DIRTY ANGELS
Tonight, no one left unmarked.
“It is nearly time,” Waylon said neutrally.
Marvin nodded, taking one last hit before he found himself standing on the raised platform at the far end of the grand hall. Above it towered a statue, thirty feet high, an ancient faceless god, hewn from black marble and studded with rare gems, its form both masculine and feminine, androgynous. The eyes were hollowed out sockets that appeared to watch over all. Everyone knew what it represented: power, fertility, submission, the exchange of flesh for favor.