Page 34 of Obsession

My brow furrows. My mother was religious, so I understand the ceremony meant to give thanks, but why is Aris holding it?

“What’s… the point?” I ask as artfully as I can.

“He bestows gifts.”

This, I pause at, recalling Ryan’s transformation. Twisted bone and flesh. A monster assembled. Are those the kinds of “gifts” she means?

As I ponder, we take a seat in the front row, in such an open position that I feel eyes cutting into the back of my head. I try not to turn around, not wanting to engage any of them, but boredom makes me glance toward the entrance once or twice while we wait. The flood of people is constant, their entrance slow as each takes a moment to bow at the throne and respectfully motion their hands before moving to their respective seats.

They are taking time from their day to bow to something wrong. Evil.

I don’t want to participate in this, and I’m angry, even, that Elizabeth forced me into black lace, an outfit like the others. But as I stew and the pews continue to fill, I don’t leave.

Eventually, an organ starts playing, and I redirect my attention to the instrument’s pipes mounted above, each as large as I am tall, and made of pure silver. In the corner, I spot Silva playing the instrument emphatically, consumed with his task.

Admittedly, the haunting melody is beautiful. A composition of mournful minor notes, it reminds me of sirens luring sailors to sea, men thrust beneath the waves with a smile as water filled their lungs.

Finally, the captivating song ends. While my body is still caught in the rhythm, the room abruptly stands, and I move too slowly, scrambling to follow along.

A new song starts, along with the appearance of Aris. Dressed in a smart, well-tailored suit, from his clothing alone one couldn’t distinguish him from the crowd he’s assembled. But it’s his face, always his face, that betrays his otherworldliness. He is too sharp, too fierce, too much.

He walks down the center aisle, smiling at his awed worshippers, and this really does remind me of a wedding. The whole thing is performative. Practiced. This has been done before; rehearsed songs, a dress code, the Following knowing when to sit and stand and smile. How long has this gone on for?

When Aris passes our pew, he doesn’t directly look at me, but his lips quirk as he takes a seat on his throne. The Following follows; again, everyone sits in the same movement, the shuffling of shoes briefly deafening as Silva pauses his song.

While I scramble along, Elizabeth hands me a thick, black book. There is no title or date of publication, nothing to indicate what it’s even about, but I have a sneaking suspicion as I begin to flip through it. There are passages in limerick and rhyme, things like stories.

A bible.

When I look back up, Aris is staring right at me, eagerly drinking in my sour reaction. I shut the book as the others turn to a specific page and begin reading in harmony:

And as he played and they screamed;

The undeserving fell below, and to their knees.

The ceaseless chitter of waking night;

Ate their yells with grisly bites.

I stop listening, unamused by the unoriginal rhyme scheme and themes of chaos and pain, and am distracted as Elizabeth grabs me. It takes a moment to realize what she wants—to open my book to the right page—and I note this and easily evade her, holding it out of her grasp. She reaches over me, but I give her a mean look and keep moving until she has to stand to get hold of the book again. Exasperated, she surrenders with a scoff and returns to reciting in time with the others.

I glance at Aris to see if he noticed what just happened—if he’s laughing, what he thinks of it—and am surprised to find Silva beside him now, the pair speaking quietly. I wonder where Ryan is, since there’s no way he would miss something like this on his own volition. Did Aris order him away to kill more people?

The reciting abruptly ceases, as they have presumably reached the end of a particular passage, and Aris stands. The movement sends a rush of dark energy around the room, dancing across my skin and raising goosebumps. It travels to every corner in a burst, threatening the light of the candles, the thousand of which tremble as if exposed to wind.

It’s a small display of power, but the minuteness is what makes it impressive. It is a reminder of his constant restraint, and what it means for a flame to reside in a house of wood.

As his eyes roam over his followers imperiously, a pin could drop. Everyone is still, some trembling from excitement and the effort it takes not to move. It is as if they are a beast with one set of lungs, holding a collective breath. I realize, with a sudden flush of humiliation, that I’ve gotten caught up in the moment, too. To retaliate, I breathe, my shoulders dipping, chest rising and falling.

“Now,” says Aris smoothly. “Which of you deserves to come before me?”

There are a few long, heavy seconds before four volunteers scramble to their feet. Dressed the same as everyone else, they don’t stand out or seem special in any way—and, indeed, their forms are stiff and eyes downcast, like they have suddenly come to the same realization. Aris observes them emotionlessly, gaze skipping over each face.

It must be a full minute that ticks past in absolute silence.

Finally, Aris raises a hand, motioning a woman forward with a twitch of his finger.

She is instantly stumbling over herself and those next to her in an attempt to exit her crowded pew, filled with nervous energy. When she reaches the aisle, she tries to summon a shred of composure, taking a shaky breath that everyone can hear. All eyes are on her.

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