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to think, wracking her brain… There had to be something she could do, some trick or intrigue she’d learned from the novels she’d read?
     
    #
     
    “Hate, hate, hate …Uhh …” Ed Bolt mumbled, lost in delirium.
    Mister Starks watched as the dark-haired young man fastened to the wheel-like device shivered and sweated, moaning and ranting. Rector Powell had asked Starks to keep watch, and to let him know when there was a change in the youth’s condition.
    Change, Starks thought, so he looks like a dead thing, like HIM …
    He turned to watch the corpse-like Reverend Mott, who stood in the corner unmoving, making no sound other than his slow, raspy breathing.
    Starks didn’t understand why the Rector was so loyal to his new Master who lived in the pit. The Rector often talked of a new era coming, all of mankind becoming one, and Starks just nodded and smiled and followed orders.
    But the Rector was kind to all of his servants—Starks and his missus in particular—and so he could overlook the oddities of the last few years. He felt proud that he was trusted over most of the other servants, anyway. He’d even been taught to work a few of the new silver machines.
    The contraption which held the young man was connected by a thin cord of woven silver wire to that thing in the pit. The way Starks understood it, the new Master wanted to take the lad’s soul. Or rather, replace it with a reflection of his own.
    Starks really didn’t understand all the gibberish about mind powers and whatnot that the Rector was always going on about. But it definitely had to do with putting some of the Master’s soul-stuff into other bodies.
    Poor Reverend Mott, a visiting young graduate from the seminary, had been the first test.
    But that hadn’t worked well. Turned out the Master couldn’t see very well through Mott’s eyes, and then there was the problem with his flesh getting holes and all.
    The Rector had been disappointed. This time was supposed to be different, but Starks had his doubts.
    He looked to Bolt and shook his head. “Why are you fighting it so?”
    The youth moaned and his lips curled back over his teeth.
    Starks sighed. “Nothing personal, lad, but it’d be better for all of us if we could just get this over with… eh?”
                 
    #
     
    HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE.
    They betrayed me!
    The voice hissed in Ed’s mind, the force of its hatred threatening to twist the center of his consciousness into something that was no longer Ed Bolt, no longer even human.
    Alone alone alone.
    I hate them!
    Ed saw the red-eyed demons, thousands of them, all mocking him!
    But no—they weren’t mocking Ed, they were mocking the demon called Croatoan.
    This rutting Croatoan was trying to get into his head, force his way into his soul! Croatoan’s hatred was so very strong, the monster wielded it like a hammer, breaking down Ed’s barriers …
    “Betrayed!” hissed the Croatoan-demon voice.
    More thought-images assailed Ed’s mind, more scenes from the demon’s centuries of mad hatred, the emotion so terribly strong.
    But Ed had felt emotion that strong before. Hate just as strong.
    My OWN hate, damn you!
    Hate, anger, jealously, embarrassment… all those painful emotions that churned in his mind day and night…
    Maybe Ed could use those emotions to fight back!
    He knew the taste of betrayal from his own life. He could remember his torments as well as Croatoan could, he could feel the pain as sharply. He dug down deep into the sorest, most painfully tender parts of his memory …
    And the demon in his head would have to watch as—
    Ed is five years old. He sits in the front row of the church with his mother and his two brothers, looking up at the pulpit from which his father, Reverend Daniel Bolt, preaches.
    His f ather reads from the Holy Book: “For whatsoever man he be that hath a blemish, he shall not approach: a blind man, or a lame-- He hath a blemish: he shall not come nigh to offer the bread