The preacher stood, clapping his hands together, and then began to stride about the small stage, yelling the holy word in a highly aggressive manner. His rhetoric boarded on abusive and was certainly enthusiastic. It was almost theatrical.
He had a big voice and big presence. Not ill formed, possibly even handsome, except that his mouth never stopped moving and his teeth were very... square. His lips were thin, and in speaking, he exposed a great deal of his gums. He was strapping, in a cricket-playing kind of way, with a square jaw – but the noise that emanated from his mouth! It could hardly be called talking. He was brutish towards the English language, harsh with sharp constants and nasal inflections. His vowels were positively abused! Lyall suspected the man’s first name was something ridiculously penitent and American like Obadiah or Abner.
The preacher punctuated his sermon with lots of hand gestures and facial grimaces, raising his arms up to heaven, then sweeping them about. He even twirled once or twice and stomped his feet.
“And the Lord came unto you and he said, you are the weak and the meek and the prey. And you shall not inherit, oh no! You shall be food for the lords of our holy and true nature. You shall be fodder for the great beasts of the castles. Your children shall be as mere snacks to the supernatural!”
Oh, dear, thought Lyall. This is not at all what I was expecting. It seems this new cult is quite the opposite of what we feared.
Instead of preaching the gospel of hating the supernatural set, this man was preaching the gospel of worship. Which, quite frankly, was almost as bad. Thousands of years before Lyall’s time, the ancient Egyptians had worshiped werewolves, and everyone knew how badly that turned out. The God-Breaker Plague. Well, maybe not everyone, but everyone that mattered knew.
Still, Lyall was mildly fascinated. The man was a powerful speaker – potent and charismatic. Almost as if he himself had some sort of supernatural ability, drawing all the eyes in the room. A big, commanding presence. A focus point. A tug on the tethers. Riveting and faintly grotesque.
A werewolf Alpha.
That would explain the vinegar smell. If a werewolf wished to disguise his scent, vinegar was a good option. Even I can’t pick up wolf smell through that kind of pong.
“Make your sacrifices or you too will be called upon to feed the beasts of heaven of your own flesh! Bring forth the next possible candidate!”
An eager (or perhaps nervous) rustle went throughout the room and a young woman was shoved forward. She was dirty and unkempt, her face-paint tear-stained. A lady of the night, no doubt. She clutched to her breast a squalling infant.
Lyall tensed.
“He’s a good lad, he is. Never gave me a spot of trouble. Please don’t make me—”
“You will burn in the fiery bogs of hell and damnation. Brimstone and soot will rain down upon your head! Steam will scald, and oil will...” yelled the preacher at her. Rather stumbling for good vocabulary, Lyall felt.
The girl trembled.
“Your sacrifice is the only thing that can possibly save you. The beast must be pacified! You think God is kind and merciful? You have not looked into the face of the hellhound at his back!”
The preacher grabbed up the child and set it at his feet. Then he continued to stride around, yelling words at the crowd. Occasionally, he would leap over the child in a kind of wild ritual hopping. This went on for a good half hour, eventually culminating in the man picking up the infant, lifting him high into the air, and the crowd all howling at it.
Lyall exchanged amused glances with Rafe. Nothing is more droll than humans trying to howl, poor little monkeys.
No doubt the three others outside were having a good chuckle at the assembled’s expense.
Lyall gestured with his head and Rafe followed him out the door in one of those swift dodges only the supernatural could execute unnoticed.
“Did you catch it all, Alpha?” Rafe grinned at Biffy, who was looking poised and quietly diverted by the melodramatics within. The warehouse walls were by no means sufficient to stopper supernatural hearing.
“They’re worshiping us.” Biffy’s tone showed more discomfort than the situation warranted, but it could simply be that he’d caught sight of the preacher’s outfit when he first entered.
“It would appear so.” Lyall supported the assessment of his Alpha.
Adelphus snorted. “And the infants they keep leaving on our doorstep are what, offerings?”
“Or sacrifices,” Lyall shrugged.
“Charming.” Ulric curled his lip and turned to peer back into the warehouse, where the congregation still milled and chatted about the excitement of the oratory performance.
Lyall tilted his head. “I think the preacher is himself a werewolf.”
“Hardly possible – he’s an American.” Adelphus frowned at him.
Lyall quirked a brow. “American werewolves do happen.”
“He’ll be funny about the head, then, if he is one.” Rafe looked thoughtful. “I mean to say, funnier even than what we just heard.”
“Most likely.” Lyall nodded.
“Well, well, well, how fun is this?” Biffy did not look pleased. “An American werewolf in Greenwich preaching the gospel of supernatural worship and infant-sacrifice. Exactly what I always wanted for Christmas.”
Lyall sighed. “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, yes?”
“He smacks of Alpha.”
Rafe flinched but agreed. “Didn’t get a sniff, but he has that charm, you know? Can’t stop looking at him. For all he’s got no neckcloth.”
Lyall shuddered. “That waistcoat.”
“Horrid” – Rafe was morose – “and I don’t think he had a shirt on under it. At all.” Rafe wasn’t particularly fashionable, but this defied all reason.
Biffy gave one of his most winning smiles, almost like one from the bad old days when he was a clever little drone running Lord Akeldama’s house and heart. “Oh, well, I can’t think of a better reason to fight a man.”
“The child-sacrifice thing not bad enough?” Ulric grinned as well.
“We didn’t actually kill the infants, even if we were meant to,” objected Adelphus. “Don’t think sacrifice is the right word.”
“I think,” said Rafe, “we were supposed to eat them.”
Adelphus looked properly horrified. “Eat babies? What a preposterous notion. They’re almost entirely made of fat, quite detrimental to the digestion. Not to mention the waistline.”
Biffy looked approving. “Exactly.”
“And they never hold still! So messy.” Ulric joined in the spirit of the thing.
“Not to mention the gritty feeling of powdered talc on one’s teeth. Yech.” Adelphus shuddered.
“Good. Are we agreed, then, no eating babies?” Biffy looked about, and the other four werewolves nodded. “Very good, gentlemen.”
Lyall hid his smile. At least the Alpha was using flippancy to disguise his fear over having to actually challenge another werewolf.
While they huddled in conversation in the shadows, the doors to the warehouse creaked open and the congregation began to file out in a mildly cheerful and bubbly mass.
Lyall pushed his Alpha, gently, towards the correct decision. “So, what do we do now?”
“About him?” asked Biffy.
“About him.”
Biffy sighed. He removed his hat and twirled it on one hand. “Bah! Confrontation, I suppose. I do hate it so. But going about shirtless with only a waistcoat really cannot be condoned.”
“Agreed, Alpha,” said Lyall with feeling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fight for Your Right to Pulpit