The barn was a horror unto itself. Odd symbols were drawn on the walls and structural poles with what Derrek had no doubt was blood. Hooks hung from the rafters on rusty chains, each one stained brown with strands of dry meat stuck to more than a few of them. The walls were adorned with countless rusted tools and weapons; machetes and pickaxes, hatchets and saws, crowbars and trowels. There was an old scythe mounted high on the left wall that caught his eye, reminding him of his fight with Boyd the Reaper. In the center of it all was the altar Discord had mentioned. It was made of solid gray stone with a low kneeling bench in front of it, red carvings intricately etched across its surface, depicting worshipers bowing to a blazing sun, topped with a large brass bowl and a burning stick of incense in a holder on each side of a raised shelf. On that shelf, perfectly between the incense, was a human skull, that same style of red carvings covering its surface, even the teeth.

  The cultists gathered around the altar, spreading out in an even pattern so everyone had a clear view. Adam approached the altar and faced the crowd as Discord was thrown at his feet. Discord, keeping up his act admirably, coughed and spit out blood, groaning as he pretended to try to rise to his feet. He got as far as a pushup before Adam planted his boot on his back and forced him back to prone.

  “Stay down until you are brought up.” Adam had that hard-edged expression, but with a wide grin, his gold tooth twinkling in the low light that filtered through the rafters. He stomped hard on Discord’s back, eliciting a spinal crunch and a pained wheeze from the trickster. That grin pointed at Derrek as he ground his heel into his captives’ back. “Step forth, Shawn Bates. Destroy the remnants of your old life and start anew.” His eyes sparked with fervor, his tongue slowly sliding across his teeth. “It's your time to shine.”

  Derrek swallowed hard and stepped forward, every eye on him. He had no idea what to say if he was supposed to say anything, but Adam didn't have much use for the inputs of others. He nodded again and lifted his boot, allowing those two lackeys to grab Discord by the shoulders again, manhandling him to kneel at the altar, his head lolling over the bowl while they held his arms straight out. Adam pulled something from his pocket and offered it to Derrek. It was a folding buck knife, open and held with the handle toward him.

  It was pretty obvious what he was meant to do, and lucky for him it was all according to plan. It would have been nice if Adam would do it himself, but it wasn't like he could actually kill Discord. All he had to do was spill the immortal blood, and it would be out of his hands. He took the knife and examined the blade; razor sharp and sharpened at both sides of the tip. He sensed movement and saw Adam was now touring the space, looking at the cultists.

  “Friends! Brothers! Sisters! My dear family! Today we welcome a new lamb into our fold! A man is only as good as the company he keeps, and I'm proud to say we’re all better off with Shawn Bates in our lives.” Adam stopped and stabbed a finger at Derrek. Quite unnecessarily, he thought, it wasn't like there could be any more attention on him. “He has gone above and beyond on our behalf, and I say it's only fair we do the same for him.” He placed a hand on Derrek's back and gave him the gentlest of nudges forward, setting him on a slow plod toward the kneeling Discord. Adam resumed his meandering, his wandering speech dictating Derrek's pace.

  “I believe in being good to those who are good to you, and there is one who was very good to us. Our benefactor, who so graciously brought many of you to me in your time of need. The one who gave us what we craved so much: purpose.” The cultists all nodded mournfully, as if at a eulogy. He must be talking about the blood god, why is he talking in the past tense? Adam slammed his fist against his chest with a hollow thump, his upper lip stiff and his eyes shining as if about to spill over with tears. “We gave our blood, our toil, our lives, and we were rewarded. We were rewarded dearly.”

  Derrek was standing over Discord now, the two cultists holding his arms staring at Derrek with casual expressions, completely at ease, like butchers simply carrying out their work. One of them grabbed Discord by the hair, pulling it back so he was eye-level with the skull, his throat positioned right over the bowl. “We were given strength!” A cheer rang out. “Power!” A louder clamor, fists pumped in the air. “We were the arbiters of our own fate! The ones who held the knife!” The barn erupted into rapturous applause, everyone cheering at the top of their lungs as the knife grew heavier in Derrek's hand. The uproar steadily died down, and Adam took on a somber tone. “But, sorry to say, our benefactor is with us no more.”

  What?

  Adam sucked in a deep breath through his nose, letting it out in a long sigh. “I don't know if we were found lacking, or if it was our benefactor who failed us. I will never know.”

  Does this mean they don't have a connection to the blood god anymore? If not, then why do they still have the altar? Will the plan still work? Derrek shook off his thoughts. The worst that could happen is that they don't start killing each other, and if that were the case and they had to force a confrontation, he could at least rely on Discord to pull his weight in the fight. If Discord isn't breaking character, then neither will I. He stepped forward and put the blade to Discords throat, lightly pressing where his neck and jaw bone met.

  The smile on Adams’ face was an audible thing, carrying over in every word. “But we are not forsaken. Not us. We are the lucky few, for in our darkest hour we were blessed by the blazing sun!” There was another wave of approval from the crowd, a strange low hum breaking through under the noise. Discord twitched ever so slightly, his head tilting a fraction of a degree. “We were saved yet again by yet another glorious benefactor! One who promised to see all we despise burned at our feet! The gluttons! The pigs! The fools!” The cultists pumped their fists and cheered at every listed enemy, starting a kind of chant, Derrek's heart beating in time with it, the grip of the knife pressing hard into his palm. “Give your tribute, Shawn Bates! Join us in the radiant light of Ragnarok!”

  “What?”

  It was Discords’ voice. Not the indecipherable accent of Donkey, his real voice. It was said in a normal speaking voice, barely audible over the uproarious cultists, and Derrek didn't realize he had said a thing until after the blade dragged across Discords’ neck, his throat opening up in a crimson torrent, hot blood covering Derrek's hand as he gagged and sputtered, the bowl filling quickly. Derrek staggered back, the blood-drenched knife sticky in his hand, and felt hands at his sounders.

  “Pay attention, now.” Adam was uncomfortably close, his head over Derrek's shoulder, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “This is the important part.”

  The cherries of the incense sticks glowed brighter, the smoke growing thicker and dark red, swirling in an unnatural spiral up to the rafters, gathering at the ceiling. From there, tendrils of smoke reached down, sprawling over Discords skin as they made contact, one stray tendril forming a layer over the blood in the bowl. The embers of the incense burned even brighter and the entire building shook, a deep rumbling coming from the altar.

  Adam was slack-jawed, his face still too close to Derreks’. “What is this?” His voice was low, as if he were asking himself. The embers burned brighter and the smoke grew thicker, but the incense never burned down. The smoke gathering in the ceiling came down all at once and engulfed Discord, lifting him into the air in a swirling smoke cocoon. The skull suddenly began to tremble, two orange lights flickering to life in its sockets as its jaw flexed and clattered. All at once it went still, and the jaw moved in a smooth motion, a single guttural word ringing undeniably loud throughout the entire barn, slowly creeping into the ears of all listening.

  “Deceiver.”

  Adam scampered back as a stray tendril swirled through the air, taking a circuitous route until it reached Derrek, stopping just short of making contact. The tip of the tendril ran over him in a flash, coming to rest as if it were looking him in the eye, and he was helpless as it jabbed forward, touching him ever so gently on the forehead before retreating, disappearing into the cocoon. He sensed a shimmer washing over his body, and there appeared to be a shower of confetti around him. He remembered Discords’ words, “these things always fail at moments of narrative significance,” and he knew his disguise was broken. Not knowing what else to do, he turned around to face Adam, feeling his green eye glow as he stared him down.

  “I knew it!” Adam had a mad grin stretched across his face, his eyes wide as dinner plates. “I knew you would come for me, Derrek Snowe!” at the sound of his name, a murmur ran across the crowd, quickly shifting from startled to murderous. Adam stabbed an accusatory finger at Derrek, fervor burning in his eyes. “I knew you were more than man, and I should have known it was you all along. The Devil always greets with a friendly face, and I knew I would one day be damned by a soul I tried to save! So what will it be, Judas? Are you here to face your justice, or-”

  God damn it.

  Derrek transferred the knife to his left hand, drew the revolver, and shot Adam in the chest; there was nothing to do but fight, and without Discord he couldn't afford to hold back. Shocked cries rippled through the barn, shrieks and screams filling the air, and in the confusion Derrek spun around, shooting one of the men who had been holding Discord between the eyes, the beefy man falling limp as the screams redoubled. He took aim at the other holder, but the cultist swatted at him with a meaty palm, catching Derrek's finger on the trigger as the gun was ripped from his hand, sending a stray shot ripping harmlessly through the ceiling as it skittered across the floor. The cultist swung at him, but he was too slow and Derrek caught him by the wrist, jabbing the knife upward under his ribcage, piercing his heart. He ripped the knife out with a spray of blood and shoved the cultist over, turning to face the crowd, their shock giving way to rage. Adam leaned up as high as he could, clutching his bleeding wound as he screamed at the top of his broken voice.

  “Kill him!”

  The front row of cultists stepped forward, pulling knives from their pockets as the rest went for the walls, arming themselves with a variety of tetanus-inducing instruments, the air filled with their outrage. Bert, Clem and Lisa were in the vanguard along with five others, each of their faces twisted with rage as they marched purposely toward Derrek, and he took a low stance, his knife held out as he shuffled back inch by inch. One of the cultists, a round Hispanic man, charged ahead, his knife held out straight, screaming at the top of his lungs. Derrek remembered Jericho doing much the same thing a week earlier, and it was nothing to step to the side and grab the cultist by the wrist, but instead of simply laying him flat, Derrek bent his arm so he slammed onto his own knife as he tripped the cultist and sent him crashing to the floor. The tip of the knife poked through the back of his shirt, blood pooling under him as he struggled to roll over, tugging weakly at the knife in his ribs.

  Three.

  Two more cultists were on him, Lisa and a bald man with acne scars, and he scrambled back, reaching for the throwing knives at his belt, pulling three of the eight in his pouch. He held two of them along with the buck knife in his left hand, sending the third flying at Lisa, catching her in the neck. In a flash, he threw a knife at the bald cultist, and it struck him through the eye, the hilt disappearing into his skull. As he collapsed on the ground, his body jerking and spasming, Lisa fell to her knees, tugging at the knife in her neck, blood bubbling out of her mouth. In one lurch, she ripped it out, staring at Derrek with an empty expression as blood spurted. She fell dead on her face and Derrek scampered away around a pole, trying not to think about how she greeted him with a hug when he offered to help with the fence.

  Two more closed in as he slipped around the pole, his attackers probing back and forth, trying to catch him with a jab of their blades. One grew bold and sprung forth, trusting his knife with all his might into Derrek's shoulder, only to catch empty air as he jerked to the side. He grabbed the offered arm and slammed it toward the pole, the point of the elbow making contact, bending it around the pole unnaturally as its owner cried in agony, only to be cut short by Derreks’ buck knife slammed up through his jaw into his skull, the blade snapping off as the other cultist came round. This one was tall, his knife held high for a downward stab, plunging it into the wooden floor as Derrek rolled away, kicked the tall cultist behind the knee, and sprung on him, pinning him on his face. He grabbed a handhold around the cultists’ jaw as he cursed and struggled and wrenched with a grunt, breaking his neck, twisting it too far around, a small trickle of blood escaping his twitching lips.

  Seven.

  There was a burning pain in his shoulder and he rolled away on instinct, throwing the last knife in his hand blindly toward the source of the pain. There was a grunt and he saw the blade found purchase in Berts’ thigh, and he snarled as he fell to a knee, glaring hatefully at Derrek. “You fucking liar!” He grabbed the knife and ripped it out, a flood of blood erupting from the wound. Bert didn't seem to notice, his eyes locked on Derrek, and he forced himself to his feet, the blood flow only increasing. “We trusted you! I was gonna have your back, man!” He lurched forward, color draining from his face as he swayed. “We could've… We…” He looked down, finally noticing the blood. He stared at it for an agonizing second, then vomited down his shirt. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell backward, the blood finally slowing to a trickle.

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  That was lucky; Derrek had caught the femoral artery. Lucky. He wanted to be sick, but Clem and the last vanguard cultist were before him now, both staring at the three corpses at their feet. Clems’ eyes were wide and his lower lip was trembling, his knife trembling shakily in his hand. The other cultist wasn't much better off, her knife drooping as a sheen of sweat formed on her face. “What the fuck?” Clem almost whispered it, staring at Berts’ body, his knees buckling. “What the fuck?” He shook his head violently, clasping his hands to his head. “What the fu-”

  He was cut off as a knife plunged hilt-deep into chest, sliding between the ribs into his heart. Before he could react, Derrek threw another, stabbing into the other cultists throat. Clem watched as she collapsed, clutching at her neck, choking on her own blood, then his knees failed him and he collapsed on top of Bert, weakly pawing at the floorboards.

  Ten.

  Derrek couldn't help but stare at the scene for a moment, the turkey sandwich in his stomach roiling in outrage. He managed to pry his eyes away, and his vision filled with light as his head exploded with pain, a loud clang ringing in his ears. He stumbled back groggily, but a strong hand caught him by the collar of his shirt and he was heaved forward, jerked around and shoved into something and two more pairs of hands clamped around his arms, forcing them behind his back. The light filling his eyes faded, and before him was Kurt with a flat shovel in his hands, the rest of the cultists gathering closer, armed to the teeth with mundane implements. Derrek struggled against his captors, who he saw were Kurts’ sons, but his head was still spinning and any fight he had in him was forced out in a long wheeze as Kurt sunk his fist into Derrek's gut, a trace of his rebellious lunch burning at the back of his throat as his head fell limp, a string of drool dripping from his lip. Kurt grabbed him around the neck and leaned in, his face contorted with betrayed rage, his eyes burning pinpricks behind his craggy sneer.

  “What a damn joke.” He dropped the shovel and cuffed Derrek across the face back and forth, his lip splitting, turning his string of drool red. “The big bad billionaire was too coward to face us head on, so he put on a mask and tried to act like one of us.” His fist crashed into Derrek's chest and he felt a rib break, his eyes welling with tears as he struggled to breathe; he didn't even have enough air to yelp in pain. He gasped in air as Kurt released his neck, coughing and gulping in breath as fingers gripped his hair, wrenching his head back as his fist crunched into Derreks’ cheek. Kurt nodded and his sons let go of Derrek, letting him fall to his knees as he crouched down, looking him in the eye. “Everything Adam said about you is true. I believed him, of course, but it's different seeing it with my own eyes.” He picked up the shovel and stood tall, grinning horribly down at Derrek. “It doesn't matter how many of our lives you take. We are many, and your ilk are few.” The grin stretched further across his face and he pulled the shovel back as if he were swinging at a baseball. “And today will mark the beginning of the end of everything you hold dear. It will all burn in Ragnaroks’ glory!”

  Derrek tried to act, but his body wouldn't move fast enough and the shovel smacked him full across the face, his delayed muscles launching him to the side with the momentum, stumbling and spinning until he smashed into the wall. His head cracked against the boards and he slowly slid down to sitting, his breathing labored as the cultists slowly crept forth, more than a dozen left, all with sadistic smiles on their faces. He only had three throwing knives left, nowhere near enough to fight that many, even if he had the strength for it. He tried stubbornly to push himself up, but his hands were slick with blood and he fell back, his head banging into the wall again.

  Is this really it? I survived a Reaper, a cave monster, Bernmore and the poachers, and I’m going to be torn apart by a doomsday cult? Derrek realized, save for the cave monster, he’d had help for all of those fights. Discord was right; he was getting arrogant. What the hell made him think he could take on an entire commune?

  There was a rattle above his head, and something long fell into his lap. It was the scythe he had seen earlier. The curved wooden shaft was splintered and splitting along every grain, the curved head rusted and dull. It was surprising it hadn't broken on impact with his lap, as fragile as it looked, but it was a weapon nonetheless, and Derrek gripped it tight, using it for leverage to push himself to his feet. He stretched his neck from one side to the other, glaring blearily at the cultists, bending his knees, feeling the rough wood cut into his hands. Something wasn't right. He blinked a few times and his vision cleared a bit, confirming his suspicion; the cultists had stopped their advance, their grins replaced with slack jaws. He realized his hands were burning hot, and saw they were glowing the same shade of green as his eye.

  Tendrils of green energy spread across the scythe, filling the cracked wood like a glowing delta, the wood falling away to reveal a smooth shaft just under the surface. The rust of the blade flaked away as if it were simple dirt under a stream of water, giving way to a half-crescent of dark steel, bright green engravings glowing along the blade, nothing but green smears in Derreks’ blurry vision. The warmth in his hands began to spread up his arms, through his chest, down his spine and across his scalp, stretching down to the tips of his toes, filling him to the brim with energy. He hadn't felt this strong since Boyd had given him the Reapers’ touch. The cultists took a wary step back, and Derrek crouched low, the scythe trailing behind him as he sprung forth, charging straight at Kurt.

  The scythe was an extension of his own body, and it sliced effortlessly through Kurts' knees, sending him spinning through the air until the blade pecked though his back midair, pinning him to the floor. There was a sucking sound as Derrek ripped out the blade, twirling and spinning the scythe around him, snatching a cultists’ hand away in a flash of metal, divorcing his head from his shoulders in another blur. He thought Charlotte was among them, but he couldn't be sure. He was a whirlwind, blood and pieces of people flying as he effortlessly danced around them. He carved a circle around him the length of the haft of his scythe, a circle in which the world belonged to him, and any who dared to cross it would face the same fate as fruit in a blender.

  Sixteen.

  He forced Kurts’ sons into a corner along with a black man with dreadlocks, mentally blocking out the terror on their faces as he cut them all down with a single blinding strike, slicing all three men through the midsections. In the same instant, the scythe slashed the other way, catching the brothers in the neck, though the black cultist was slightly shorter and was sliced at the jawline. They swayed for a moment, then fell apart, their legs, torsos, and heads all tumbling in different directions. Derrek felt like someone had tackled him, and there was a high-pitched shriek as a knife dug into his shoulder, thin legs wrapping tight around his waist. He swayed and jerked, trying to shake the cultist off, but she was locked tight onto him, ripping the knife out and stabbing randomly at his chest. He charged back-first into a pole and her grip slackened, allowing him to grab her by the hair and flip her off of him, slamming her flat on her back. He raised the blade high and only noticed as it split her chest open that it was Cassie, her eyes still distant, even as she died.

  Twenty.

  There was a scream, and Derrek saw Ida, her hands covering her mouth, tears pouring down her cheeks, but she didn't approach, so he turned his attention to the other cultists. Raph, Squeaky, and five others were huddled together, their weapons held out shakily, each of them terrified and trembling. Raph swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stuttered. “N-n-now hold on j-just a second!” He held up his crowbar defensively as Derrek took a step forward. “L-let’s t-t-talk ab-bout this!” He took a cautious step toward Derrek then another, holding a hand flat so the other cultists stayed back. He probably didn't have to signal them, they showed no sign of advancing. “W-we can just… forget about all t-this. You c-c-can just leave us be, we w-won't be any t-trouble. Y-you can just walk out that door and-” When Raph was close enough, he swung his crowbar at Derreks’ head, stumbling off balance as Derrek jerked back, the steel bar swinging past the tip of his nose. The scythe slashed upward, and Raph was cut diagonally across his chest, his shoulders and one arm falling opposite to the rest of his body.

  All at once, the remaining cultists rushed him, growling and snarling madly as their feet thundered across the boards. Derrek danced around their weapons, as hard to touch as the flickering flame, his scythe trailing him like his shadow, stealing away limbs and innards, blades snapping as he struck them, blood splattering around him in intricate patterns. With one final strike, Squeakys’ head was separated from her shoulders, strands of her long blue hair fluttering to the ground, cut neck length, just like the rest of her. Silence rang through the barn, and Derrek took a breath.

  Twenty-seven.

  A gunshot ripped through the silence, and Derrek jerked to the side, feeling the wind of the bullet past his cheek. It was Ida, on her knees over Cassies’ body, Derreks’ gun shaking in her hands. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed, pulling the trigger again. It was nothing to deflect the bullet with his scythe; he spent more time practicing that than anything else, knowing a stray bullet could be the end of him just as much as anyone else. Another gunshot, and another swipe of the blade, the bullets flying harmlessly through the walls. She pulled the trigger over and over, the gun click-click-clicking as the empty cylinder spun, listlessly watching Derrek approach her. He looked down at her now, and the gun drooped, her tear-stricken face hardening as she glared up at him. She spat at him, leaving a glob of spit on his shirt. “Damn you to hell.”

  Derrek wanted to apologize, but it would have been less than worthless, nothing but selfish. It took everything he had to stay silent. He had a feeling Ida and Cassie were close, closer than just friends, and this display cemented it in his mind. He remembered what Ida had said, that her father had disowned her over her sexuality, for simply being who she was, and here Derrek was, slaughtering her lover and found family. And why? Because Discord had told him to. Because Discord said they were bad people and had to be stopped. It didn't matter if it was true, he had still killed them all for being who they are. Every fiber of his being told him to stop, to have mercy, but he knew he couldn't. That would have been even worse. He closed his eyes and raised the scythe, looking away as Idas’ headless body fell across Cassie.

  There was another silence, a longer, more complete silence, only broken by a series of hacking coughs. Derrek opened his eyes, and saw Adam laying prone, slowly dragging himself toward the door, a streaking track of blood following him like a snail trail. He grunted and groaned, pulling himself elbow over elbow as Derrek plodded over to him, his footsteps echoing in the silent barn. “You know something?” Adam wheezed, “aside from the hole in my chest and my broken heart from my stolen family, do you know what I feel most?” He chuckled, pausing in his crawl to cough up blood. “Vindication.” He coughed up more blood, lying limp on the floor, his mouth still curled into a smirk, one eye gazing up at Derrek. “I was right. We were all right to stand against you. You are the Devil incarnate, and we are but the first martyrs. You'll see! You'll find us banging down your door! Smashing the windows of your twinkling towers! You’ll-”

  Derrek grabbed a handful of Adams’ hair and pulled his head back, slipping the scythes’ blade between the ground and his mouth, pushing his head down so the edge went between Adams’ teeth, his grin forced wider as the corners of his mouth were cut through. Derrek pulled upward on the haft, cutting through flesh until the blade pressed against the hinge of his jaw, planting a boot between his shoulder blades.

  “You talk too much.”

  Derrek jerked the scythe upward, slicing off Adams’ head at the jaw, the bottom half and tongue twitching as the top half rolled away. He stumbled back, casting about for any survivors, and found nothing but corpses, aside from the still-swirling smoke cocoon. His body was suddenly weak and the scythe fell from his limp fingers as he doubled over, his undigested lunch mixing with a puddle of blood as he wretched and gagged for the second time that day. Once the gagging abated, he stumbled toward the nearest pole, putting his back to it and sliding down to sitting, breathing heavily as his racing heart steadily slowed.

  Twenty-nine.

  He had killed twenty-nine people. His stomach cramped again, but there was nothing left to heave up, his broken ribs screaming in protest. He panted, leaning his head back against the pole, all his wounds making themselves known, from the cuts on his shoulder to the lumps on his head. Cautiously, he pulled up his shirt, examining his bruised ribs, already black and blue. Keeping his shirt up with one hand, he gently placed the palm of his other on the bruise, closing his eyes and focusing. After a few seconds, a warmth radiated from his hand, and he could see a light behind his eyelids, growing in intensity. He held it for several seconds, feeling the pain in his side fade as the bones knitted back together, and when the light faded, the bruise was much smaller. Not healed, but not broken anymore. He had seen Discord pull that trick before, but this was the first time he’d managed it. It would have been nice to heal his shoulder, but he knew he didn't have the strength for it. That exertion of energy had already drained what little he had left in him.

  He leaned back and looked lazily at the altar, the incense still burning as bright as the skulls’ eyes. If he destroyed the altar, would it free Discord? Do I even want to free him? He shook his head, regardless of how this went, Discord was still his ride home. He would have to figure out how to get him down soon, and destroying the altar was the only idea he had. He glared at the scythes’ blood-soaked blade. It was a deplorable thing, a weapon for a monster, and assessing the carnage, it seemed it had found its way into a monsters’ hands. He remembered the day he met Discord, being put on the spot to pick a ‘warrior name’ for himself.

  “Havok.” He whispered it to himself. He never meant it to be, but it was an apt name; havoc was exactly what he had wreaked today. Changing a letter at the end couldn't diminish the truth of it. He was a monster, one that had named itself. He closed his eyes, pushing the thoughts from his mind. The Reapers’ touch made it easy, as simple as flicking a switch, but images of the fight still flashed behind his eyes as he rested. He would have to get up soon; he couldn't break the altar from here, but what difference would a few minutes make?

  Discord could wait for Derrek to catch his breath.