v1 CHAPTER ELEVEN: In which a storm-drenched soul is examined with both sympathy and judgment.

Around midday, Michael grew too restless to pretend at normalcy. He pulled a sweater over his compression garments-which, he had to admit, were doing a good job at letting him feel at least a little normal. Over the top he donned his raincoat; despite the downpour outside, he went to walk the streets.

He passed near Collect Pond and paused to watch the ducks swimming placidly, their black feathers glistening with droplets of water, their faces hidden beneath their bills. He wondered if they were aware of the storm high above. Did they have a sense of danger? Did they simply feel safe, there in the pond?

No, of course ducks knew about weather. They were part of the natural order. Michael had been infected with something from beyond, a parasite made of energy. In his heart, he felt swollen resentment towards Yael for disrupting his existence that he was unable to think of her as anything more than a parasite. She, or it, was something like a piece of putty that, over the centuries, had picked up imprints of the mortal clay she wrapped around and crushed to dust. A pattern of energy believing it was a person.

Even with all the thoughts swirling in Michael's head, the ducks did nothing but swim, bobbing slightly against the current. Their bodies moved with the rhythm of the water, inattentive to anything else. Michael followed them with his eyes, watching their graceful movements, the way they glided smoothly across the pond.

There was no sign of good or evil, no hint of an aura around the ducks. Yet Michael sensed something about them: a spirit that was peaceful, serene. They weren't so different from me, Michael thought with sudden insight. Like the ducks, I am more than a thing of energy. I'm also a creature of the elements: water, wind, fire, lumpen clay, which made a house for my immortal soul.

His component elements are bound together harmoniously, according to the kind of laws he could observe in nature. But beyond that--especially when humanity increasingly cut itself off from the natural rhythms of the world--wasn't the part of him called "Michael Belmont" a pattern of energy, just like Yael? Weren't they all?

Even demons and succubae, and other creatures that had taken on a human form, had absorbed some portion of their environment, and shaped themselves according to its laws and rules. Hadn't Yael's life been spent among mortals, absorbing their fears and hopes and desires, so that now she had become something akin to a mortal herself?

Of course, Michael knew the Catholic Church's line on all this by heart. Humans were different, they were special. Chosen to inherit the earth, protect its creatures, and resist outside influence. The Church would never consider a being like Yael anything but anathema, although they regarded of seldom-seen, possibly apocryphal beings like angels as holy messengers. Michael didn't even know what to think of that anymore; perhaps his sense of right and wrong had become confused.

He'd been taught to believe that there was a hierarchy of evil, from the devil himself to lesser demons who had fallen away from God. But if all creatures were made by God and subject to his will, how could one rank higher than another?

The questions bothered him deeply, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Was Yael a creature of God, even if she had fallen? As a prodigal child of God, did she not have as much a right to exist as he did? But then he, too, surely deserved his own existence. The two were fused now, like a cordyceps fungus growing on an ant, or a babe in its mother's womb... though only the former would certainly kill the host, either was potentially fatal, and both would forever change the lives involved. That was another truth many within the Church chose to ignore, as always.

Michael cleared his head. No Cartesian dualist, he knew that as the mind is part of the body, so could changes to the body affect the mind. Perhaps the process of "becoming Yael" was also altering his philosophy of life. It might explain why he felt so conflicted lately. On one hand, he wanted to reject everything Yael represented, including the fact that he had been possessed by her.

At the same time, he craved a certain amount of acceptance and understanding from others. To say out loud that someone was evil, that you hated them and feared them, was easy. To try and understand... that had always been what he thought of as his way of following Christ's teachings, but was that possible with an inhuman being who subsumed others into her person?

Michael stood up and began walking again, trying to feel grounded in his own muscles, his bones, his legs. Most of his body still felt familiar, rough and ready. He had done his best to strap down the rest with clothing, in the way of so many who felt ill at ease in their flesh.

Moving helped, exertion and sweat, washed away by the rain. "This Man, This Monster," he thought, the old sequence of art by Jack Kirby, about a monstrous being with a heart of gold, walking in the rain. For all his doubts, he believed that his true self was good, pure, righteous. So how come he kept having such confusing thoughts about Yael?

He shook his head, trying for the thousandth time to shake loose the miasma of doubt. He was almost back to the church; maybe he could get dry before he examined the quality of his soul any further. Reaching St. Andrew's, he turned toward the rectory door, then stopped suddenly when he saw something odd through a break in the clouds: bright lights shining above the church, illuminating the street below. They seemed brighter than any city light he remembered seeing before, but maybe that was due to the storm.

With a start, Michael realized that they must be lightning strikes, and a few moments later heard thunder rumble overhead. Lightning struck closer, and he jumped, startled. As soon as the flash faded, a new bolt shot across the sky directly over the church, lighting up the stained-glass windows and casting strange shadows onto the stone walls inside. The flashes grew faster until several bolts slammed together somewhere beyond the park and exploded simultaneously, throwing off sparks and smoke. Then the rains came down hard, pounding against the roof tiles and the cobblestone streets. Rain pounded on the windowpanes of the rectory as if the heavens themselves were crying.

Michael, soaked beyond the capacity of his rain gear to handle, stepped inside the rectory and fumbled for a towel. There had been almost no time between the flash and the sound of thunder. Was this a supernatural occurrence? Something involved with Yael, with all her talk of manipulating electromagnetic fields? Or just a storm? Maybe a combination of both.

Either way, there was nothing he could do outside, so he decided to wait out the weather. He took off his wet clothes, leaving them piled in the corner behind the bathroom door. His compression shirt and the constrictive bra were also thoroughly damp; the material stuck to his chest where sweat collected under the arms and around his nipples. He let his breasts swing free and sighed in relief. As much as he disliked having them, it was still comfortable to take restrictive garments off. He slipped his boxers off as well, and toweled himself off, doing his best to avoid sensitive areas. Naked, he sat on his bed and took out a hand mirror. He hadn't been able to bring himself to examine his changed genitals until now, but he couldn't flinch from what was going on.

Positioning the mirror between his legs so that he could see the area between his belly button and asshole clearly, Michael studied every detail of his changed anatomy in the mirror. A nub-like, hooded clit protruded from the folds of skin above his scrotum like a tiny penis, smooth, pink and hairless. His balls hung loose, heavy, dangling beneath him in his scrotum, which seemed tighter, smoother than before, his testicles nestling like little eggs. His entire sex was smooth and soft in what he assumed must be the appearance of all succubae.

He cupped his balls, feeling the texture, then ran his fingers up to his urethra, a simple hole in his flesh below his clit. Strangely, it felt just like the opening at the tip of his former penis, although slightly wider and longer, and without the usual sensitive, spongy tissue surrounding the opening of his penis.

Instead, the flesh below Michael's clitoris opened into a narrow band, forming a tube. When he pushed gently into the slit, the skin parted easily enough. He already knew that he could urinate, and now he understood how. What was missing, from what a normal woman's anatomy, were the folds of skin which protected the vagina; instead of a vulva, Michael's clitoris and urethral area led straight into his scrotum, ending where the bulge of his sac began. His scrotum, too, was completely hairless.

Michael suddenly realized the phone was ringing downstairs, so threw on a robe and went to the kitchen to answer it. On the other end, Monsignor Albert's voice crackled, the connection apparently affected by the storm raging outside. "Father Michael, are you there?" A loud thumping noise was audible in the background of Albert's words. "Is the -- " static crackled, and Michael strained to hear.

"The power is out!" Albert yelled, sounding exasperated by the storm.

"Oh," said Michael, wondering why Albert had called him rather than calling for help from the electrical company or even asking him to go to another parish for assistance.

Albert continued: "I've lost power here too, and I don't know how long it will last. Is your situation stable, have you encountered any more demons, or..."

"Yes, yes, everything is fine," said Michael, trying not to seem too relieved that the Monsignor's questions didn't extend to his sexual changes.

"Good," replied Albert, "Because I have a favor to ask of you. We have some issues that could use your... recent expertise. Would you mind coming to my office tomorrow morning at ten o'clock? Just for an hour or two."

"Sure, of course," said Michael, trying to hide the disappointment that Albert had mentioned nothing about the exorcist. But perhaps he could ask tomorrow. For now, he'd try to forget about the demon, concentrate on the job ahead and the current situation. He'd never been good at waiting, reluctant to leave home, so he grabbed a flashlight and hurried back upstairs. He put on a clean pair of underwear, awkwardly wrestled himself into the compression bra, pulled the compression shirt over his head, and left his soaked pants in the hamper.

The church was old and was frequently in danger of losing power in situations like this, so with John away it was up to Michael to check on the fuse box and the generator in the basement. He headed downstairs and walked through the nave. Lightning crashed outside, illuminating the space through the stained-glass windows, spattered with streaks of rain from the downpour.

As he neared the basement door, his flashlight revealed a set of stairs leading down into the church's cellar. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should be going down there if the lights could suddenly go out, but then decided to go ahead and see what was happening. The basement had been a part of the church from the beginning, used for storage when the building was built in 1882.

He clumped heavily down the steps, trying to calm himself. It wasn't as if the church were a magnet for disturbing troubles and supernatural occurrences, he thought; he was the exception, just his own problem with Yael. He shone the flashlight across stacks of dusty cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and rusting filing cabinets. The basement was cold and damp and musty smelling, but not scary.

He continued down the dark hallway to a door at the end, where he could hear the generator rumbling. He opened the door and turned on the light switch to a comfortingly mundane sight. The generator was on, designed to kick in during a brownout, but the main fusebox also indicated that nothing had been overloaded yet.

Michael checked the breaker box and saw that all the circuits were still in place, but he thought it wouldn't hurt to check the generator anyway. He inspected the fuel lines and hoses for leaks, then popped open the top cover to see that gasoline was still within safe levels, so he shut it back down and headed back upstairs.

As his foot touched the second step, Michael experienced a momentary wave of dizziness, which snapped away as he heard a loud crash from above, in the nave. He ran upstairs to find the lights flickering, and a huge tree branch protruding through one of the high stained-glass windows. The tree had come crashing down in the storm, but it was a miracle that no one had been hurt, and Michael was grateful.

The branch must have fallen from the old oak tree behind the church, thought Michael; it might have to be felled. Rain was pelting in at alarming rate, so Michael did his best to move the pews underneath the downpour out of the way, along with carpeting and other pieces of furniture. It was hard work, and he was soaked to the skin in the process, but he was also thankful that his efforts would prevent an even larger disaster.

When he was done, he stood before the altar, looking up at the cross. Here, in the midst of God's fury, Michael realized that there was one thing he had only turned towards occasionally in recent days. Prayer, and a supplication to the Holy Trinity for guidance. Yael's malign influence must have directed his thoughts elsewhere; either that or he was losing his faith without realizing it. But there was no time like the present, during a storm, to ask God for forgiveness and direction. Michael sank to his knees, his vestments damp from the rain. He bowed his head and asked God for help, in such a difficult situation: to spare the church from harm, to protect its people and the world from evil. With his hands clasped together, he closed his eyes, listening for the answer.

It was a moment of peace and calm, as if the world had stopped crashing down around him. He opened his eyes and saw that the rain was still falling thickly, but now it was in a soothing, steady downpour. He had heard nothing except for the gentle patter of raindrops and felt no more stormy weather on his skin. A sign, perhaps. Or just the natural course of things? Thunder crashed one more time, and it was louder, through the hole in the roof, but also from the front of the nave.

Michael turned and saw a cloaked, hooded figure standing at the foot of the pews. The figure pointed at him, silently. Then it pointed to the door, then back to him again.

"Yes," said Michael with startled alarm, "Yes, I'm coming." What on earth could this be now? The figure's garb was all black, slick with rain, showing no sign of who or what this might be.

Michael turned and hurried back to the door. He pulled it open and was almost blinded by the sheets of rain that dashed into his face. Thunder crashed again, but this time it was a distant rumble. He stepped outside, getting completely drenched in the process, and turned towards the figure, now standing at the top of the stairs to the street.

"Who are you?" he called out, looking for a sign of light or a weapon. "What do you want?"

"I don't want anything," said the figure, "but I can see that you do." The figure drew a long blade and extended it towards him. "You either want eternal life and damnation, as the slave of evil. Or perhaps you're more sensible, and you seek death. I can help you with that." The figure stepped forward and Michael saw that the blade was glowing with a faint light. "But I have to warn you, once we start, it's no longer up to me."

"Why?" asked Michael, "What do you mean?"

"I can give you a choice," said the figure, "but it is your choice to make. If you choose the path of self-sacrifice, I will honor it. I will give you a good death and mark your name." The figure slashed sideways, streaking rain in an arc away from the strange blade. "This is part of the oath of the Demon Hunters."

"What are you talking about?" cried Michael, as he backed up against the wall. "I don't want to die!"

"You think that you have a choice?" said the figure, "You do not. You are dying either way. I can give you an honorable death, or you can choose a slow, painful one, hollowed out by a sex fiend. Turned into her puppet, with her hand inside you for eternity. Now, shall we duel?"

"What duel?" asked Michael, "I, uh... I don't own a sword!" The rain was falling softer than before, as if the storm was passing. "Why are you here? Who are you"

"I am here to free you," said the figure, "from the shackles of a demoness. Her spoor led me here. And my name is Cassandra." The figure pushed back her hood, revealing close-cropped sandy hair and a grave face with steely blue eyes, a long scar across one cheek. Michael took in her black leather clothing and the whip dangling from her belt, as well as the long knife sheathed at her side.

"I don't know you," said Michael, "and I can't just accept that kind of help. I've thought about it, but it's simply not my creed. I am fighting against her-trying to maintain myself, my will and dignity. I won't give in. I have no choice, for my own existence."

"You do have a choice," said Cassandra, "but I can see that you don't want one. And you have chosen poorly." She turned her back, raising her hood again. "You think you are choosing life, but eternal life as a demon is far worse than death. I will come for you again."

Michael was shocked and confused, his mind still reeling from the sudden appearance of this strange young woman. He stood there, dazed, as the rain continued to fall in gentle sheets and thunder crashed far away on the horizon.