DOMINION Bentley Little (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

repeating what sounded like the words of a ritual in a language she could not understand. Bottles of wine had appeared from somewhere to supplement the flagons and were being passed indiscriminately from one mother to another. Mother Margaret stumbled over the eviscerated body of one of the policemen, fell to her knees, stood up laughing. Dion, still being held, twisted in the arms of Mother Janine and Mother Margaret as if he were in pain.

Mother Felice took a swig from one of the bottles and handed it to Penelope. The wine smelled good, but Penelope threw the bottle behind her, into the meadow, where it landed on the grass, its contents spilling onto the ground.

“Hey,” her mother said. “What’d you do that for?” Her speech was becoming slurred, and she looked at Penelope with a hostility that made Penelope realize that maybe she wasn’t as safe from her mothers as she’d originally thought.

She backed up, away from the altar, and glanced quickly around the meadow to determine which way she should run if it came down to that.

It was then that she noticed the others.

42

Dion still wasn’t sure what was going on.

He was on top of the altar. He knew that. And he was naked. And Penelope’s mothers were holding his arms and legs and… doing stuff to him. He tried to call out to Penelope, but his head was forced back and one mother held his mouth open with strong, sinewy fingers while another poured wine down his throat. He felt the hands of the others anointing his body with the blood. He gulped down the sweet, intoxicating liquid, swallowing it so he could breathe. Fingers grasped his penis, stroked it, and against his will he felt himself growing, becoming hard. From somewhere he heard the sound of Penelope yelling.

His head was let go, and he opened his eyes, looked down. His erection was huge, quivering, and covered with blood.

He wished he could shove it in Penelope’s mouth and down her throat to gag her and stop all that infernal racket.

No, he didn’t.

Yes, he did.

He turned his head around and looked into the trees at the carved god with his face.

What the hell was happening?

More wine was poured into his mouth. That was one thing that was happening: they were trying to get him drunk. He tried to spit out the wine, but it only dribbled down his chin.

God, it tasted good.

They were chanting, the mothers, singing, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The words were all Greek to him. He giggled. Greek to him. Oh, God, he was already getting drunk. He’d never be able to get out of here if he didn’t concentrate on keeping wits about him and trying to stay sober—

His mouth was jerked open again, more wine poured down his throat He gagged, tried to swallow, almost choked, but the warm liquid went down smoothly and he was filled with a pleasant lightness.

He understood some of the words the mothers were saying now. Not all of them, but some of them. They were foreign, but he’d heard them before somewhere. In dreams, perhaps.

He realized that they were praying.

To him.

This wasn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening. He struggled against the mothers’ hold, but they were stronger than he was, their fingers and wrists like iron.

They gave him more wine.

He looked out across the meadow. Others were gathering, appearing at the periphery of the field, emerging from between the bushes and the trees.

They were pale, slack-jawed, and nearly all appeared to be drunk. They were walking like remote-controlled zombies, men and women, some with flashlights, some with knives, some with dead cats or dogs, some only with bottles of liquor.

They saw him, waved to him, called to him.

He was communicating with these people, he realized, acting like some sort of homing beacon. He saw in his mind’s eye all of the intoxicated men and women of the valley suddenly cocking their heads to hear an invisible sound, like pod people in a monster movie, suddenly dropping what they were doing to come here, to this meadow, to him.

The mothers let go of him, but he couldn’t move. He was like a statue, frozen in place. They’d done something to him, put some sort of spell on him, trapped him here in his body. Mother Janine was still rubbing blood on his toes, but he couldn’t feel it. He wanted to kick her, to lash out and smash her face in with his foot, but he was unable to move. Tears of rage and frustration slid down his immobile face.

He tried to scream, but no sound would come out. He saw his own mother off to the left. She was naked and obviously wasted, rubbing sensuously against Penelope’s Mother Margaret. He wanted to call out to her, to run to her, but he could do neither, and he watched as she stared at him, glassy-eyed, then turned away.

From somewhere deep within him came a rumbling, a low, vibrating seismic sound that echoed in his brain and rose to a roar, he was not sure if it was only within him or could be heard outside as well, but it was the loudest thing he had ever heard, and it overpowered his senses and pushed everything else aside.

The sound became words. His words and yet not his words. His thoughts and yet not his thoughts. An announcement of triumph and an admission of defeat:

I AM HERE

43

April could feel the desire building, the need increasing.

She was not drunk, but she soon would be, and already she could smell the blood. It hung thick in the air, lent as the wine, and she was starting to get anxious, wanting only for events to accelerate so she could satisfy her lust.

Margaret gave her a long kiss on the mouth, pressing her body against April’s, and April felt the delicious softness of touching nipples, the wiry scratchiness of rubbed pubic hair. She could sense