writing in the sunlight

Repugnant, bloody and emblazoned on the kick drum. She can’t make out what’s being said beyond screaming and what she swears is something about corpses? There’s probably something about corpses, the lead’s face is covered in pale corpse-paint and something appearing to be blood dribbling from his forehead down his face, fresh from a tussle he looks like he could’ve won. Black hair styled rough and limp but it looks to be something like a mohawk? The lights make it hard to tell for certain but, whatever it was, whatever he called it, he looked pretty good in it.

And Calanthe promptly takes a deep swig of her alcohol, smokey warmth sliding down her throat. She’s nearly thirty and he looks…well, he looks young, but that doesn’t mean shit when people take one look at her and think she’s twenty-four. It’s less ‘i’m too old for him’ and more 'trying to drown the idea that i have a chance’ because, as much as she likes the music, she knows she looks like a washed-up theater kid at best (not that it was entirely wrong) and a normie at worst. She aims for comfort more than style, with the dawn-hued pink of her orchid tattoo, her namesake, on her sternum peering out from the hem of her black tank-top, shorts, ankle shoes (because there is no way she’s going into the pit, she knows fucking better), and her shoulder-length dark-blonde hair tied up into a ponytail with a black bow in place that shows off her undercut. She’s not rail-thin like some people she can think of at work and she likes how she looks well enough. Any comments about her tummy are promptly met with ‘I can’t shave this off, that’s my innards and I need that’. She’s healthy, thank god, and that’s what matters in her opinion.

The band finishes their set, followed by a roar of cheering and applause. Calanthe whoops from her spot at the bar, joining the chorus of approval as the band slides into the shadows off a stage that looks rough now that there isn’t a band on it. Music from some playlist fills the space, at least in the same genre, and Calanthe leans back to look at Autumn, letting the movement tilt her black glasses back up, mixing cocktails like a pro with her braided neon hair bouncing with her movement. Their eyes meet and Autumn cocks a wide smile-

“Good shit.” She says with a smile and a shrug. “That’s why I like coming here.”

“And not for me?” Autumn teases. Calanthe laughs and nods.

“What can I say, better here than a country bar. Ugh.”

“Oh it can’t be that bad-” Autumn steps away to make a cocktail for someone else before returning to her, the perfect time for Calanthe to finish her story.

“It is that bad when the office girls try to pair you up with ‘a good country boy’.” She made a disgusted gagging noise. “Fucking kill me. And they know better, they look at my cubicle when they wanna gossip around the water cooler!”

“Fuck, that sucks.” Autumn gives her a look of sympathy. “Did they actually try to meet-cute someone?”

“Key word being try. I just left the moment they got distracted by the mechanical bull.” Calanthe frowned. Before Autumn could ask, Calanthe was suddenly aware that there were eyes on her. She sat up straighter, looking around-

And right into the eyes of the man who was on stage not what, five minutes ago? And she’s suddenly aware of how green his eyes are, now that there’s not an entire pit and flashing lights between her and him, and how warm he was from the brief almost accidental contact of his hand against her elbow. It’s followed immediately by how his lips turn into a cocky self-assured smile, sliding onto the bar stool with what she can assume is the rest of his band following suit. They slide onto the stools behind him and she’s at least thankful that they don’t want to crowd her, that they’re aware enough that it looks bad to crowd around a random woman in public.

“Hello?” Calanthe tilts her head, trying to figure out his angle. Was he just sitting next to her because it was an open for him and his band? She can’t imagine she’s half as interesting as anyone else here.

Cara began to pray, not to God, to the Devil below, or even to Papa, but to whoever would listen to her in these last moments to keep Clara and Claudio safe.

The whip does not crack the air.

In an instant, a chill deeper than the spring air fills the room, a chill that reminds her of cold earth and empty graves. The hands holding her body let her go in a panic, as if she was cursed. Footsteps and exclamations of fear fill the air although the doors do not open. Something falls to the floor behind her. Immediately, Cara pulls her arms close, just for a little decency, and she turns behind her, wondering what had them so startled.

Between her and Elder Marizo, the elder’s mouth agap in shock, is a man. A man that seemed to have materialized from the very air between them. A man wearing a traveling cloak that is as dark as the night sky above, woven from the infinite above their heads. Black curls coil beneath the straps of what looked to be some sort of mask, peering out from under some sort of top hat. The man turns to her, just a little, an eye of bone white behind a familiar half-skull mask of shining silver meeting her own and-

The air…shifts. Something imperceptible and yet she couldn’t ignore it. She knows him. She’s seen him before. Instinct once screamed at her that entering the church was a trap she had sprung. Now, it was screaming something else entirely: Trust him. Trust this stranger that wasn’t a stranger. He’s safety in a raging ocean. He’s a lifeline. He’s yours.

“Well well well.” The stranger, Papa Perpetua, turns his head back to the elders. Even his voice is a comfort, steady and warm and clearly quite amused in the way a cat torments a mouse before devouring the small creature. “I find no knock at my door but a commotion in the church. And what do I find?” He cocked his head, his voice practically betraying the grin he surely must be giving to the elders, a grin that is more menace than mirth.

“This girl, ah, your sacrifice, she is too…unyielding, too stubborn.” Elder Marzio begins.

“And so was the last one?” The question is a mockery of his words and Cara knows it. She still remembers the shrieking and wailing of the last sacrifice.

“Even more so!” Elder Giordano gasps, trying to cover his fellow elder’s tracks. “She never listens, lazy girl she is. She would be unsuitable for you, Papa, and w-we, ah, we-

“We only chose the sacrifices for the pact that we felt would best…please you, Papa, and-”

“What would best please me?” Perpetua asked, his tone clearly of incredulous surprise at Elder Marizo’s words, his attempt to back up his fellow elder. He slowly turned, Cara following his gaze, to the companion that Cara did not realize he brought with him. She looked feminine, familiar in body shape but completely alien to her with her black skeletal bodysuit and silver mask, head covered by a tattered wimple and some sort of wing-like garment hanging from her arms. Cara furrowed her brow, trying to figure out if she knew Perpetua’s companion. “All of these years, they’ve sent me their sweet, meek, little lambs…lambs that they felt would best please me.” His voice trailed off into a mocking coo. Cara immediately focused in on the faintest of shudders, as if Perpetua’s companion was trying to contain her emotions.

And then Perpetua began to laugh. Like the very words Elder Marizo spoke were a grand jest, his beautiful cruel laughter reverberating throughout the church. The men of the village only stared, unsure what to do but too terrified to try and leave. Elder Giordano and Elder Celino seemed to look nervously at each other, like they were witnessing a fell omen unfolding before their very eyes. Elder Giordano had an awkward little smile on his lips. Only Elder Marizo seemed to join in, at least a little, with a quiet chuckle and a shake of his shoulders, as if he was ready to join in full-bellied arrogant earnest-

“IDIOT! IMBECILE!” Perpetua's roar made Cara curl up on the wood floor and shield her head with her hands, like she was in the middle of a furious storm. The men of the village pressed their backs against the shuddering wooden walls. Something fell to the floor, followed by the sound of a collapsing body. Cara peered out from behind her knees, letting out a shaking breath-

Elder Marizo is dead. His head, expression locked in a face of shock, rests across from her. And only his head.

Cara immediately backed away from his severed head, letting out a yelp of surprise. She looked to Perpetua, staring at the two remaining elders.