One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 6

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Fírí Parızada stared at the dead dog upon the altar. Vata had killed it. She’d killed it and then led Bhanar away. The kid had been fully awake, not drugged. Neither had said anything to Fírí. If this performance was for her, they sure did a poor job of selling it.

The horse snorted a wet, rattling snore, like boiled cabbage caught in a mixer. At least it was still alive.

Fírí pushed herself to her feet. Now that the dust had settled down, it should be easier to spot the fans that had caused the swirling breeze. A slow circuit around the torches and altar failed to produce any obvious grilles in the wall--or in the altar itself. Way up at the high point of the ceiling was a small square darker than the rest of the blackness, but surely it was too small to cause such a powerful demon-wind.

She tucked a few stray golden locks behind her ear and put her hands on her hips. Her gaze fell upon the murdered dog once again.

It didn’t matter--none of this. She had to worry about herself, not some weird magic trick. Zhíno had to still be hunting for her. He’d gone insane. The old woman surely would sell her out before too long--whenever the opportunity presented itself. Perhaps the hag had already called the police and they were racing down the highway that very second, trying to find this Ahísıhíta-damned middle-of-nowhere chapel of death.

Except it wasn’t dedicated to the God of Death, Pétíso. It was dedicated to Névazhíno––stupid, clumsy Névo who loved all His animal creations. Slaughtering dogs and horses was definitely a perversion of His faith--of any faith, for that matter.

Fírí pursed her lips.

If she got the chance or had the need, she should call the police on Vata. That old hag was the criminal here, not Fírí.

She sighed and looked down the dim hallway at her bag of shoes and embezzled money. Stealing isn’t the same. It doesn’t hurt anyone--not like murdering a dog.

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