The fiddle duel didn’t go as planned. Normally, Abaddon would have produced his own instrument out of thin air. The sight of such power normally caused his victims to falter. But this time, before Abaddon could produce the violin, Seth held his own fiddle and bow out to Abaddon.
“I assume you didn’t bring one with you.”
“Good guess.”
Abaddon took it. The bow trembled in his hand. The boy’s energy lingered on the frets and strings, making Abaddon’s fingertips tingle. And when he put it to his neck and rested his chin in the cradle, the soul essence hit him hard, driving the wind from his lungs. His knees nearly buckled. He gritted his teeth, biting back a moan. It was the strangest sensation, not quite pleasure and not quite pain, like a claw being drawn seductively down his back.
“Mr. Abaddon?” Seth asked, one hand out as if to offer him support. “Are you all right?”
It took a fair amount of strength to straighten his back and shoulders. “Yes.” Technically, he was fine, but his mind boggled at the effect the boy had on him. He was both sickened and intrigued. He hadn’t felt true arousal in years—maybe decades—but he still recognized the sudden ache in his balls. It wouldn’t take much to send the blood flowing south, and then the revival workers wouldn’t be the only ones pitching tents in the backwoods of Kentucky.
Focus!
He closed his eyes and took a few slow, deep breaths, centering himself. Trying to forget about Seth and his damnably perfect soul.
And he played.
Being a devil came with certain benefits. No medical or dental, but all devils were granted the ability to understand nearly any language, and to play just about any musical instrument they might encounter. None of them could rival a true savant for style, but Abaddon felt he performed adequately. Mortals usually tripped over their own nerves when it was their turn to play, and by the time he lowered the bow, Abaddon’s confidence had returned.
It lasted only a second or two though. Seth’s calm smile was all it took to knock him back a step.
“You play well, Mr. Abaddon.”
“Thank you.” But he could tell it was only a platitude. Seth was compelled by good manners to compliment him, but the boy didn’t look scared in the least as he held out his hands for the violin. Abaddon handed him the instrument, being careful not to touch him as he did.
“And you can cut it out with the ‘mister’ crap. Abaddon is my first name.”
“As you wish.”
He wondered if Seth could feel him on the violin the way he’d been able to feel Seth. If he did, it didn’t show. Abaddon detected no alarm or discomfort as Seth tucked the instrument under his chin and raised the bow. There was no sign of nerves or unease.
“Shall I play Paganini for you? They say he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his abilities.”
“He did, indeed.”
“I’ve always found his work a bit discordant, to be honest. I prefer a more classical sound myself.” And with that, Seth closed his blind eyes and began to play.
Really, it was no contest at all. It was the first section of Tartini’s Violin Sonata in G Minor, more commonly known as the Devil’s Trill Sonata, and it was the most perfect rendition Abaddon had ever heard. Seth’s fingers flew over the frets. His bow danced across the strings. He kept his eyes closed as he played, and the music was nearly alive, the chords poignant and heartbreaking, made magical by Seth’s wondrous soul, and Abaddon stood in awe as the notes washed over him, lapping against his supernatural senses like waves against the shore. It left him breathless, feeling as if he was only a few chords away from collapsing into tears.
It also left him with zero doubts as to the winner of his little challenge. Seth’s soul had never been in any danger at all.
Seth was too polite to declare his own victory though. It was left to Abaddon. He was torn between bitterness and amazement.
“I think it’s safe to say you kicked my musical ass.”
Seth laughed. “I would never say such a thing, but God has seen fit to bless me in this regard.”
“God wasn’t the one playing that fiddle.”
“I would argue that He was. He merely used me as His instrument.”
“Do you ever take credit for anything yourself?”
“To do so would be vanity in the Lord’s eyes. ‘Every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights—’”
“Yeah, yeah. I know how it goes.” He shook his head. “You have a bible quote for everything, don’t you?”
“The answer to every question can be found in its pages.”
Abaddon rolled his eyes. It was good the kid couldn’t see the amusement on his face. “If you say so.”
“Will you come tonight, as promised?”
“I will.” After all, a deal was a deal. He was bound by the laws of his own employment to follow through. And looking at Seth, he felt it hadn’t been a total loss. “I look forward to hearing you play again. Maybe something a little more uplifting next time?”
“I’ll play something fun, just for you.” Seth stepped forward, his right hand held out. “It was nice meeting you, Mr.—I mean, Brother Abaddon.”
It took every bit of Abaddon’s self-mastery to reach out and shake Seth’s hand. And once he did, it took every bit and then some to stay on his feet. Electricity tingled up his arm and down his torso, lighting a fire of longing in his loins. He sucked air through his teeth and thanked God—yes, actually thanked the bastard—for making Seth blind so he couldn’t see the effect he had on him. “It was nice meeting you as well,” he croaked as Seth dropped his hand. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Peace and love to you, brother.”
“Hell’s bells,” Abaddon mumbled, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Whatever you say, kid.”
* * * * *
The revival tent wasn’t the biggest Abaddon had seen, but it wasn’t the smallest either. It was approximately fifty by fifty feet, striped red and white. It sat at the end of a long field with an enormous banner erected over the entrance.
Rainbow Revival Tonight
Featuring Rev. Thaddeus B. Rawlins, Jr.
All Worshippers Welcome!
Nearly two dozen travel trailers formed a semicircle behind the tent, obviously the living quarters of the revivalists. Beyond them, Abaddon spotted several vehicles and two semi trucks sitting silent and empty, ready for the day the entire show packed up and moved on.
Abaddon had been to more revivals than he could count. He’d encountered dozens of religious sects through the years, but none like this one. A lot of other revivalist groups held to a very modest set of rules with regard to appearance. Men had to wear long-sleeve shirts, and women wore somber, ankle-length skirts and never cut their hair. But Seth’s group seemed to take the “rainbow” part of their name to heart. The men wore corduroy pants, tie-dyed T-shirts, and horn-rimmed glasses. The girls tended toward dreadlocks and long, flowing, bright-colored clothes. They looked like a group of modern hippies, but unlike most “free love” groups Abaddon knew of, this group was remarkably chaste. Shirts were invariably modest, and every skirt ended below the knee. They were a mixture of opposite extremes—garish, yet conservative; devout, but still trendy.
“What do you know,” Abaddon murmured to himself. “Hipster evangelists.”
The area around the tent buzzed with activity. Men circled it, checking stakes and ties, securing it against any sudden winds. Women came and went, carrying chairs and giant carafes of water, coffee, and iced tea, getting ready for the evening’s performance. Generators began to kick on, filling the tent with light, making it seem like a giant firefly perched among ants. All seemed to be working under the direction of a tall, broad-shouldered black man wearing a purple boubou with elaborate gold stitching. His deep voice boomed over the grounds.
The star of the show, as proclaimed by the banner, was Reverend Thaddeus Rawlins. He was about thirty, dressed much like the other men, except he’d added a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves. He also wore Birkenstocks with wool socks.
Even their reverend was a hipster.
Abaddon lurked near the periphery of the activity, hidden by the trees, waiting for the entertainment to begin. Nobody noticed him, although the eyes of the tall foreman seemed to circle Abaddon’s way far more often than he would have liked.
Seth was nowhere to be seen, but the music started shortly after the first car appeared, obviously cued by some vigilant group member. It was “How Great Thou Art”, although with a faster tempo than normal, and the hymn flowed from the tent, almost luminescent to Abaddon’s supernatural eyes. It bubbled toward him across the packed dirt of the field and broke like water against his ankles, cold as snowmelt on his unnatural skin. That was Seth’s influence, he was sure. The boy’s soul called to him, beckoning him nearer, making his mouth water with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He waited though, watching, counting congregants, not wanting to be too near the front of the congregation or too far back. Finally, he fell in behind a group of nearly twenty new arrivals who had lined up at the entrance of the tent.
The music continued, alternating classical hymns with more modern gospel songs. Abaddon had assumed Seth would be playing the fiddle again, but he was wrong. He heard two guitars, a bass, drums, and a keyboard. Seth was at the latter. Abaddon knew that much without even seeing inside. He could tell by the way the piano notes resonated in his chest, jabbing painfully at the well of power that burned where his soul used to be.
The line to enter the tent moved slowly, partly because some of the Reverend’s group members stood inside, greeting the new arrivals, partly because mortals were sheep, always stepping through doorways and then stopping dead in their tracks to look around, without regard for the swarm of people behind them still waiting to enter. Abaddon gritted his teeth, willing them forward. He wanted into that tent.
Someday, he’d learn to be careful what he wished for.
The moment he stepped inside, the big foreman caught his arm. His grip was like a vise. His eyes glowered out of his dark face.
“You must be Abaddon.”
Abaddon tried to pull his arm free, but had no luck. It was like arm wrestling a black version of Andre the Giant. He subsided into stillness rather than engage in a battle of wills with the man. “I am.”
“Seth asked me to watch for you.”
The man waited for a response, staring at Abaddon as if he were a particularly loathsome type of cockroach. “Uh…okay.” Abaddon shifted his arm again, vying subtly for freedom. He was once again denied. “Well, I’m here. Can I sit down now, or what?”
The man leaned closer. “I must allow entry because it is the way of our people, but I do not welcome you, Brother Abaddon.”
The way of our people? This guy had been drinking way too much Kool-Aid, that was for sure. Abaddon did his best not to laugh. “Duly noted.”
“I will not allow you to harm the boy.”
“Settle down, Captain Caveman.” This time, Abaddon yanked his arm forcefully from the foreman’s grip. “I’m just here for the music.”
He pushed past the man, glancing around to get his bearings. The tent seemed smaller on the inside, but Abaddon estimated it could hold as many as five hundred worshippers. A stage had been erected at the far end, with a lectern front and center. The band played on the right-hand side. On the left, ten of the reverend’s select group lingered at the foot of the stage—five women in flowing, broomstick skirts, and five men in corduroys and ties. Abaddon guessed they were the choir. They welcomed the crowd members with smiles and handshakes. They greeted each other with the Kiss of Peace, a chaste kiss on the lips, although never between sexes. Men kissed men, women kissed women. They didn’t cross gender lines. Abaddon had seen it before in other sects and always wondered how many of them found some secret thrill in that quick meeting of lips.
He searched for a place to sit, scanning the close-set rows on the right for an empty seat. It was an old revivalist trick to use chair spacing to give the illusion of a full house, regardless of how many people showed up. When the revival first arrived in town, they’d space the chairs a foot apart, making the aisles nice and wide. Seth’s revival group had obviously been in this part of Kentucky for a while, because the chairs were packed in, only a few inches between them to allow for maximum occupancy. Abaddon at last found a chair in the fifth row that afforded him a clear view of Seth.
He’d changed clothes. Instead of a T-shirt, he wore a white dress shirt, buttoned almost all the way to the top. And instead of a knit scarf, he wore one of red silk, tied tight and high around his neck and tucked into his collar. He stood in the center of an elaborate setup, with keyboards on three sides. The band seemed to rely more on improvisation and ornamentation than on strict melodies, and Seth was clearly the driving force behind the jam, like a director without a baton. He played naturally, shifting from one song easily to another, and the rest of the musicians followed.
He was damnably cute, and Abaddon watched him, wishing foolishly the boy could see. Would he search the crowd, if he could? Would he wait to see if Abaddon was swayed by the good reverend’s speech? Would he believe Abaddon’s soul had been saved?
Maybe it was better Seth couldn’t see after all. But even as he thought it, Seth’s sightless eyes seemed to settle on him, and the boy smiled.
Was it possible he was lying about being blind? After all, he’d walked in the woods without any help. But no. Abaddon couldn’t imagine the boy lying. He was too devout for that, and Abaddon hadn’t detected any dishonesty on Seth’s part.
The crowd grew louder, and so did the music. One of the guitar players moved closer to Seth, leaning over the keyboard to speak to him. Seth laughed, his fingers not missing a note, his eyes bright with happiness, and another wave of luminescence washed over Abaddon, sending shivers up his spine. He was glad to be sitting, because the desire that welled up in him would have buckled his knees. He clenched his hands, swallowing against the need Seth’s soul stirred in him.
He’d claim that soul for himself if it was the last thing he did. He had no other choice. He didn’t think he could stand to walk away now.
The music began to wind down, and the crowd buzzed with excitement. The attendees were a motley mix of black and white, Latino and Asian. They cheered when Reverend Thaddeus’s opening act—introduced as Reverend Bob—mounted the stage, a tambourine in his hand.
Abaddon leaned back in his seat and watched the show.
The sermon was short on fire and brimstone and long on a New Testament-style celebration of Christ’s love. By the time Reverend Rawlins took the stage, half the crowd was on their feet. There were lots of bible verses, at least half of them taken out of context, but nobody seemed to mind. Fifteen minutes into his performance, the musicians started up again. Not hymns this time, but lively music, giving the congregants a strong beat to clap and stomp to as the Reverend raved and the collection plate began to make its rounds.
“The Lord commands us to love our neighbor!”
“Amen!” his back-up and the choir shouted together, spurring the crowd to echo him.
“To love him as your brother!”
“Hallelujah!”
“The Lord commands you to help the poor! To love your brother as yourself!”
“Praise Jesus!”
“We’re told in Mark that there is no commandment greater than this!”
“Amen, brother!”
“Hatred stirreth up strife, but love covereth all sins!”
“Hallelujah!”
“And when I leave this Earthly plane, when I approach those pearly gates, when I face my Lord to account for my sins—”
“Praise Jesus!”
Abbadon had seen a lot of religious fervor over the years. He’d seen bible thumping, faith healing, and serpent handling. He’d seen people writhing on the floor and speaking in tongues. He’d even seen a couple of good ole boys in Mississippi drink strychnine. But he’d never seen anything like Reverend Rawlins’s Rainbow Revival. All around him, people wearing Birkenstocks, tie-dye, and corduroys danced and clapped and sang. They laughed and praised. It was like a rave without the drugs. Like some little corner of Woodstock where everybody was trippin’ their balls off on Jesus.
The music increased in tempo. The crowd cheered. Reverend Bob ran up and down the aisles, shaking his tambourine, making sure the collection plate never stopped moving. Seth played on, his hands pounding the keyboards, his brow glistening with sweat. And Reverend Rawlins—
Abaddon stopped, staring at the stage.
The Reverend still preached, but what nobody but Abaddon seemed to notice was the way Reverend Rawlins and his small band of followers kept glancing Seth’s way. Some looked anxious. Some looked hopeful. Seth was oblivious, lost in his sightless, musical world.
“Maybe the Holy Spirit will visit us here tonight!” the Reverend yelled, his eyes sliding again toward Seth.
“Praise Jesus!” the crowd answered, focused on Reverend Thaddeus, even as the choir turned as one to check the young man playing the keyboards.
What exactly was going on here?
They all seemed to be waiting.
Stalling.
Hoping for something.
All but one.
Off to the side, the black foreman stood with his shoulders back and his hands clasped behind him, calm and solid, unswayed by the spectacle before him.
And he was staring directly at Abaddon.