Page 132 of Divine Temptations

“That’s what you call it?” Sarah laughed. “I call it wanting to sin just enough to see what it feels like.”

“Same difference.”

We moved through the cavernous main floor, checking tables, rearranging chairs, readying candles for later. The space was enormous—industrial ceiling, dark metal beams, a mural of the cosmos Sarah had painted herself that stretched across the far wall. The light made the constellations shimmer faintly, as if the room was breathing.

The Chapel wasn’t like other chapters of The Satanic Temple. We leaned more toward philosophy than performance art, moretoward debate than blasphemy. Reason over ritual, though we loved a splendid spectacle now and then.

Upstairs, the old drag stage had become our ceremonial hall. The wooden runway still gleamed under the spotlights, though instead of sequins and stilettos, it now hosted black candles and lecterns. Red velvet curtains framed the space, repaired more times than I could count, but I refused to replace them. There was history in those folds.

“Lights?” I asked.

“On it.” Sarah flipped the breakers, and the upstairs glowed to life. “Crazy to think this used to be a gay bar, huh?”

“Not crazy,” I said. “Perfect. A place built for liberation being reborn as a place for reason. It’s poetic.”

“Poetic,” she teased. “You mean kinky.”

“Well, that too.”

She laughed, the sound bouncing through the empty hall. For all her piercings and ink, Sarah had the heart of a kid in a candy store—just with more spikes.

“You nervous?” she asked.

“Excited,” I said. “It’s been a while since we hit a hundred people. After the news story broke, it felt like the floodgates opened.”

She gave me a knowing smile. “Oh, please. The lawsuit’s part of it, sure—but let’s be real. The reason we’ve got all these new followers is because you went viral. Don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sarah—”

“No, really. You were on TV looking all studly, serious, and righteous, talking about religious freedom and empathy and blah blah blah.” She deepened her voice into a mock version of mine. “‘We don’t worship evil; we challenge hypocrisy.’”

“Accurate quote, terrible impression.”

“Whatever.” She grinned. “You’re hot when you’re righteous. Half the city’s probably googling ‘join the Satanic Temple’ just to see if you’re single.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You have a talent for sacrilege.”

“I have a talent for recognizing thirst when I see it.” She winked.

Before I could fire back, her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down, scrolling through a new email. “Oh, hey—looks like we’ve got another newbie coming tonight.”

“Another one?”

“Mm-hmm. A student named Jimmy Harper. Says he’s doing research for a grad program at U of R. Studying alternative faiths.” She snorted. “I love it when the academics come slumming.”

I smiled, intrigued. “Good. Maybe he’ll write a paper that doesn’t make us sound like a Halloween club.”

She looked up from her phone. “You think it’s because of the lawsuit? All this fresh blood?”

“Maybe,” I said, leaning on the railing beside her. “Or maybe people are just finally tired of being told what to believe. Chesterfield County made us look like the villains, but villains make the best headlines.”

“Mm. Headlines and sexy fantasies.”

The lights flickered briefly, a reminder of the building’s age. I closed my eyes, just for a heartbeat, and could almost hear it: the low thump of bass, laughter like confetti, a thousand forgotten voices carried on the air. Maybe there were ghosts here?

Then Sarah nudged me with her elbow. “Earth to Lucien. You good?”

“Yeah,” I murmured, opening my eyes. “Just thinking about how this place holds on to its memories.”