Exodus 20:3

by Freydís Moon

You’re like a coyote, she’d said to him once. Halfway to a wolf but still something else.

At his weakest, he’d prayed; at his strongest, he’d prayed, too, but no one had ever made themself known. Not a devil, not a goddess, not the God. Diego had spent his life filling the silence with his own voice, rasping his vocal cords with cayenne and tequila and hormones until he finally recognized the sound.

Whatever Ariel thought he saw in Diego, whatever presence he thought Diego would feel, simply didn’t exist. Faith was prescriptive, a placebo. Something brandished like a weapon in one breath and offered like a blanket in the next.

“Biblical,” Ariel repeated. “I doubt God would take issue with what you do or don’t do with your body. The Bible was written by men—torn limb from limb and poorly sutured by the kings of Mysia. As much as I cherish the Gospel, it isn’t exactly godly anymore. Holy, yes. Important, yes. Inspirational, yes. But it’s the Bible that condemns promiscuity. Not God.”

Ariel leaned toward him, cradling Diego’s jaw. Slender digits framed the top of his throat, and Ariel tipped his face upward, baring his neck. “You are my golden calf, Diego López. You have remade yourself, rebuilt your own empire from within, and demanded recognition from the world. Reverence from unbelievers. Now, tell me, what did you come here for?” “Absolution,” Diego said, and it was the truth.

Ariel held him there again, rumbling like a beast. “To what extent do you wish to worship?” Diego shifted backward. He rested on his heels, breathing hard. “What’re you willing to give me?” “Whatever you want.” “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to pray,” Ariel said, and his knees thumped the floor. “Through you,” he added, breath gusting over Diego’s cunt. “Into you.”

“I could worship you,” Ariel whispered raggedly. “I would let you,” Diego said. “Stay with me. Stay, little coyote,” he said, breathing hard. “You’ll be safe.”

He understood, somehow. The same way church was a ritual and communion was witchcraft. The same way miracles were acts of God spilled through human hands and depending on your clergy—your people—brujería was a gift or a curse. A known thing, wrapped in tradition. Like whispering the Rio Grande out of someone’s lungs, like finding an angel in the desert. These things just were, sometimes.