Page 10 of Ma Petite Mort

He’d like it too much.

I turn back to the altar, pressing my still-slick fingers to the stone, and whispering another prayer.

Let the madness begin.

Alaska leans into Johnny, nuzzling his thigh.

“You’re upsetting him,” she says sweetly.

“Bjorn loves me,” Johnny croons, dragging her leash up tight. “Don’t you, big guy?”

I ignore him.

Indie’s whip snaps across the stone.

Silence.

I step up onto the altar, towering over them all.

Ten bodies kneel before me. Masked, stripped, shaking. Some with tears already trailing down their faces. Some with flushed skin and parted lips, aroused by fear, hard and wet just from being seen.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask.

Silence.

Then, one whisper.

“For the gods.”

I smile.

“No. You’re here forme.”

I crouch, dragging my bloody fingers across the woman’s mouth. She trembles, lips parting, tongue darting out to taste the red I left behind.

I rise.

“Tonight, we honor the old ways. Not just with death, but with exchange. Disting is a time for trade. For judgment. For flesh.”

I reach into the basin beside the altar and coat my fingers in the thick, warm blood pooling inside—blood from the kill before the show began. The one no one saw.

I mark the first girl’s forehead.

A rune of devotion.

The next. A symbol of sacrifice.

The third flinches. I grab his throat, squeezing until his breath catches.

“You will serve,” I murmur.

I move down the line, branding each one. Red. Black. Gold.

Red for death.

Black for use.

Gold for suffering.