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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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œSeth 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.”
    â€œI will not allow you to harm the boy.”
    â€œSettle 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