The Stormies seemed deep into their ritual, most likely too distracted and fire-blind to notice me slipping by in the dark. What slowed me down further was the sense I got of a happy occasion, a frantic but joyous celebration. Cries of ecstasy, moans of pleasure among the chanting. An orgy, not an immolation. What about those rumors of human sacrifice?

So, I sneaked first, catching an eyeful here and there. Slipping along the wall sections, oozing across the openings between, counting on the cover of darkness, forgetting I wore glaring yellow, until a naked man rose up beside me with a shout.

“Sister! Join hands for the Goddess!”

Hands, and a whole lot more, I thought. Then I ran.

Maybe a hundred yards to the next footbridge. The guy pounding behind me was fast. I felt him snatch at the folds of my poncho and lose his hold. Did I really hear him laughing? Lucky for me, he was barefoot on wet concrete. He lunged too far, slipped and fell. I had on my grippy street shoes. I was going to make it. Then there was another naked guy beside the first, catching up fast. These Stormies were in good shape.

“Accept Her coming and be saved!”

Not on your life. I made it to the bridge and scrambled across.

Thwack! Thwack!

The sound was scary and alien. It jetted right over my head. I slowed to locate this new threat. A stumbling glance over my shoulder sent me whipping behind the closest pillar.

The bridge rocked wildly, lit by the distant, dancing firelight. One man lay face-down on its slats, grappling for dear life to keep from being flung to the street. The second bellowed and rolled about on the concrete of the far edge. The rain stung my eyes, making them play tricks as I squinted and stared, desperate to know what had dropped two fast runners so suddenly. I’d swear each wore a hot splash of blood and a long, thin shaft piercing one limb or another.

My fractured memory spat up a word to match the visual.

Like, arrows?

But arrows needed an archer. I scanned the buildings to right, left, above. Maybe a telltale open window, or a flash-motion as . . . whoever . . . ducked out of sight?

Nothing. Driving rain and flying trash. A ringing in my ears from the wind screech and low barometric pressure. And two naked men bleeding at the end of the footbridge.

A third ran out of the flicker of blaze and shadow to squat beside the second man. He searched the same dark rows of windows, yelling behind him for help.

Had to shake off my befuddlement. Get out while I had the chance.

A crowd gathered. The first man was dragged off the swinging bridge and carried into cover as I slipped away. No more arrows came, but the Stormies got the message. No one ventured across the footbridge.