v1 CHAPTER THIRTEEN: In which paranormal investigators discover the risks of their occupation.

When Susan and Michael arrived at Monsignor Albert's apartment building on Gramercy Park South, Michael was surprised to see that it wasn't nearly as rundown as he'd expected. Recent reports about supernatural activity and real estate prices suggested that the neighborhood was in decline, but the street was clean, the windows were gleaming, and the door was painted a fresh white. There was even a doorman standing at attention outside the entrance.

"Excuse me," Michael greeted the doorman with an avuncular smile. "We're from the archdiocese, here to see Father Boudreau. It's been a while since he's visited or checked in, do you know if he's home? Or have you seen him around, delivered any mail...?"

The doorman shook his head. "Sorry, sir. He hasn't been around for two weeks or more, and his mail is piling up. Another priest called to ask, and I told them he must have gone out of town." The man rubbed his bearded chin. "But you could try checking in the old man's favorite bar—the Black Rose. That's where he'd go for drinks. Um, in moderation, naturally!"

"Much appreciated, my son." Susan and Michael nodded quietly to each other—Michael feeling that they were engaged in an absurd role-playing, pretending to be detectives or secret agents. They went to find the bar, which was just one avenue over.

Michael and Susan entered to the sound of a lively crowd, the smell of beer, and the sight of a dozen or so men and women sitting at tables and booths, laughing and talking loudly; some of them looked like they might be drunk already. The place was dimly lit by candles and dozens of flickering lamps hanging from the ceiling. A large television screen showed a soccer match between the US and Mexico. Nobody paid much attention to the newcomers, despite Michael's attire; it seemed that the occasional clergy guest wasn't out of the ordinary.

He approached the bartender, Susan trailing behind. "Excuse me... if we could have a moment of your time? My name is Father Michael Belmont, of St. Andrew's parish in the West Village."

"Sure thing, Father." The bartender—a middle-aged man with short blond hair—gave Michael a friendly nod. "What can I help you with?"

"Well," Michael said, looking around, "I was wondering if you've seen this gentleman around lately?" He held up a photograph of a bald older man wearing a black suit and a clerical collar. "This is Father Boudreau. He's a priest who lives in the neighborhood; we're concerned about him because he hasn’t been coming to church services like has for many years. We're hoping he's all right."

"Oh, sure!" said the bartender, pointing towards the back room. "That's him there, in the corner booth. He comes in here every day after work, usually around five o'clock. I don't know why he doesn't come to mass anymore, though. He used to be one of our regulars—always with a pint and a sermon."

"Is he alone?" asked Michael.

"Nah," said the bartender. "There's always one or two guys with him these days. They're not drinking much today. Just watching the game. You can't miss them; they look like they stepped out of a prison movie. One's got a shaved head, another's missing half his face. They're not friends of mine, but they don't bother anyone else, and they seem to keep Father Boudreau company, even if he doesn't say hi ti me like he used to."

Michael thanked the man for his help and made his way to the back room, where he found Father Boudreau sitting in a booth flanked by two large men dressed in leather jackets and jeans. One of the men was indeed heavily scarred The priest was staring at the television screen and nursing a tumbler of whiskey.

"Father Boudreau," Michael said. "I'm glad to have found you. May I speak with you?"

The priest turned to regard Michael—his eyes were dark grey, his nearly bald head was neatly shaved, and his facial features wrinkled, but still commanding and grave. He wore a long cassock in black and white, and although he had no cross or other outward signs of faith, he didn't appear to be under the influence of any demonic energy. And yet Boudreau didn't seem to recognize Michael, though it had only been weeks since the kindly elder priest had visited the parish. Susan stood nearby, watching cautiously.

"Yes?" said the priest. "What do you want?"

"We were worried when we heard that you hadn't been coming to mass," Michael explained. "or attending any meetings, responding to phone calls... are you all right, Father?"

Boudreau frowned. "Of course I am! What business is it of yours? Are you new here?" His voice was calm—not angry or alarmed. "If so, then leave me be."

Michael felt a wave of cold wash over him. It was as if Boudreau was a different man. "Father. It's clear you don't remember who I am. Can I ask your own name?" Through the whole exchange, the two men with Boudreau had been sitting impassively, simply watching Michael. And, he noticed, one of them was keeping an eye on Susan. She stared back at them silently; she'd never seen anything like this before.

"My name is Antoine Boudreau," said the priest. "And what would you want with me?"

"It's just that we're concerned about your well-being," Michael replied. "Your behavior has changed recently. Everyone is worried about you, particularly Monsignor Albert."

Boudreau snorted. "Monsignor Albert can go to hell." He turned away from Michael and resumed watching the television—a football game—and sipping his drink.

Susan stepped forward and spoke up. "Father Boudreau, may I sit down?" When Boudreau nodded, she sat next to him; her eyes darted between him and the two men. "Father, can you tell us why you haven't been going to church services or speaking to anyone in the parish?"

Boudreau sighed and looked at her, his impassive expression shading into a faint sneer. "Why should I answer questions from a stranger?" he asked.

"Because it's important," said Susan. "If you don't like answering my questions, you don't have to."

Boudreau shrugged. "All right." He took another sip of whiskey. "As for why I stopped coming to mass: because they don't know how to worship anymore." He gestured toward the television screen; Michael glanced over to see that the screen now displayed a news program—a reporter standing outside a Catholic church. The camera zoomed in on the sign above the door: "St. Paul's Church." The priest continued, "This is not the kind of place that Jesus would have approved of. All these people dressed like clowns, wearing their makeup and silly hats, singing songs about peace and love. They're not even listening to the sermon."

"You didn't have to come to mass," said Michael. "That was your choice. There are other ways to serve."

Boudreau glared at him and turned back to the television screen. "Of course I did!" he snapped. "I'm a priest! How could I not attend mass? There are too many distractions, and no one listens to the sermons anyway. That's why I stopped attending. And it's all your fault, Michael. You and your friends. You've brought too much of the world—too much of the demonic—into our church."

Michael was taken aback by Boudreau's sudden hostility; he thought the priest had seemed like a good man. Now Michael wondered if he had made a terrible mistake in coming here. "Father Boudreau, we're not demons," he protested. "We're trying to help—"

"Don't patronize me," interrupted Boudreau. "Not after what you've done. After everything you've done. Look at yourself!" The priest pointed at Michael's face with a shaking finger. "Look at your eyes. They glow yellow when you're aroused. And that's only the beginning. Your body is changing. I can smell it on you. The more you try to fight it, the worse it will get. Do you think God wants you? Or do you think he'll forgive you? Don't you remember what happened to Judas? To Peter?"

Michael was stunned. "Judas betrayed Christ," he said. "Peter denied Christ. And was forgiven. What exactly do you think I've done to compare to the apostles?"

Boudreau snorted. "I'm talking about the demonic influence—the evil—that you've brought into our church. You assume nobody knows about it except you and this... girl." He stood up, his voice rising as he spoke; his two companions stood as well, their faces impassive as they watched Michael and Susan. "But I know. If you want to know why I don't want to be around you or your friends, it's because I find you utterly, thoroughly disgusting. You let something foul inside you. You might as well be a shit-eater."

Susan looked shocked. "Father, please—" she began.

Boudreau turned to her. "If you don't like being called names, whore, slattern, strumpet, then you should not have sought me out."

Yael whispered in Michael's ear. "Mastema. Just a little hint, my pet."

Michael was shaken by Boudreau's words; he felt insulted but also angry. "Father Boudreau," he said slowly. "I understand that you're upset. But if you could just give us some time to explain ourselves—to prove that we're not demons. We're trying to help you." Susan was maintaining her composure, but clearly startled by the stream of invective as well."

Boudreau motioned to the two men flanking him. "Take them away."

The guards moved forward immediately, grabbing Michael and Susan roughly by their arms and dragging them toward the door. Michael struggled against their grip, but his efforts were futile: they had no trouble moving him like a sack of potatoes. Looking back at the stern figure of Boudreau, Michael figured it was worth a shot, and declaimed the name.

"Mastema! I name you, Mastema. I abjure you and bind you to leave me and my companion alone! Depart this man and this plane. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."

Susan joined in, struggling with the golem. "Exorcizamus te..."

Michael's eyes widened; he saw that Yael's hand was on the priest's shoulder, wraithlike. Boudreau stared at Michael—and then he collapsed to the floor. The two guards stopped pulling on Michael and Susan. They stood still for a moment, looking down at the fallen priest. Then one of them reached out and grabbed the unconscious man by his collar, lifting him up like a rag doll.

"What just happened?" asked Susan. "Did we do it? Did we get rid of a demon... already?"

Yael shook her head, lolling it to one side with a bemused grin. Still, she seemed uncharacteristically serious. "Not yet," she said. "Tell her that the hard part is next. Mastema came prepared."

"Um... apparently the hard part is next?" repeated Michael. The man carrying Boudreau walked towards the back of the bar, but the other man—the one who had been holding Michael —kept his grip on Michael's arm; he didn't let go.

"Of course," continued Yael. "If you could have gotten rid of the demon, we wouldn't be here right now." She looked at Michael and smiled again. "You're a pretty shitty exorcist, Father. I think you should switch teams, bat for our side, hmmm?"

Suddenly the huge, impassive man reached out and grabbed Susan by the collar, and the next thing either of them knew they were flung into the front room of the tavern. Michael hit his head against a table and fell to the floor in a daze. When he opened his eyes, a hand like an iron vise clamped onto his wrist and held him down. He scrabbled at the hand holding him, scratching and kicking like an angry cat. Something about the hand—the skin on it was flaking away, and underneath was some kind of crumbly ochre material. Clay?

Susan was kicking at the man but might as well have been kicking a mountain. Bar patrons were panicking, shoving over tables, running out the door to avoid the altercation. Susan was saying something he couldn't make out as spots danced in his vision. "—golem! The forehead, rub the—"

Then the man's grip loosened; Michael felt himself being pulled to his feet. "Come," said the man. He dragged Michael through the crowd outside the bar. Michael tried to resist, but he was too weak to fight. As he stumbled along behind the man, he noticed that people were staring at him: some with fear on their faces, others with curiosity. The man's hands were too hard to be flesh, his grip too strong to be human. He felt himself being hauled along as if his clothes were caught in the door of a subway train. Susan was yelling, throwing a beer mug, which shattered on the back of the man's head, but the hulking bodyguard scarcely seemed to notice, despite a huge gouge ripped out of his hair and flesh, revealing more ochre material beneath.

As they passed under the streetlight near the corner of 22nd and 3rd, his legs and knees banging against newspaper and mailboxes, Michael saw what had happened to the man's face. His nose and mouth were gone; instead of nostrils there was a gaping hole filled with jagged teeth and black ooze.

There was no blood—but then, Michael realized with horror, there wasn't any skin left either. Golem, Susan had said. The mystic guardians of Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, brought to life with Kabbalistic magic, but apparently demons could use that kind of magic just as easily. What had Susan said? The forehead?

The golem swung around into an alley and flung Michael headlong into a dumpster. He instinctively threw his arms up to shield his head, but crashed hard into the dingy metal, which knocked all the breath out of him. Susan was yelling again, trying to persuade the golem that its orders were faulty. "Mastema is not here; he has abandoned you without persistent orders!" she cried. "We are only two humans—you can't kill us."

The golem picked up a brick from the ground and smashed it down on her head. Susan fell silent. The golem lifted Michael by the collar of his shirt like a dog picking up a toy. He flung Michael against the brick wall of a building and continued dragging Susan away by the arm.

Michael watched helplessly as the golem walked off down the alleyway. He tried to get up, but his body wouldn't obey. He heard footsteps running towards him, but by the time he managed to lift his head, whoever was coming was already past him, leaping over him. He watched a sideways scene as the figure leaped through the air towards the golem, a whip flashing once, twice, three times, coming to rest in a kneeling pose. The golem halted in its tracks and fell on its face.

Michael managed to stumble to his feet, the whole world reeling around him. "What...?" was all he could say. The figure stood up and pushed her cloth hood back. "This is not the way to seek death, priest." Cassandra was standing in front of him, holding the whip in one hand; her other hand was holding the golem's head, inspecting a rough area on its forehead. She nodded. "Lucky for you I got the emét quickly. He could have taken your secretary."

"She's not—" Michael tried to say, but his skull interrupted him with flashing lights and alarm bells. "Did the Monsignor send you? How did you know—"

"No," said Cassandra, still looking at the golem's forehead. "I am not in the employ of your Church. Not at this moment. But I keep track of my own prey. You, the succubus with you, and this other one. That man you met with. I need details."

"I need... a hospital," Michael said, and fell to his knees, to his side, to the ground.