Page 228 of The Carnage We Keep

“Right,” Dame mutters. “Gotta have heart.”

“Exactly!” I grin. “See? You’re starting to get it.” I sigh and lean my head on his shoulder. “Stick with me, Barone. We’ll make an artist out of you yet.”

We both go back to watching the multi-million-dollar lake house, plus now our only means of transportation back to civilization, turn to smoke and ash.

Pastor Jensen Pike was a legend in the New England religious scene for decades. Not only was he the head of Lakeshore Ministries, a massive megachurch with a congregation of twenty thousand, but he also founded and ran Camp Everlight, a summer camp for kids to come and "find their spark".

He was also the host of the super popular Chillin’ With God podcast, had a bestselling faith book aimed at adolescents called, unimaginatively, Finding Your Spark, and was the proud owner of this very fancy lakeside mansion sitting on its own private island off the shore of Lake Canaan, a few hours north of New York.

The pastor got a visit from yours truly and her big sexy helper tonight because Jensen Pike spent the last fifteen years systematically targeting the youth in his congregation and camp who would be both the most likely to say “yes” to an authority figure even if they didn’t want to and the least likely to tell anyone afterward.

My judicious use of the past tense is because Pastor Pike himself is now very much in the past tense.

As in, dead.

He’s also missing a head.

“In my defense,” I sigh, “they really don’t usually roll that much.”

Damiano groans under his breath. “You have statistical data on that?” He glances at me curiously. “Exactly how many heads have you cut off, anyway?”

“More than a few, less than several?” I shrug. “Like, a normal amount?”

We both glance back at the roaring fire.

“It might have been good to know about the oil ahead of time.”

Dame sighs heavily. “Okay. That one I’ll take responsibility for.”

“Well duh.” I shrug. “Checking the house for high volumes of flammable liquids was definitely your job.”

Amusement lifts his brows. “Was it, now?”

“Well, yeah! Some people had their hands full doing final tweaks to the guillotine. Obviously.”

The flammable liquid in question was Pastor Pike’s personal stockpile of branded “holy oil.”

Dame and I knew the asshole it by the bottle through his ministry. What we didn’t know was that it was less “sacred biblical olive oil” and more “cheap kerosene”, probably with just enough fragrance added to it to keep it from smelling like anything but, well, highly flammable fucking kerosene.

Sooo when Pike’s head rolled away from my guillotine and knocked one of my tastefully arranged lit candles into a box packed full of “Find Your Spark Holy Oil”…?

Well, Jesus, as they say, took the wheel.

…and apparently, He drove directly into a gas station.

“I have to say,” I grin. “This is very on-brand for Pastor Pike. You might say he found his spark, even at the bitter end?” I giggle with a huge smile on my face.

“Jesus,” Damiano groans. “I told you the candles were too much.”

“Ahem. You said 'that's a lot of candles'. That's an observation, not a directive.”

Another loud sound of wood snapping and crackling yanks our gazes forward again. Past the burning lake house and the van, the wooden bridge connecting Pike’s private island to the main shoreline of the lake erupts into flames.

“Goddammit,” Damiano grumbles through clenched teeth.

“Okay, minor setback.” I furrow my brow. “But doesn’t he own a boat?”

Karma really is a cunt. The second I say the word “boat”, the second chimney of the lake house collapses in a shower of swirling sparks and flaming roofing timber…