Someone Praying

The mood in the club was angsty, belligerent. The bouncers were breaking up a fight on the edge of the dance floor, and Lois Lane was glad for the distraction as she pushed through the crowd. To the abandoned flight of stairs that led downward into darkness. Her hips swayed and her heels clicked as she descended; the bottle in her inner jacket pocket tapped against her ribs with each step.

When she hit bottom, the thirst hit her suddenly. She shook, suddenly weak, like a sugar crash. Leaned against the doorway before the shrine...and realized she wasn't alone.

A figure knelt before the altar.

They were dressed in the long, plain dresses favored by certain nuns, and a white wimple covered their hair. The outfit, however, was frayed and worn at the edges as from long use and many washings, worn at the elbows and knees. Lois could see that the body beneath was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and the hands that were held in front showed blue veins near the surface of the skin, and the calluses of long hours of hard work.

For a moment, Lois thought the fingers clicked their way across a rosary...except no cross dangled from the wooden beads on a string, but a squat, bulbous stone figure that looked like an ancient fertility idol. The reporter moved closer, her heel-clicks loud in her own ears. Maybe here was someone that could answer her questions...about the altar, the bottle of cum, the missing women, her strange thirst...

The figure turned...and the face that stared up at Lois was thin, and somewhat androgynous. Dark eyes, prominent cheek bones, thin lips.

"Why have you come here?" The voice held an accent Lois wasn't familiar with, though the English was otherwise perfect.