Page 102 of Godslayer
“Gooooood,” the god repeats. And I realize that Luther is doing something to me. My fingertips begin to tingle. Buzzing upto my wrists. It doesn’t hurt so much as itch. “That’s right,” the god continues. “Just like that. Do it nice and easy, Luther.”
The buzzing becomes more like pins and needles. Prickling. Numbness, but not complete. I lift up my head as much as I can, which is probably only an inch at most, and try and make sense of what is going on here.
Clearly, they are doing something to me. Something that involves spark.
“Look, look, look!,” Luther exclaims. “It’s curious, master. It seeks answers!”
“Never mind the patient, Luther,” the god says. “Your job is to man the controls. His life is in your hands.”
“Yeah,” Luther cackles. “I’m doin’ it. I’m doin’ it just like we said. Little bits. Little bits here, little bits there. I’m in charge.”
“That’s right,” the god says, placating his little half-witted minion. “You’re in charge as long as you do as I say. Now. What are we at?”
“Seven,” Luther spits. “We’re at seven. We need more. But we’re stuck.”
“Stuck?” the god asks. “How so?”
“He won’t take anymore. It doesn’t flow. It doesn’t work.”
“Hmmmmmm,” the gods hums. “More pain?”
Pain?
“More fear,” Luther answers. He leans into my view, his ugly face and tea-stained smile nearly hovering over me. “The pain only works if he’s infected with fear.”
“OK.” The god doesn’t even hesitate. “I had hoped that we’d be able to get this done without Plan B, but it appears?—”
“Wait!” I croak. “What do you want?”
The god clicks his tongue. “Oh, hush now, Tyse. None of this is any of your concern. You can’t optin. Either the spark flows through you, or it doesn’t.”
“It does,” I say. Kind of embarrassed that it comes out so quick. “The spark flows through me just fine.”
“No,” Luther laughs. His face twitching like crazy now. Like he can’t wait to fill me up with pain and fear. “It’s blocked! I see it! Look!” He’s pointing to a screen that I can’t really see, but I catch a tiny glimpse of a red line on a black background.
“Well, we knew this was a possibility,” the god says. “Set it all up, Luther. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve got to get the woman ready.”
“What?” I say, yelling it now. “What woman? Are you talkin’ about Clara?”
“Shut up,Saarinen,” Luther hisses. “No one told you to speak.”
“Is he talkin’ about Clara?”
“I caught her,” he cackles. “I caught her. It was me. I’m the hero. I am POG! She’s the prize. She’s the one. She will make you dance. You will dance for him. Our god.Everyonedances for him.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What is all this?” I struggle and push against the bindings over my body. There are a lot of them, not just wrists and feet. There are straps over my chest, my ribs, my abdomen, my hips, my thighs, my knees, my ankles, my feet. Nearly the same number down my arms. Like this god isn’t taking any chances and whatever he’s about to do to me, it’s gonna be powerful.
Luther’s dancin’ now, like some fool in a fairy tale. He’s not just ugly, he’s unstable. Some kind of moron.
“Hey,” I say, trying to get his attention. But he’s got a fistful of needle-thin tubes in his hands now—connecting them to a structure poised above me.
And then… this whole encounter makes sense.
Everythin’ about this table is familiar.
Don’t panic.
It can’t be done.
