words also came to mind. There can be no whimpering, no cries, or the entire coven must suffer. A wave of apprehension prickled through Sarah. It was quickly forgotten.

Gradually, Barbara’s cry transformed itself into a low, throaty moan. Her body slowly awakened. She moved in rhythm with Derek’s thrusts. Sarah erupted inside. She pressed herself against the beam, tearing at her hair. The congregation no longer felt itself bound by restraint. Cloaks were thrown off. The altar boys, experienced sodomites, satisfied each other in their turn. Coven members frantically grabbed and groped at each other. Their manipulations only served to accentuate the frenzy. Groups intermingled and became tangled masses of squirming, mindless flesh.

The horror of Sarah’s isolation descended upon her. Once more she pressed herself against the beam, hoping it would bend to her will. She felt cold and clammy yet she burned. She felt the pressure of a hand upon her shoulder. She spun around. It was John. Of all the members, it was John Matthews who repulsed her the most.

He was a sluggish little man in his mid-thirties. His pallid skin appeared to be stretched too tightly over his stooped, flabby frame. The moisture from his mouth overflowed upon his fleshy lips with great regularity causing him to sputter a vile mist each time he spoke. Sarah had always pictured him huddled in a dark corner somewhere wildly masturbating, his tiny eyes unfocused and with saliva Oozing down his chin. Now he stood before her, grinning silently. His pasty composure was still smeared with congealed bits of the lamb’s blood. Both their eyes dropped to his erect penis. The last vestiges of Sarah’s will collapsed. As if propelled by one voice, wordlessly they tore at her clothes. She remained pinned against the beam. She grabbed John and thrust him forcefully inside her. Reality faded.

When Sarah’s thoughts finally returned to the basement room, her first awareness was of complete exhaustion. Thankfully, John had gone elsewhere. She found herself slumped in a messy heap at the foot of her wooden support. She made a shaky attempt to clean herself. She removed her already torn underwear, wiped herself relatively clean and stuffed them into her pocket. She’d torn a button off her blouse, her slacks were soiled and her bladder cried for relief. In a moment of disregard for her own condition, she looked around the room. The members were lying in disarray upon the floor, contorted in various stages of exhaustion. A few still made weak attempts to satisfy each other. John was among them. Most were totally drained, too depleted to remove themselves from the tangle of arms and legs. Instead, they lay there, giving form to a grotesquely twisted sculpture made yellow by the dim light barely penetrating the opium mist.

Sarah’s eyes rested upon the altar. Derek and Barbara, oblivious to the maniacal copulation that had occurred around them, continued their gyrations in stoic silence. Sarah could now only find them comical. Reality hit. She was a filthy, rumpled mess. She had violated Derek’s law, no Satan’s law. She had taken part. And she knew with cold assurance the High Priest and would his god seek retribution. The violence of a new emotion shook her into motion, terror.

Quickly, she headed for the stairs. She stumbled up the rotting structure, scooped her purse and sweater off a laboratory table and made her way through the storefront. Metal caught her shoulder. A portable bookcase crashed to the floor, its books tripping her as she stumbled past. She adjusted without falling, her mind intent upon the weathered door before her. The brass Indian bell above it startled her as she threw it open. Sarah froze as she listened for the darkness to puke forth some new means to terrify her. When nothing came she rushed outside slamming the door behind her.

Once outside she became ruefully aware of her situation. She was a mess. She reeked of spiced opium and manliness. Even in the Cool breeze her nostrils flared, revolted by her own heady odor. Heedless of this she knew she had to get home and fast. Unhappily she noted it was almost dawn. She searched up and down the deserted street. No Cabs. She ran two full blocks before one of the faded yellow taxis came into sight. The cabby took the fare reluctantly. It was dawn and he hadn’t met his quota. Times were hard. The lady stank.

It began to rain. The clouds unloaded themselves in an uncertain drizzle. A fine mist clouded the windows of the cab. Sarah settled back staring at the moisture making miniature rivulets down the face of the glass. Had it really been just short of two years since she first arrived in Los Angeles? It seemed a lifetime. Yet, she could still remember the day when she and her faded blue Volkswagen turned onto Wiltshire Boulevard. It had been a sunny day.

CHAPTER TWO

The Aztec

The sun beat down on the back of Sarah’s neck as she cruised down Wilshire Boulevard. Its warmth traveled through her body igniting even her toes. It was late in the afternoon and a low mist hung over the city. Her eyes burned. Perspiration trickled past an ear and dropped to a shoulder. She absentmindedly wiped it away. The hot air was sticky and heavy to breath. She sighed deeply. What she wouldn’t give for a nice, cool breeze. Cars swerved in and out around her. All the rats were in a hurry. Scurrying from a nowhere job to a nowhere destination. Horns blared. Exhaust pipes puked smoke in her face. Tires screeched. The acid smell of worn rubber meeting hot pavement drifted up burning her- lungs. Frustrated drivers leaned out of their windows and yelled obscenities at one another. Yet, through and above all this there was music. Brassy tunes blared from every direction. Each passing car and every stoplight pause treated her to something new; until it all melted together into a psychedelic kaleidoscope of sound.

Sarah decided this was her city. The place she had been born to find. What had taken her so long to get here? She couldn’t imagine. Her first twenty years faded away as wasted time. This, she announced to herself, was the day of her birth. This beautiful spring day of 1988 belonged to her. It was May, nature’s time of renewal and rebirth. So she, too, would find rebirth in this city of the angels on this spring day in May. Of this she refused to doubt.

New York had not been good for her. She’d had a lifetime of dismal glitter. She expelled a huff of indignation through her nose and slowly shook her head in disgust. Money, There had been lots of money; money to spend, money to love, money to dry the tears, money for the pretty little girl; the pretty little girl with the soft curls who raged inside. Well, that was all behind her now. Two years ago she had walked away from her manicured parents with their manicured money mansion and their manicured, empty lives. It had been on an impulse. She hadn’t even packed extra clothes. She had been standing there, listening to the piano recital, staring out the French doors. Just then she couldn’t stand her life any longer. Just then she started walking; across the manicured lawn, down the brick path and out the side gate. Suddenly realizing she’d been walking, she stopped, turned around and stared back at the house. The piano sounded tinny and the laughter that resounded from across the house seemed tinged with hysteria. So, she just kept walking. She had never phoned her parents nor had she contacted any of her friends. She imagined her name had been added to the long list of the missing. It didn’t matter. She had begun her adventure two years ago and now, here she was, exactly where she wanted to be. It didn’t matter that she had no job or a place to stay. She had six hundred dollars, a 1980 Volkswagen convertible that had definitely seen better days and the conviction that her tomorrows would no longer be empty.

She had driven out of the section of the boulevard that boasted of clean uniformity, of office windows that echoed her reflection as she drove by. Unaware, she had passed through an unseen barrier where the buildings clung to a limp, sooty existence. An ancient gas station, its patched stucco walls painted a flat Kelly green had lived its last existence as a Mary Carter paint store. It now stood empty with decay. Office buildings, made of a cheap slump block lined the streets, their lawns parched and unkempt. Old homes, the remnants of brighter dreams, had been transformed into real estate offices or funeral parlors.

A delicate little house sat back from the street. Its weed—infested lawn sported a large neon sign which flashed massage and girls, girls, girls in bright green and purple lights. Its small veranda sagged as if to topple from its railing the disarray of cracked Mexican pots which were so contrary to its dainty woodwork.

Further up the street Sarah noticed a burned out building, its insides gutted by fire. It stood yet only because it leaned against the building to its left. Its burst windows had been boarded with its own charred remains. To its right another building had been methodically demolished, its rubble lay naked where it fell. Decay lived on every street. It infected the people. These were the streets worn thin by the flashy drug pusher, the young punk whose only defense was showmanship, and the homeless drunk who carried the smell of decay from one musty saloon to another. Overly used prostitutes, long past dreaming, stoically trudged these pavements finding rest and solitude in the rotting doorways. Ragged children ran and played among the squalor, as yet unconcerned about their poverty. Stray dogs ran after them, their ribs heaving, stopping only to scrounge in the rubbish that congested each alleyway. Their barks and yelps matched the excited squeals of the children. Unfettered sewage smells of old grease and ethnic foods, ageless litter that clogged the gutters and the ugly face of humanity—-all combined to create a world unknown to those who did not reside there. The realization reminded Sarah of a passage from Little Big Man when Jack Crabb recorded his feelings upon entering the Cheyenne village of his captors for the first time. It sealed his destiny just as surely as this new world would seal Sarah’s.

"And the