Page 27 of Ma Petite Mort
The circle explodes in cheers. Chants. Moans. Nails scratching against flesh. The kind of sound that means the veil is thin and something divine is licking its lips.
And me?
I grip my blade and I smile.
Because tonight?
I give them one of their favorites.
The gods don’t want flowers. They don’t want prayers whispered on trembling tongues—they want blood.
And tonight, I perform theBlood Eagle.
An old gift. A sacred art. One so brutal even the sagas flinch to tell it.
But I don’t flinch.
I was born to do this.
“What is your name?” I ask the guest.
“Oskar,” he whispers.
“Then die well, Oskar.”
I brand his back first—two runes pressed into flesh with a glowing iron pulled from the coals.
Raido. Journey. The path to the afterlife.
Thurisaz. The thorn. The pain that protects.
He screams.
He shakes.
But he does not run.
The crowd falls into a hush. Not silence, no. Just reverent noise—the low sobbing of those touched by something divine. The moans of those getting off on the sight of it.
I take my blade and cut deep.
Across the spine.
Through the muscle.
Down both sides of the ribs, prying them slowly open.
“Blood for balance,” I chant. “Flesh for favor. Let the gods feast on what lies within.”
Oskar gurgles, eyes rolling, lips trembling.
I press my thumbs into the wound, digging past muscle, peeling back the skin with the care of a craftsman. Blood flows fast—thick, dark, splashing over my hands, and soaking the altar.
Giselle’s there, in the crowd, touching herself with one bloodstained hand, eyes locked on me like I’m the only god she’ll ever worship.
She understands.
She always fucking understands.
