You would know the three-eyed god of death anywhere, but down in this deep dark place, he looks like an actual nightmare. A great wolf’s mask sits unnaturally over the proxy’s human head. At the neck, hair weaves itself into skin, sealing the man inside. As the Madness’s chosen vessel, the priest will never show his face again. He wears no shirt, no shoes. His pants are dusty and stained. His entire body looks emaciated, ribs as pronounced as the bars of a cage.

The sight of him redefines your fears. You do not ask why he is here. You do not ask why you are here. All the pieces of this dreaded puzzle are falling into place.

Mother says, “I would ask the blessing you gave me be extended to my daughter.”

The three wolfish eyes leer in her direction. You fight back a shiver as the Madness inclines his head, taking in the request. A rasping voice echoes, “A drop of your blood.”

She starts forward, bloody palm held out.

The Madness growls at the sight. “A new wound is required.”

She hesitates, then takes up the obsidian blade again. She calmly slits the opposite palm and shows it to the god. He gives an approving nod as she holds it out over the altar. In the light of your candle, blood drips over the stones. The Madness licks his lips, tongue slavering.

You know he is the god of death. He is the way between the worlds. Some call him the Bridgekeeper. Nothing passes up from the underworld without his approval. You cannot fathom why he is here tonight or what Mother could possibly be thinking. This is not a path you ever imagined walking. It is the fool’s way forward.

“The girl now,” the Madness says. “Her blood must surround the altar entire.”

You watch in horror. She cleans the knife and turns. She offers it to you.

“Take it,” she orders. “Pippa. Do as I say.”

There’s no room in her voice for argument. You exchange candle for blade. The Madness has started chanting and moving. He speaks in an inhuman tongue. The words start out as words, before echoing like the rattle of bones, bounding between worlds with dangerous reverberation. And then the Madness dances around the altar, lost in the chaos of his spell. You take the distracted moment to ask the question that burns brightest in your mind.

“What is happening?”

“Trust me,” she whispers. “I’m offering you a gift.”

She shoves you forward. The Madness continues to dance. You step up to the altar, carefully clear of his circling path. Your hands shake as you take the blade and press the black tip to your palm. The sharp pain makes you gasp, but a bloody streak appears.

The Madness stops. “Let it encircle the altar. The spirit must attune to you.”