One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 2

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Zhíno Zhudıro finished his diatribe with, “Who’s insane now, bitch?” and proceeded to laugh right in the face of the startled twin of Vítí.

Fírí blinked several times and tilted her head back to look down her nose at him. With a sneer, she replied, “Uh, still you.”

It only made Zhíno laugh harder.

He felt good. Nothing hurt anymore. His eyesight was a bit blurry, but Fírí’s pepper spray hadn’t caused any pain at all. He had more energy than ever before and felt stronger than ever before, despite his gunshots and broken wrist. If those Colonial Enforcers busted in right then, he wouldn’t even bother to hide from their barrage of bullets. He was invincible.

To his ex-girlfriend, Zhíno calmly said, “If I’m insane, you Névo-brained whore of Rana, there’s no point in arguing with me. So why don’t you lay down on the altar and we’ll get this ceremony started.”

Fírí shook her head, her large blue eyes fixed upon him. “No,” she snarled. “No.”

From the far side of the chapel, the old lady called out, “That’s not the way it works, Zhíno dear.”

Zhíno turned to look at her, squinting in the dimness. “What do you mean?”

The old woman, whom Fírí had called Vata, started shuffling towards them, passing between two flaming torches stuck in the ground. Her hands were empty. “To do this right, I need you to lie down on the altar first.”

“Why?” asked Zhíno, with puckered brow. He leaned forward, placing his left hand on the altar before realizing that his mangled wrist couldn’t support any weight. Maybe his body needed fixing up, after all.

Vata reached the opposite side of the rectangular stone slab, from which she picked up the dead dog with no apparent difficulty despite her small size. She must have the same strength flowing through her as Zhíno felt. It was the strength of the god Névazhíno, the divine power of a billion animals.

Holding the dog’s body with both arms in front of her, Vata smiled kindly and responded, “The altar is for the recipient as well, dear.” She turned away, leaving Zhíno to do as he pleased.

He still wanted to kill Fírí, to enact his revenge for her betrayal, but that desire was fading. The more he stood here by the altar, under the influence of Névazhíno, the less it seemed to matter. Névazhíno was called the Love of the Universe, he seemed to remember, and now he could feel why. Despite all his anger, his lust for retribution, and his scorn for Fírí, Zhíno could not bring himself to retrieve the knife or even smack the Vítí-twin across her face.

This was the old lady’s chapel. This was the old lady’s cult. She knew the ways of the ceremonies far better than Zhíno did. If she said he had to lie on the altar now, it was because her god Névazhíno needed it that way. It was the only way to fully heal these wounds and finish off Fírí forever.

Using his functional right hand for support, Zhíno hopped up onto the altar and stretched out his feet on the slab.

He was ready for his miracle.

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