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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.
    â€œThe Lord commands us to love our neighbor!”
    â€œAmen!” his back-up and the choir shouted together, spurring the crowd to echo him.
    â€œTo love him as your brother!”
    â€œHallelujah!”
    â€œThe Lord commands you to help the poor! To love your brother as yourself!”
    â€œPraise Jesus!”
    â€œWe’re told in Mark that there is no commandment greater than this!”
    â€œAmen, brother!”
    â€œHatred stirreth up strife, but love covereth all sins!”
    â€œHallelujah!”
    â€œAnd when I leave this Earthly plane, when I approach those pearly gates, when I face my Lord to account for my sins—”
    â€œPraise 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