Page 8 of Ma Petite Mort
When I rise, I’m drenched in her.
My mouth. My beard. My chest.
Blood and lust mingling like they were always meant to.
I turn to the crowd, lifting my chin.
“Ma petite mort has been pleased. The gods have been given a taste. And now…” I reach for my axe, eyes gleaming. “Now they are hungry for more.”
The altar drinks its second offering before the main event even begins.
Not from a throat.
Not from a gut.
But from her.
Her slick still stains my mouth. Her scent clings to my skin, sticky and hot, soaking into the grooves of the stone like it was meant to be there.
Blood. Skin. Sin.
The holy trinity of the Cirque Du Désir.
I press my palm flat to the altar, still damp with her. It hums beneath me—ancient and waiting. It's always like this. Every Disting. But this year? This year it’s mine.
The gods are watching.
So is Lux.
And I will not fail.
I whisper a quick chant in Old Norse under my breath, just to keep the gods’ eyes on me.
Flesh for favor. Bone for blessing. Blood for power.
I offer it all.
A high-pitched giggle cuts through the silence behind me. I don’t need to look. I already know.
Johnny.
That painted, grinning, chaos-fueled menace.
“Ohhh, Bjorn, my sweet, broody executioner,” he croons, voice dragging like a blade through silk. “You look so serious. Loosen up—we’re about to have fun!”
I turn my head, just enough to catch him in my peripheral. He’s soaked in gore, patchwork leather clinging to him like flayed skin, face painted in that twisted jester’s grin he wears better than most people wear their souls.
He's already bloodied.
Of course he started without me.
Alaska crawls at Johnny’s feet, bare skin dusted with ash, her black leather harness hugging her chest, silver rings gleaming in the torchlight. Her legs are wrapped in twisted leather straps like a serpent coiled around prey. The thick, rune-carved collar at her throat glints as she moves, bone charms clinking softly—each one a kill she earned. Her leash is wound tight around Johnny’s wrist, and her face is a mess of smudged black paint and blood-red lips, grinning too wide.
Too hungry. A wolf dressed in worship.
“We’re working, Johnny,” I say flatly.
He snorts, tightening his grip on her leash and giving it a sharp jerk.
