THE INFINIT HAD NO HEARTBEAT, yet there was life in him.

     He was murdered seven days ago and not a single breath came out of his nostrils any longer, but his body still functioned perfectly, this time even more alive. Stronger. Faster. Powerful.

     It was six thirty in the evening and in the rooftop of a condemned building overlooking Reverent Dick Badden's posh penthouse apartment, in the protective semidarkness of dusk shrouding this humid spring day, the Infinit was a shadow in the shadows. An indistinguishable outline of a man crouching next to the gargoyle that watched over the city. Only his eyes were quite distinct—dark, luminous, narrowing into a gaze of contrasting fury and melancholy that was hypnotic in intensity.

     The Infinit was standing still but there was no stillness within him.

     From the streets below came the sounds of the Gorgoths' annual equinox revelry. The drone of car engines and the racket of ten thousand voices. The deep rolling inarticulate drumbeats that seemed to mimic a stomach rumbling with hunger filtered up from the passing parade.

     The Gorgoths were migrants that had started showing up in Nirvañana when the Infinit was a boy, peculiar characters that looked like a cross between vampire movie cultists and Halloween revelers. Cadaverous make-up. Dark arts accessories. Post-modern Gothic fashion that gave the impression that they were attending a funeral service, or about to be buried themselves.

     Gorgoths of all races and ages seemed to make their rendezvous in Nirvañana. No distinct nationality or culture characterized them. An agglomeration of many influences from different parts of the world.

     They would arrive in droves on a train, settling in town for a while; then they would disappear. Another horde would come to replace them.

     The Infinit's best friend, Rob Winger, considered Gorgoths evil witches.

     When they were in high school, they spied on the Gorgoths in one of their new moon festivities in the desert. They saw them dancing like crazy around a bronze-skinned woman with a hair of snakes like the gorgons of classical mythology, sitting on a throne and surrounded by burning effigies of crucified men.

     They took pictures and posted them on Nirvañana's website. It caused much uproar that earned the migrants another name, wackshmucks.

     Through the years, the migrants had settled all over Nirvañana like unwanted squatters, imposing their peculiar lifestyle on the locals who were for the most part, intimidated into acquiescence.

     The Mardi Gras mirrored New Orleans' Shrove Tuesday festivities, only a lot more sacrilegious.

     Floats that exhibited hellish versions of a Hell carnival featuring booths and rides that inflict bodily pain like torture devices from the Middle Ages used to extort evidence or confession. The rack to stretch the victim's joints to breaking point. The thumbscrew. The boot, which crushed the foot. The iron maiden, a cage shaped like a human being with interior spikes to spear the occupant. Electric shock booth.

     All built around a football field-sized pit of fire.

     The spotlights crisscrossing the skies revealed a glimpse of the man in black leather Gorgoth outfit at the rooftop, his ashen face and body tattooed with magical symbols similar to Qamatayian's tattoos. Each hand was lashed-up by a black chain, like a boxers protective bandage.

     The touch of the Infinit's bare hands could kill humans, supernatural beings, and any living thing in the universe.

     And tonight, he would touch an old acquaintance.