The old priest muttered a prayer and crossed himself as the wind carried the call of a screech-owl across the valley.
Lying on the riven altar in the deconsecrated church the surrogate mother gave a final push. It was easy. Always easy for this regular client. And she never looked. Didn’t care about the gender, about the number of toes.
The father beamed as he lit a cigar. And turned to the midwife, “Look at that, Lilith, perfect, ain’t it so sweet.”
“And look closely, see the little horns, the tail, the cloven hooves.”
The priest slept fitfully that night.