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As Butch shuffled forward he was able to see moonlight on the ground, but then the source of light was abruptly cut off and it became utterly dark. Were they in a cave? Yes…they were. The smell of damp earth filled his nose and beneath his bare feet he could feel small stones taking bites out of his soles.

Some forty steps later he was jerked to a stop. There was a whispering sound and then more walking, now on a downward slope. Another stop. More quiet noises as if a well-oiled gate was being retracted.

Then warmth and light. A polished floor of…marble. Glossy black marble. As they continued along, he had the sense that they were processing through some high-ceilinged place because what little sounds they made reverberated upward and echoed. There was another pause, followed by lots of shifting of fabric…the brothers disrobing, he thought.

A hand clamped on the back of his neck and the deep growl of Wrath’s voice shot into his ear. “You are unworthy to enter herein as you stand now. Nod your head.”

Butch nodded.

“Say that you are unworthy.”

“I am unworthy.”

The Brotherhood’s voices suddenly let out a loud, hard shout in the Old Language, as if in protest.

Wrath continued: “Though you are not worthy, you desire to become as such this night. Nod your head.”

He nodded.

“Say that you wish to become worthy.”

“I wish to become worthy.”

Another shout in the Old Language, this time a cheer of support.

Wrath went on: “There is only one way to become worthy and it is the right and proper way. Flesh of our flesh. Nod your head.”

He nodded.

“Say that you wish to become flesh of our flesh.”

“I wish to become flesh of your flesh.”

A low chanting started up, and Butch had the impression that a line had formed in front of and behind him. Without warning, they started to move, the back and forth surging motion mirrored by the cadence of powerful male voices. Butch struggled to get into the rhythm, bumping forward into what he suspected was Phury by the subtle scent of red smoke, then getting bumped from behind by what he knew was Vishous just because he knew. Shit, he was making a mess of the whole thing—

And then it happened. His body found the groove and he was moving with them…yes, they were all as one with the chanting and the movement, back…forth…swaying left…then right…the voices, not the muscles of their thighs, carrying their feet forward.

Suddenly, there was an acoustic explosion, the sounds of the chanting fracturing and re-forming in a thousand different directions: They had entered a vast space.

A hand on his shoulder told him when to halt.

The chanting stopped as if unplugged, the sounds ricocheting for a while, then floating away.

He was taken by the arm and led forward.

At his side, Vishous said in a low voice, “Stairs.”

Butch stumbled a little, then took the steps. When he got to a plateau, he was positioned by V, his body put…wherever it needed to be. As he settled into his stance, he had the sense he was right in front of something big, his toes up against what seemed to be a wall.

In the silence that followed, a bead of sweat dripped off his nose and landed right between his feet on the glossy floor.

V squeezed his shoulder as if in reassurance. Then stepped away.

“Who proposes this male?” the Scribe Virgin demanded.

“I, Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, do.”

“Who rejects this male?” There was quiet. Thank God.

Now the Scribe Virgin’s voice took on epic proportions, filling the space around them and every inch between Butch’s ears until all he knew was the sound of the words she spoke. “On the basis of testimony from Wrath son of Wrath, and upon the proposal by Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, I find this male before me, Butch O’Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, I have waived the requirement