One of them went behind me, and I waited for the sound of the key being inserted into the handcuffs. What I heard instead was the guy saying, "We don't want a lot of nonsense while we prepare you, so…" Then I felt another needle in the back of my neck. So much for mixing it up with the guards.

  I don't know how long I was out this time, but when I came back to the world it was clear that my situation had gone from bad to worse. I was now naked and shackled to one of the chairs that I'd seen in the videos. The smell like what you'd from get driving by a slaughterhouse in summer, with your windows down – only ten times stronger. I was on the killing floor now.

  Since the festivities hadn't started yet, I had time to look around, and I used it. Knowing where everyone was could prove crucial later.

  As I knew from the videos, the floor was concrete and the walls red brick. High ceiling, with lights hanging down. Two big windows were built into the wall I was facing, but they were set too high for anyone to see in from outside. Across from me, in the other chair, was a guy I'd never met before. Mid-thirties, red hair, a little overweight. It didn't surprise me that his expression combined confusion with terror.

  If the direction I was facing was 12 o'clock, using the Air Force system, then there were video cameras set up on tripods at 12 and 8 o'clock, about twenty feet outside the circle. Guess they had decided to go with a two-camera setup this time. A little more practice, and they'd probably have these atrocities available in 3-D. Behind each camera stood one of the commandos, who I guessed pulled double duty as videographers. I wondered if the things they had seen through the viewfinders ever gave them nightmares.

  At the 10 o'clock position and further back stood another one of the commando boys. He was cradling a stocky automatic weapon with a long curved magazine, although who he might be expected to shoot was beyond me. The gun looked like one of those H&K MP5s that the Navy SEALs carry. Once a wannabe, always a wannabe. He seemed to be the only one holding a weapon.

  At 3 o'clock and about thirty feet out was the resident lunatic, Patton Wilson himself. He was next to a very tall thin guy in a black suit, whose brown hair was mostly covered by a red skullcap – apparently Bishop Navarra still retained some of the trappings of the Catholic Church he hated so much. The bishop was not looking happy to be here.

  Not far from them, at 4 o'clock, a portable podium had been set up. Resting on it was a large, old-looking book, which I assumed contained the incantations. A tall, balding guy, who I assumed to be Wilson's tame wizard, stood behind the podium. One of his hands rested on the book, while the other clutched what looked like a pointed drumstick with symbols engraved on it – his wand. Malachi wore crimson robes and a tense expression. I didn't recognize him, which meant Wilson had imported him from out of town.

  And that was it, except for one guest who hadn't arrived yet – but then, he wasn't expected until a little later.

  I assumed we were waiting for midnight, the time when the dark powers are at their strongest. Most of those attending waited patiently – after all, they'd done this before. But Bishop Navarra was agitated. In the near-silence I could hear him speaking softly to Wilson.

  "I don't see why I should have to be present for this… butchery," he said. "You didn't ask me to be here for any of the others."

  "Yes, but tonight's ceremony is the one that will tip the balance," Wilson said, with the utter confidence that all madmen have. "Unlike the others, the policeman's body will be found – and what a stir that will create! Then after tomorrow night, when several more defenders of law and order succumb to the effects of black magic, the outcry will be loud and long, and few among the local community will be able to resist it. And soon thereafter the great, cleansing war will begin."

  "All of that will happen whether I am here to watch the bloodletting or not!" Navarra said, although he didn't raise his voice. He probably wouldn't have dared.

  "You've been spending all your time in that study of yours writing sermons, James – or in the church I built you, preaching them," Wilson said. "I thought it was time for you to gain an appreciation of the other side of our crusade – the side where people get their hands bloody."

  "Patton, I have never failed to appreciate–"

  "That will do, James." There was steel in Wilson's voice now. He glanced at his watch. "In any case it is nearly midnight, and time for us to commence the ritual."

  He looked over at the wizard. "Whenever you're ready, Malachi."

  "I'll start now, sir," Malachi said, like a good lackey. And then it began.

The procedure was the same as before. First, they killed all the lights, leaving us in darkness for half a minute or so. It should've been a welcome respite for me, but I couldn't stop thinking of all the wickedness that had been done inside this warehouse, all the suffering and death that had occurred because some lunatic wanted to start a race war. The very walls reeked of evil, and the dark only made it worse.

  Then all the lights came on at once, and it was showtime. The conjuration ritual hadn't changed, but this time I paid attention to the name of the demon being summoned: Acheron. It wasn't familiar, but that meant nothing – there are lots and lots of demons. But now I had a name. In magic, names are power, and maybe this one would give me the power I needed to survive.

  Acheron arrived in the column of smoke – looking almost human, apart from his ears (pointed), his eyes (red) and his jaw (large, misshapen, and revealing several rows of sharp teeth). He snarled defiance at Malachi, and was rewarded with a jolt of agony for his efforts. Demons are no strangers to pain, so Malachi must be administering quite a jolt to impress him like that.

  Once Acheron agreed, reluctantly, to obey, Malachi gave him his instructions. The wizard spoke in Demon, and I had to concentrate hard to get the sense of what he was saying.

  But I understood when the wizard told Acheron to possess the redhead, not me. Well, that figured. Then he was instructed not to damage my face beyond recognition, and to leave the fingertips of at least one hand intact. That would allow, I knew, for easy identification. If you've never heard somebody refer to your body like it was a cattle carcass about to be carved up – well, I can't say I recommend the experience.

  Acheron faded from view, and it wasn't hard to tell when he had taken over the body of the red-headed guy, whose name I didn't even know. When it was clear that Acheron was in charge, Malachi spoke a word and the shackles holding the redhead dropped away. The demon-possessed human moved slowly at first, unused to this new form. He stared at me for a few seconds, and it was the kind of look that a glutton gives a big plate of prime rib. Then he walked over to the table.