"Your tricks won't save you this time, witch." The sneering man who'd forced Hosea's chin up jabbed his knife towards her throat.
She tried to scramble backwards but they were too fast, too many.
Rough hands seized her arms, pinning her to the bed. Hosea's frantic pleas dissolved into terrified shrieks as they rained blows down upon her.
A fist cracked against her cheekbone, snapping her head to the side. Warm blood filled her mouth from her split lip.
She spat it out in a desperate gasp. "Please—I didn't—"
Another punch slammed into her gut, driving out what little air remained in her lungs. Hosea retched, choking on nothing as they yanked her upright by her hair.
"This is for Genesis, you lying bitch." The knife man grinned, his teeth a horrific parody of a smile.
The room became a battleground where the soldiers of God exacted retribution with a ferocity reminiscent of Pompeians assailing Caesar.
White-hot agony lanced through Hosea's arm as the serrated blade opened up a deep gash from wrist to elbow.
She opened her mouth but no scream came, just a gurgling cry drowned out by jeering laughter.
The blows kept coming—fists, boots, and anyone with a weapon seemed eager to take their turn.
Hosea's world compressed to a kaleidoscope of violence, shattered bone and tearing flesh.
Her head lashed from side to side with each sickening impact until everything blurred into a soupy red haze.
She wasn't even aware when it ended, when her savaged body finally crumpled in a heap on the floor.
Hosea existed only as a ravaged collection of parts—split skin, shattered teeth, matted hair soaked with blood.
The puddle slowly spreading beneath her masked any final struggles, any last desperate grip on life.
At last, the pummeling stopped.
Silence reigned apart from harsh, labored breathing all around.
There was a pause, as if the group needed a moment to process the savagery they'd just committed.
Then one of them spat on Hosea's ruined face. "Just had to die like the demon whore you are."
Grunts and murmurs of bitter agreement followed as they turned away from Hosea's cooling remains.
A few of the crusaders wiped sleeve-covered hands across their bloodied faces, expressions grim but satisfied.
Pierre was the last to leave, giving Hosea's mangled form a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. "Should've listened when Genesis gave you a chance to repent, witch."
He spat again for good measure, then strode out, letting the bedroom door swing shut on the wreckage.
Hosea's smoke had long since dissipated—all that lingered was the coppery stench of brutal justice delivered.
The blood had barely dried on their hands before the celebration started.
As the Crusaders filtered back into the main hall, a restless energy crackled in the air.
Faces still flushed from their furious exertions, their expressions mingled triumph with unease—as if some part of them knew unleashing that savagery should've been harder.
Charlotte scanned the crowd, searching for her husband Arlo's familiar face.
She found him near the makeshift bar, swigging straight from a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey. His brawny forearm bore a nasty set of teeth marks gouged deep into the flesh.
"The hell you doing?" She grabbed the bottle, whiskey sloshing over her fingers.
Arlo flinched, eyes wild for a moment before recognition set in. "Just needed a belt to take the edge off."
"Take the edge off killing that woman, you mean?" Charlotte's lip curled in disgust. "We're supposed to be soldiers of God, not butchers.
Genesis wouldn't have wanted us to kill..."
"That whore killed Genesis!" he snarled, spit flecking her cheek. "She got what was coming."
All around them, the others were loosening their emotional restraints too. A chant started up—a guttural, rhythmic cry. "Cru-sa-ders! Cru-sa-ders!"
Charlotte shrank back, alarm prickling over her skin as the chanting swelled in volume. She'd been a believer like the rest, sure, but this...this felt wrong. Depraved.
Then Pierre was there, slicing through the throng to take the stage.
He raised his arms, Genesis' tattered Bible clutched in one hand like a lifeline.
Gradually, the chanting petered out.
"My brothers and sisters." Pierre's voice was a raw rasp, thick with emotion. "We have suffered a great loss. Our beloved Genesis..."
He trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as if to compose himself. When they opened again, they were over-bright, glistening with unshed tears.
"Genesis was taken from us too soon. A light snuffed out before its time. His death, a vicious crime perpetrated by evil incarnate."
A ripple of murmurs, mutters of assent. Pierre waited for them to subside then continued in that sandpapery rasp.
"But Genesis would not want our grief to consume us.
He'd want us to find joy, even in our darkest hours.
To revel in the memories we were blessed to share with him.
To celebrate the love he had for us all."
Pierre cracked open the Bible, letting the weathered pages flutter between his fingers. "The path ahead may seem cloaked in shadow. But we need only hold tight to our faith. Let the Lord's word be our guide."
He began quoting passages, his voice rising and falling in a mesmerizing cadence despite its roughness.
Pierre became truly a new man, and that is because of Genesis.
He came back to the path of God, learned back the scriptures, imitated Genesis, and took his spot as the new shepherd.
Charlotte found herself swaying along, the whiskey bottle slipping from her slack grip to thump onto the floor.
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." Pierre half-sang the verse, dragging out the syllables into a haunting melody. "I will fear no evil, for You are with me."
Beside her, Arlo had gone utterly still, eyes locked on Pierre in rapt attention. The demented light flickered, then dimmed in his expression.
Pierre closed the book with a resounding thump. "My friends, tonight we have borne witness to great evil. But we must not let it consume us in turn."
His intense stare swept the hushed crowd. "No, instead we must draw strength from the conviction that Genesis did not die in vain.
That in smiting the demon who took him from us, we've struck a blow against the darkness."
A few cheers rose up, tentative at first, then swelling as Pierre whipped them into an impassioned frenzy.
"Tonight we celebrate!" he roared over the cacophony. "We revel in our redemption, secure in the knowledge Genesis's radiant soul shines down upon us!"
The cheers reached a deafening crescendo.
Pierre waved his arms, egging them on, a wild light blazing behind his eyes. From the corner, a wail of music erupted—guitar, jittery drums, a sax blasting off-key.
A true free-style New Orleans jazz.
Like puppets with their strings cut, bodies started moving.
Hips swayed, feet stomped, arms flung out as the Crusaders abandoned themselves to their revelry.
Charlotte found herself caught up in the throng, Arlo's big hands crushing her waist as he dragged her against him.
His cheek was rough with stubble, mouth tasting of whiskey and sweat as his lips crushed against hers.
They danced like that for hours, a heaving, writhing mass of stomping feet and gyrating bodies. Whenever the energy seemed to flag, Pierre would bellow out another exhortation to let loose, to cast off their shackles of sorrow.
His words lashed them into fresh paroxysms of frenzied celebration.
Until the doors flew open with a splintering crash.
The crowd fell still, music screeching into discordant silence.
In the suddenly hulking doorway stood two figures wreathed in shadow.
Beside Charlotte, Arlo went rigid, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.
"Well now," one of the two figures drawled in a low, mysterious accent. "Looks like we missed one hell of a party."