44 | John W. Warner IV roasting by trained butchers, the cutters. The lead priestess in a Medusa mask began to carve a slice of crackling skin and meat from a thigh with an ancient short sword, the burned rosemary carefully planted in the flesh looking like little trees after a forest fire. A dark aromatic sauce made from Madeira, butter, herbs, sacred mushrooms, and genitalia giblets was poured over the slice, ensuring a savory, ritualistic, culinary experience. Nothing had been wasted. No minute ritual detail overlooked. The child began to shake, then vomit; the meat carved from her own mother, an honor said Arruda. The priestess cut the meat into small morsels while she chanted a flowery medieval poem, then forked several, forcing them into the childs quivering mouth while her strong hand squeezed her young jaws open, head back. The little girl gagged, a seizure ignored. More meat followed in quantity. When her toilsome meal was literally finger-shoved down and thus consumed in full, the woman unsheathed a curved dagger and slit the girls jugular. Mortem est vital Sanguis est anima vivensl From behind, one of the greedy white robes pressed his gold cup to gather it all; he then drank, his white garment permanently stained in glorious crimson. He let go a tilted-back sigh of utter relief and satisfaction that stirred the anticipation of his excited cohorts, a hopeless drunks long sobriety ended, quenched only by the exquisite drug most desired above all else, young adrenalized blood. The other children, one by one, slowly began to endure their fate. All adults chanted in low tones: Latin, ancient Greek, old Slavic, Armenian, Sumerian. The bishop stood and toasted with his jeweled goblet of wine mixed with day- old blood. We commit this flesh to our bowels from whence it originally came, and in turn our gallant masters shall feast the light emanating from within our corpulent souls. May they gorge well. Thy will be done, chorused the adults. The Law upheld. Behind the monastery at the rear entrance, or what passed for it, a small rusted gate bolted shut centuries past, Bernie let go of the horse, sending the family on their way with a leather purse of small gold coins and a smile. Peering everywhere for civilians, he gave the all clear sign. Two of the nuns ditched their robes and habits; they were beefy British SOE, Special Operations Executive, former coal miners from Clyde, skilled commandos.