Wine and Gun

Then the strings that fixed McCard were suddenly loosened, and the body, which was fixed in mid-air, was almost intact compared to the other victims and fell to the ground, drearily into a pool of blood and stumps that had not yet solidified. middle. Herstal stepped over the body with a blank expression, and stepped onto the highest step of the ladder.

——The top of the stairs inside the "Wooden Boat" is a fairly wide platform, and the platform is connected to the sacrificial table. These steps are actually relatively flat, and the highest step is also quite different from the altar table that can reach the height of the human chest. Now the table top of the altar table is almost close to Hestal's hip bone. Beyond the white tablecloth of the sacrificial table, and the silverware for religious ceremonies placed in a staggered manner, on the other side of the sacrificial table was Kabbah Slade.

This man, who was actually in his early sixties, looked at Herstal in horror at the moment, and when the thunder and wrath of God destroyed Sodom, it was probably the same expression that had been experienced. When looking at the horrified face, Herstal had a hard time connecting him with the always smiling priest of thirty years ago. To this day he still remembers the tone of the priest's voice, how he made his boys feel the threat of bloodless with his soft tones, but there was still a layer between the vivid memory and Slade's face. Frosted glass-like blurred barriers.

This made it clear to him that something had changed after all—he would never admit that he was shaped by the other person, but it was still inevitably changed by the long time and pain. Standing here at this moment is no longer the fourteen-year-old blond boy in the choir, and the priest has long been less terrifying than he remembered.

He held the knife, blood soaking through his skin, the handle slipping between his fingers. Slade stared at him in horror, and if Slade could speak at this moment, he would have confessed, would have prayed, and would have given some promises that sounded good enough, but he couldn't anymore. Herstal still felt something choked in his throat, some hot fluid running through his veins, but it didn't bother him as much anymore. He went forward--

Herstal suddenly stopped abruptly.

He lowered his head slowly - at the moment he was standing on the edge of the wooden platform, the stern of the wooden boat that was designed to tip, and Albarino was standing on the ground below, only slightly shorter than him .

Now, slowly, slowly, Albarino got down on one knee and gently held Herstal's ankle with one hand.

Herstal felt the heat of the other's fingertips under the thin trousers fabric. Just as he was about to say something, Albarino lowered his head and gently kissed the upper of his shoe, his fingers affectionately. It got stuck in that hollow under the bone of his ankle.

Herstal finally spoke, and he said in a low voice, "Albarino—"

Then the Sunday Gardener looked up at him and smiled suddenly. Herstal saw the green eyes, the pupils dilated, the iris squeezed by the dark pupils to a thin, thin ring, full of lust and something deeper than that. The corners of Albarino's mouth were raised, his lips were blushing, and on his lower lip, there was a smear of blood that had just smeared on his body and had not yet dried up.

"When the disciples of Christ see the miracle of His walking on the sea, they will feel that He should be worshipped by them." Albarino said slowly, raising his head.

"—I'm thinking the same thing at the moment."

Chapter 128 Aesthetics Victory 04

Herstal looked down at Albarino, he could read a certain emotion in the other's eyes, an unspoken hint - after knowing each other for so long, he was thinking about Albarino's thoughts There was some experience too - he read something that could be called honest joy, an unspoken answer.

There was a brief silence, neither of them said a word, and only Slade was struggling a little: in fact it would have given him no strength to his entire lower body, if the limpid man swayed his own body awkwardly upper body. When Herstal turned his gaze to him, there was a clear sense of horror in those helpless and foolish eyes.

This can at least explain a simple truth: Now, many years later, everything is in the hands of Herstal.

So Herstal bent slightly and grabbed the collar of Albarino's shirt.

His hands are full of bloodstains that have dried up and haven't dried up, the fingers are sticky, and there is an unpleasant fishy smell. This time, the bloodstains that are gradually turning black on his fingers are all rubbed against it. On Albarino's white shirt, a sharp arrow marked the location of his throat for any bystander who might see him.

Albarino was dragged to his feet by him, Herstal's hand strong enough that Albarino had to grab Herstal's wrist to avoid suffocating him from the tightening tie.

His fingers were pressed against the skin of Herstal's wrist, through the fabric of the shirt and the hard metal material of the cufflinks, but there was still a subtle warmth. In the next second, one of Albarino's fingers gently slid into the cuff of Herstal's shirt, and his calloused fingertips gently rubbed against the skin of Herstal's wrist bone.

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