The moon hangs around, a blade over my head
Night consumes light and all I dread
Reminds me what to do before I’m dead
The sound of something dragging across his floor woke Steve up in the middle of the day. He was disoriented for a moment, and blinked to clear the fuzz from his vision. He held himself still in the center of his bed, straining to hear where that strange sound was coming from. Just as he was about to settle back down to get some more sleep, there it was again. It was almost as if someone was crinkling the pages from his spell books or like something was rubbing against sanded parchment. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted a hand and summoned a crackling sphere of fire. It was small, a testament to his limited power, but it would suffice in helping him defend himself.
“Stéfanoss.” The enchanting but raspy voice was but a whisper as it weaved its way into his ears, the hissing emphasized almost dramatically on the s at the end of his full name. Steve abruptly turned to face the lone window in his room. There, on the sill, was a large serpent. Its skin was the color of pitch with a midnight blue hue. Its eyes sang of bright emeralds with flecks of aurum, a testament of its otherworldly nature. “I heard you calling in the woodss and I came.”
Causing his ball of fire to cease, he realized that he had finally been blessed with a familiar, a goblin that had taken animal form. Gingerly getting out of bed, he approached the serpent with a cautious air. “Do you have a name?”
“I am called Aoda.” He watched as the snake slithered closer to him, its golden and green gaze heavy upon him. “I am yourss and you are mine. With our power combined, you can achieve a great many thingss. I will be with you whenever you have need of me. To ssummon me, if you have ssent me away, you need only sspeak my name and sspill your blood.”
“Ahh a blood pact.”
“Precissely. Draw the ssymbol from your sspell with your blood on your palm and then I will add my own.”
All his knives were either in the kitchen or his spell room so he sat down, taking his right thumb and biting down, hard. Satisfied with the flow, the scent of rust filled his nose as he drew a pentacle on his left palm. Hearing a hiss, he looked up to see that his new familiar had joined him on his bed. He watched as the serpent pierced its own tail with its fangs before holding it up and allowing the blood to drip steadily into Steve’s hand. As their blood mixed, he watched as the symbol faded from his sight, seeping into his skin. With that, the blood pact was complete. He could feel Aoda somehow, as if their souls had been twined together. An abnormal heartbeat settled in his chest near his own. A smile graced his features as Steve held out his hand, allowing his new familiar to travel up his arm and settle around his abdomen. To his amazement, Aoda melted into his skin. It was a disconcerting feeling, slightly itchy on his lower stomach, below his navel, but overall nothing he couldn’t grow accustomed to. He already had the phantom beat next to his heart, a little itch was nothing of consequence. The sun streamed heavily into his room through the window at that moment, the light bright and warm signifying the passing of time. As he laid back down to let another bout of sleep rejuvenate his senses, he missed it when a strange figurine appeared on his bookshelf right next to his little black book.
Steve pored over the grimoire every chance he got after his familiar came to him. It was all that was on his mind most nights, barring the time he spent thinking about Lloyd, even during Black Mass. He already had trouble concentrating in service but with this new find, he paid attention even less. After gaining companionship with Aoda, he had been trying spell after spell, causing him to forsake the assembling of the coven outside of their main services. He was extremely pleased to find that he was getting stronger as well. The higher magic he performed took less of a toll on his body, his nose didn’t even bleed anymore. He did notice that itchy sensation on his lower belly more often, he scratched at it sometimes but didn’t think too much of it. Not when he was so enthused about the new level of his abilities. Unfortunately, when he attempted one of the spells toward the center of the grimoire, he realized that he was still at a deficit. He was slightly irritated that he still needed more power. He shouldn’t be, he knew he should be grateful that he even found the grimoire in the first place. Alas, he was only a witch and to err is a witch’s plight. As he perused over the pages by the light of the moon streaming through his window and Aoda curling around his shoulders, he came across a ritual that spoke of an exchange in essences. Intrigued, he pressed on, skipping over terms like parturiency and purity. He was more interested in the six trials of the caster. Mentions of cosmic events, expression triangles, sacrificial lambs, and creating otherworldly tethers sent shivers down his spine. Exchanging in essences almost always meant sex magic and while he was no stranger to such carnality in the act itself, to approach an entity outside his scope of understanding in supplication with the intent to use his body in such manners gave him pause. Through the Church of Shadow’s teachings, he knew other deities existed but the morning star heavily discouraged contact with them. Steve was always taught that those beings were so far removed from the earth, that the happenings of the witches here were like specks of dust to them. To put himself in the crosshairs of deities that were indifferent to his own existence, to the existence of humanity as a whole, could only spell his ruin.
Steve was determined though, perhaps even a little stubborn in his resolve to revisit that bit of information later. Instead, he turned his focus on what else was written in the ritual, the name in particular that was present in the incantation. It was the very same epithet that was strewn throughout the book. The epiphany that came to him just then was like a punch to the gut, winding him in the process. He couldn’t believe that he just realized this name, Lwyd, must have been for the author of the grimoire, a great witch by the knowledge etched onto these pages. He held the little black book carefully in his hands with a new sense of reverence and awe. With that in mind, he eagerly took note of what else he needed for the ritual. He just knew this would be the way to achieve what he had always wanted since he took his first steps onto the path of night. He felt pleased that his quest for power was finally yielding this result. He had been waiting so long for this. He kept reading and grinned when he came to the incantation. It was powerful in its simplicity but personal in its additional call for the caster’s most heartfelt of longings. He faltered though, when he came to the section that mentioned the sacrifice of a pure blooded vessel for the transference of essences to be successful.
Pure blood couldn’t mean anything other than virgin blood. Such a requirement, while not uncommon in sacrificial magic, also gave him pause. A pure blooded vessel, however, could still mean many things. It was this line of thinking that led him to stare off into space in careful contemplation, finally catching the sight of a peculiar piece of something grey sitting on top of his bookshelf. The cool tones of light from the moon illuminated the item so that he could see it was actually a stone figurine. It was shaped with the head of an octopus, slightly humanoid but skull-like in its countenance, sitting on top of a rectangular structure. Tentacles protruded from its face with four of them resembling elongated teeth. Perturbed but curious, he reached a hand out and called the figurine to him. He watched as it bobbed in the air slightly, due to his uncertainty.
“You have gotten sstronger, Stéfanoss. I am proud to have witnessed thiss.” Aoda’s voice was as enchanting as the day they met.
“Have you seen this before?” He asked his serpentine companion as he turned the item over in his hand, considering the markings on the back of it. Cthonlwyd, the word etched crudely onto the stone. It was ice cold to the touch as if winter had frozen the figure in place. It was as smooth as pebbles but as hard as granite. In the light from the moon, the figurine gave off a cerulean hue reminiscent of the seas.
“I am unfamiliar with thiss totem but beware, it reekss of the abyss.”
In the days and weeks that followed, Steve filled his time with preparations for the ritual leading up to the nearest blood moon that happened to fall on Lupercalia. While the rest of the coven was abuzz with excitement for the festivities, his focus was on his goal. Well, that and the fact that Lloyd had been making appearances at Black Mass more frequently. At first, he was still wary of the effect the witch had on him but quickly warmed up to the idea that perhaps Lloyd was making his intentions for him clear and known. The witch would often times sit next to him during the service, something that made Steve particularly smug for reasons he didn’t really want to acknowledge but probably should. His feelings for the man had grown considerably since their first meal together, especially since they had begun to spend a lot more time together whenever he wasn’t focused on his quest for power. More often than not though, he could tell Father Chad wasn’t happy about Lloyd’s presence during service. There were multiple occasions where he caught the man glaring daggers at Lloyd in plain view of the coven, but that change wasn’t the only thing he observed. The more time he spent with Lloyd, he noticed that it almost always got a little colder than usual. As if a gust of wind was permanently orbiting them while they were together, dropping the temperature just enough to make him aware of the change. It only further affirmed his dislike for the cold. The longer he spent weaving spells and practicing his craft with the assistance of Aoda and that little black book, the more in tune with the energies around him he became. As each point of the expression triangle for the ritual was completed, as he harnessed the power from each point of that sacred shape, he became more and more aware of the itchy sensation below his navel. The feeling usually went away after awhile, but now it was even more noticeable now. It felt like his skin was healing after a wound with the urge to scratch and pick at a scab becoming much more present in his thoughts. It was this feeling that led him to take stock of himself on a particularly windy night during mass. A persistent itch along the waistband of his trousers. Discreetly, he ran his fingers along the skin of his lower belly discovering a certain roughness that didn’t used to be there. It actually did feel like a scab but he couldn’t recall any recent injuries to the area. Excusing himself to the latrines, he came to stand before a looking glass. In shock, he stood there, with his tunic raised, gazing at the evidence of scarring. Upon closer inspection, he could just make out shapes. Tracing them with his fingertips, he realized they were letters… and they spelled out a word. Cthonlwyd.
His thoughts seemed to slow to nothingness as he trudged his way back into the building to take his seat. He didn’t understand what was happening. He also wasn’t sure where Lloyd was, the witch was supposed to come to church with him that night. They actually planned for it this time. As he sat down in the back pew to continue listening to Father Chad’s sermon, the priest’s voice became likened to white noise. He absentmindedly rubbed at the scar through his shirt as the rest of his attention turned razor sharp to take in the tendrils of pitch that had suddenly began to attach themselves to his legs. Slowly they undulated in their path up his thighs. He could feel them through his trousers, they seemed to bite at his skin leaving him feeling frozen solid. He felt so cold, as if he had been plunged into the depths of the sea. His breaths seemed to slow even though he felt as if he was panting like a canine. He felt like he should be warm with how hard his heart was pounding, sending oxygen-rich blood toward all his limbs and extremities. Those pitch-dark tendrils continued their ascent, quivering in their path up his torso, he felt constricted in his bonds. His eyes widened as he tried to move, he couldn’t. He was rooted to his spot on the very last pew in the building. It was obvious something was wrong, something had gotten ahold of him. Something will the ability to reach into this plane of existence and slowly drag him to hell. Was this a warning? Was this the Dark Lord making his stance on his extracurricular activities known? He could barely hear Father Chad’s sermon at this point, everything was muffled. It was as if he truly had been dragged under murky waters. If anything, the only thing he could hear was the soft murmurs of someone, something, chanting in his ear, as if they were sitting right next to him.
In his house, he waits for you. In his house, he dreams. In his house beneath the sea, he waits dreaming of you.
“An unholy night to you, Stéfanos.” Steve jumped at the timber of that stern greeting, Father Chad’s greeting. The tendrils that had been steadily curling around his person were now gone and his body had returned to homeostasis. His hearing was back and his heart rate was back to normal. Looking around the sanctuary, he saw that there were witches milling about. Some stood by the desecrated altar making their offerings, others animatedly conversing as they left the building. He realized that he had been sitting there in a daze for the rest of the service. Lifting his head, he noted the expression on the priest’s face. It wasn’t a pleasant one either.
“Father, an unholy night to you as well.”
“It has come to the Dark Lord’s attention that you have been dabbling in things beyond your understanding,” Father Chad said. There was a growl-like quality to his voice that wasn’t usually there. Taking a look at the man’s face, he could see that his eyes were a peculiar shade of scarlet, almost like the priest didn’t get nearly enough sleep. But that all took a backseat to the dread Steve felt. That must have been the devil reaching out to him during the sermon, a precursor to the words his master decided to impart on him through the priest.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” he said. It was a lie, a bold-faced one, but he wasn’t just going to reveal all his secrets to the coven leader, in public no less.
“I see, this is your only warning my child. The Dark Lord, our god, doesn’t take too kindly to his children stepping out on him or his teachings. I would also like to talk to you about your new companion. Our Lord doesn’t approve of him and I rather agree. He isn’t the right fit for you, he can’t take care of you like—”
“Steve, apologies for being late.” Relief flooded his senses at that voice calling out to him from a short distance, one that he had begun to associate with camaraderie and comfort, lust and desire, peace and harmony. It was Lloyd, he finally came, but he couldn’t help but wonder what kept him away. Looking over his shoulder, Steve smiled watching the witch walk toward him. His smile grew even wider when Lloyd wrapped a massive arm around his waist before bestowing a sweet, cool, kiss upon his lips. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Steve’s voice always came out airy like he had just ran the marathon in Olympia when talking to Lloyd. He had long since stopped caring about that fact. He just knew his smile was tinged with all the feelings he had for the man. It was official, he fancied Lloyd and it showed.
“Stéfanos, I must implore you to—
“Thank you for your wise words, Father, but I must go now.” Steve said, effectively cutting the priest off. The man’s voice had grown irritating and he had better things to do that clamber in his embates at the mere mention of what he was dabbling in. He was happy to have Lloyd in his life now and he was absolutely committed to his new path, nothing would stop him until he achieved everything he desired.
It was the scent of rotting eggs that alerted him to something being amiss. When he first noticed the odor, it had woken him up. He pushed all the heavy drapes that hung over all of the windows to the side to allow fresh air to cleanse his home. It worked, for a while, before the scent came back in full force bringing with it the telltale heat and sunshine of a new day. The sweltering heat and the stench caused Steve to grow restless in his aim to try and get back to sleep. He had grown accustomed to his home being a little extra cool after a visit with Lloyd, so this oppressive heat was unprecedented.
A knock on the front door pulled him from his thoughts. The sound had him scrunching his nose as he questioned just who could be at his door at this devil forsaken hour. Bundling himself in a blanket, he left his room. The closer he got to the door, the more he could smell those rotten eggs, the more the heat had accumulated around him. Tossing the blanket to the side, he unlatched the heavy wooden door from its place. It swung open abruptly as if someone had kicked the door in just as he was opening it. To his utter horror, a varmint of nightmares to many stood before him. A bipedal goat-like creature stepped forward and into his home, causing Steve to stumble backward. Its horns protruded from its strangely shaped forehead, arching back toward its posterior. Its gaunt limbs were covered in fur matted with old blood by the scent of pungent rust mixing in with what he now realized was brimstone, paired with the blaze in the beast’s gaze he knew something terrible was coming. His eyes widened as the creature raised a clawed hand, his only warning to what was indeed on its way. He turned to run but only managed to get a few paces before he could feel the sensation of knives cutting through meat as the beast’s claws tore through his clothed back. It was as if it was all happening so slowly, as if he stumbling through sinking sand on his way to the ground. The scent of blood was magnified as the beast’s blows kept coming. He could just hear the sound of his skin splitting as the beast’s claws continued to rip through him, it rang out throughout the room more than he could feel it. His back had long since grown numb as the creature continued to rain down its unholy judgment on his flesh. He barely had the wherewithal to clamp his palm over his mouth to keep from crying out in misery, he could feel the scream that worked its way through his throat as it threatened to slip past his lips. No matter how much pain he was in, he would not give the Dark Lord the satisfaction of hearing him lament his current circumstance.
“Brénton Stéfanos Chyron Kempus, you have brought my unholy retribution upon yourself. For disobeying my teachings, forsaking your duties as my disciple, I strip you of your immortality, of your very essence as a child of night.”
A shriek rang out throughout the room, it was a sorrowful one full of agony. It took a moment before he realized it had come from him. The scream had finally been unleashed from his throat, leaving it feeling abused and raw. He could feel the moment the Dark Lord’s words took hold. He couldn’t even find comedy in the morning star using his full name, the one he wrote in the book of the beast on the night of his dark baptism, for all the pain took his sense of humor. Nothing was funny in this moment. His thoughts were sluggish, his vision was getting hazy, he could feel it when his magical core was rendered null and void. He was no longer a witch, he no longer possessed any affinities for the sacred arts. He could taste it as salted droplets fell from his eyes, racing as they traveled down his cheeks and into his mouth.
“Your egregious actions against me, against my church, are unforgivable. After your death, you will spend a century in the pit the false god originally made for me.” The lashings continued as he spoke, welts on top of welts, new blood on top of old. He didn’t know how much more he could take of this.
The sensation of something cool writhing beneath his skin brought his still sluggish thoughts to his familiar. The soothing feeling flowed through his body and almost seemed to rush toward his back, like rushing water in a stream. He started to feel his back knitting itself together and almost cried out again, this time in joy. It was Aoda healing him. In his haste to get stronger, to gain more power, he neglected to learn anything about healing magic or anything else that didn’t have to do with the ritual he was so focused on. Such was an unfortunate fact and he resolved to remedy as soon as the Dark Lord was finished with him, he just had to survive this.
“What’s this?” The beast’s growl sounded closer than ever as the creature grabbed him up like an unruly child and tossed him onto his lacerated back. He let loose a howl as the concrete flooring came in contact with his wounds. “Not only have you sullied yourself with the company of terrors, you have made an unsanctioned and even unholier bond? Oh, sweet midsummer night’s child, that just won’t do.”
The Dark Lord’s voice went eerily somber, as if his master was truly saddened by his actions. It reminded him of the calm before a storm and what a tempest it was. He was frozen in horror as he watched the beast lean down and tear into his stomach with his fangs. He could no longer hold back his sobs as he was eaten alive, the beast ravaged through his intestines as if he was searching for something. The agony stopped abruptly and he weeped, grateful for the reprieve only to look on as his master wrenched his familiar from his abdomen. The odorous brimstone filled his nose again and tears fell profusely from his eyes as he watched Aoda go up in the telltale soft aqua and cyan flames of hellfire. His own skin lit up as if he had been placed on a witch’s pire, the result of Satan cleaving his soul in two. He languished in agony as Aoda burnt to a crisp before his eyes. That was all he could handle. He greeted the fires of hell that day. Whatever he encountered earlier that night during Black Mass was leagues better than this. He would rather freeze and succumb to the bitter cold than burn in the fiery pits of Pandemonium. Pitch-darkness fell and covered him like a comforting blanket as he lost consciousness in a pool of his own blood.
Steve awoke with a ragged breath. It was difficult to swallow his own spit what with his throat being raw from all the screaming he did as he took the Dark Lord’s punishment. Gingerly getting to his feet, he noticed that he was as naked as the day he was born. He was standing a lush garden, the trees were full of fruits and the leaves were so vibrant in their greens. A slightly tart and earthy scent drew him forward. As he kept walking, the scent turned citrusy and sweet. As if being lured in by that sweetness, he came to a small clearing and there it was. A magnificent tree that towered into the sky, it was older than all the others. A gasp slipped from his lips at the sight. It was clear that this was the afterlife, that his soul did not survive Aoda’s loss, that his body could not withstand Satan’s retaliation. He tried to keep from crying but couldn’t hold the tears back. If this was truly the end, someone must have intervened on his behalf and allowed his spirit to rest here. It was with these thoughts that he approached the great tree and marveled at the amount of fruits the massive tree produced, apples to be exact.
Steve knew the stories. He knew of the malum malus, the oldest apple on the oldest apple tree in an orchard. He knew that eating of that sacred fruit would yield prophetic visions, assisting the witch who asked a singled question about their path. With that knowledge, he knew what he had to do. Holding the desires of his heart close, he reached for the apple, snapping it off the branch. It was blood red, it called to him, singing a song he already knew by heart.
In his house beneath the sea, he waits dreaming of you.
He considered the malum malus for a moment, hoping that whatever his new path had for him would be better than the life he previously led. Bringing the fruit to his lips, he took a bite and his vision faded to black.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6zG7cjZwuE
Haunting chants could be heard all around him, a legion of voices in an amphitheater focusing on a single point. As his vision came back, Steve could see that he was sitting on a throne of skulls while two creatures battled in the center of a stone arena. A black narcissus sheep stood on its hind legs as it fought with an anthropoid creature. It reminded him vaguely of the totem with its tentacles and octopus-shaped head, but that is where the similarities ended. This creature stood upright as well, with a scaly torso, massive claws on its almost humanoid hands and talons on its feet. Its entire body seemed to be dipped in some sort of black mucus that caused the sheep to falter in some of its blows. As the bloody battled waged on he could only watch in morbid curiosity as the creatures fought to the only possible outcome, death. The anthropoid tore chunks out of the sheep, revealing pale flesh beneath its wool. The sheep head-butted the anthropoid, its horns ripping out scales to reveal the same thing. Pale, cool-toned flesh. The chants from the spectators seemed to grow louder at that. Their voices coming to a crescendo as the creatures tore horns and wool, tentacles and talons from each other.
That is not dead which can eternal lie and with strange aeons even death may die. In his house at R’lyeh, he waits dreaming of you. In his house, Stéfanos, he’s waiting for you. He’s waiting for you. He’s waiting. For you.
Steve paid no mind to the humanoid figure of the black narcissus sheep, his attention fully captivated by the broad figure that stood in the anthropoid creature’s stead. He zeroed in on human feet, his gaze traveling up and pausing on the man’s head. It was the hair that made him seem vaguely familiar to Steve. It was as these notions ran through his thoughts, mixing with the legion and their chants, that a gravelly voice came to speak commanding the entire arena with its sheer weight.
“Is this the life you want to lead, serving a master that punishes you for the desire to know more?” The question pierced what was left of Steve’s soul, the pitch seeming to come from below even the gates of hell.
“Come to me, Stéfanos, I’ve been waiting for you.” As the man began to turn, all Steve caught was the shadow of his profile before a blinding white light ripped the scene from him.
Upon abruptly waking in the natural world, still lying supine on his concrete floor covered in the remnants of his encounter with the beast, Steve lamented not getting the chance to see that peculiar man’s face from his dream, before the contents of it faded from his memory. The only thing he couldn’t forget was what led him to succumb to slumber in the first place. He could no longer feel a phantom heartbeat beside his own. He could no longer feel his magical core that fed from the Dark Lord. With Aoda gone, with everything wrenched from his being, there was only one thing left to do. He was reaffirmed in his path, he would give himself over wholly for there was nothing else left for him in the Church of Shadows.
He was filled with rage at what Satan took from him, his immortality, his powers, his status as a witch, his familiar. It was then that he could feel something brewing deep within him, from origins darker and more sinister than that of even the beast himself. It was the result of harvesting the energies released from the thirty-six sacrifices at each point of the sacred expression triangle. Twelve demons, twelve humans, and twelve witches had given their lives for Steve’s cause and it was through them that summoning Cthonlwyd would be possible. With haste, he gathered everything he needed. The sun had already set and the Lupercalian moon was rising steadily in its blood red glory high in the sky. He procured a substantial amount of pure maiden’s blood, he was prepared to tie himself completely to a being unknown, to use his own body to become the vessel in the ritual. The moon’s light illuminated the strange totem that had been plaguing his dreams on most nights now. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed it and the grimoire before heading to the center of the expression triangle.
After painstakingly arranging everything, following the specifics from the grimoire, he stood in the center of a sacred geometrical shape that almost resembled a pentacle. It had eight points of contact and was large covering much of the clearing in the wood. The scarlet light that illuminated the area from the Lupercalian moon told Steve that it was time. Picking up a bowl, he dipped it into the basin of blood and began to chant as he poured it into the grooves that made up the octahedron. He summoned the pent up rage, he called on the thirty-six dead, he entreated with Aoda’s spirit, as he went. His voice that had begun as a whisper had now become strong, commanding the spell to do as he desired, demanding the ritual be sufficient. Once all of the blood in the basin was empty, he grabbed the totem and his favored dagger before coming to the center of the shape. Slicing his left palm, he held it over the totem and continued chanting. He could feel it now as he set the totem on the ground before him, holding his hands out as he knelt before it. His nose had started bleeding from the intensity, the winds that had been blowing due north had begun to swirl from all four corners of the earth as if Steve was summoning a tornado. His body vibrated as yelled the words out into the cosmos, demanding that his cry be heard.
Picking up the totem, he gripped it tightly in his left hand. He was bleeding profusely from his nose and his palm now. His heart burned, he longed for something different, something better. It was this longing that prompted him to call out the words that had been on his heart for a while now. Something personal that would bind the blood, the magic, the spell, the entire ritual to his very being.
“Bleak are the heavens,” he chanted as tears fell from his eyes. “Darker the gods.”
“Bleak are the heavens, darker the gods!” He kept chanting as the winds continued to swirl, torrents had begun to rain down on the clearing, a tempest was coming for Edom with a vengeance but nothing would stop him now. All of a sudden, everything stopped. In the dead silence of a Lupercalian night, Steve heard it. A voice that had traveled from across the seas, from the depths he knew not of their bounds.
“Well, this is certainly a surprise.” The voice that came from afar was two-fold, deep and gravelly layered with smooth silk, a voice he knew very well. The broad and muscled man that stood before him, with his back facing him, in the center of the octahedron was naked, save for the loin cloth and black markings that covered his skin. One of the markings that he could see clearly was on the right side of his lower back. It read Cthonlwyd. At that moment, Steve was hit with clarity. Cthonlwyd, Lwyd, the same name from the grimoire and the totem. The same name etched into his skin. “It took you long enough to summon me. Were my teachings helpful, Stevie?”
The man finally turned to face him and a gasp slipped from Steve’s lips.
“Lloyd?”
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