Stone of Tears

As it stretched out on its hands and knees toward the naked woman, Margaret almost gasped aloud; she recognized the beast. She had seen a drawing of it in an old book. The same book in which she had seen drawings of some parts of the spells before her. She wanted to scream.

It was a namble. One of the Nameless One’s minions.

Oh, dear Creator, she prayed fervently, please protect us.

Growling in a low rumble, its powerful muscles flexing, its haunted eyes glowing orange, the namble edged like a huge cat toward the woman on the ground. Head low, it crawled between her legs. In a state of ragged fear, the woman still stared up at nothing.

The namble sniffed at her crotch. Its long tongue flicked out, running over her. She flinched, making a small jerk of a sound against the cloth in her teeth, but she kept her legs open. Her eyes did not move. She did not look at the namble. The Sisters in the circle began a soft chant. The namble licked her again, slower, grunting this time as it did so. She squealed against the rag. Beads of sweat shimmered on her flesh. She kept her legs wide apart.

Rising up on its knees, the beast gave a throaty roar to the black sky. Its pointed, barbed, erect phallus stood out, plainly silhouetted against the candles beyond. Muscles bulged in knotted cords along its arms and shoulders as the namble bent forward, putting a fist to each side of the woman. Its tongue licked out around her throat as it gave a vibrating rumble of a growl, and then it lowered itself, covering her with its massive form.

Its hips hunched forward. The woman’s eyes winced shut as she screamed against the cloth in her teeth. The namble gave a quick, powerful thrust and her eyes snapped open in a panic of pain. Even with the cloth clenched in her teeth, her screams could be heard over the chanting each time the beast knocked the wind from her, adding more force to the shrieks.

Margaret had to force herself to take a breath as she watched. She hated these women; they had given themselves over to something unspeakably evil. Still, they were her Sisters, and she could hardly bear to watch one being hurt. She realized she was shaking. She clenched the gold flower at her neck in one fist and Jedidiah’s arm with her other as tears streamed down her face.

The beast thrashed at the Sister on the ground as the three Sisters held her. Her muffled screams of torment ripped at Margaret’s heart.

The Sister holding the cloth finally spoke. “If you want the gift, you must encourage him to give it to you. He will not surrender it unless you overcome his control—unless you take it from him. You must win it from him. Do you understand?”

Crying, her eyes shut tight, the woman nodded.

The Sister pulled the cloth away. Then he is yours now. Take the gift, if you will.”

The other two released her arms and the three of them returned to their places in the circle, taking up the chanting with the others. The woman let out a wail that turned Margaret’s blood to ice. It made her ears hurt.

The woman flung her arms and legs around the namble, clutching herself to it, moving with it, moving with the chanting. Her screams died away as she panted with the effort.

Margaret could watch no longer. She closed her eyes and swallowed back a wail of her own that tried to force itself from her throat. But even with her eyes closed, it was no better. She could still hear it. Please, dear Creator, she begged in her mind, let it end. Please let it end.

And then, with a husky grunt, it did. Margaret opened her eyes to see the namble still, its back hunched. It shuddered, and then slowly went limp. The woman struggled to breathe under its weight.

With strength that seemed impossible, she at last pushed the namble off her. Chest heaving, it rolled to its hands and knees and slunk back to its place in the circle, folding itself into a dark bundle. The chanting had stopped. The woman lay on the ground for a time, panting, recovering. She was covered with a glistening sheen of sweat that reflected the yellow light of the candle flames.

Taking one last, deep breath, the woman came smoothly to her feet. A dark stain of blood ran down her legs. With a calm awareness that sent a chill up Margaret’s spine and caught her breath short, the woman turned to face her, pulling off her hood.

The menacing orange glow in her eyes faded, and they returned to the pale blue with dark violet flecks that Margaret knew so well.

“Sister Margaret.” Her tone was as mocking as the smile on her thin lips. “did you enjoy watching? I thought you might.”