v1 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: In which lists are made, plans laid, dark powers awakened.

Michael went into the rectory office to try and work, before it was his turn to say the next Mass. He could take stock of the situation, something he'd been unable to do without Susan's assistance. Drinking a cup of coffee to try and stay focused, he wrote a list on the aging blackboard in the shared room.

Michael read the last lines. He’d simply started writing all his feelings and fears in a huge paragraph filling the bottom of the blackboard. He quickly erased both the seventh and sixth items. He still had no idea if Father John had heard the wanton moans and cries from his masturbation session with the vibrator last night. He had to... had to maintain...

Michael shook his head, trying to clear it of these thoughts. The list was too long even with five items; he needed to prioritize, so that he wouldn't be overwhelmed by everything at once.

He ought to consult Susan. The young woman was becoming far more than an assistant and was far too sharp to consider him as anything other than an equal. As if summoned by some form of telepathy (hopefully not?) a knock came on the rectory's front door.

"Come in," Michael called out, walking out into the foyer. "I'm sorry; I didn't hear you at first."

Susan entered the building, her eyes darting around like she was looking for something—or someone. She wore a simple white blouse and black skirt, with a pair of sensible shoes. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she carried a small leather satchel over one shoulder. Michael couldn't help but notice how attractive she looked today: her cheeks were rosy from the cold air outside, and her lips seemed redder, fuller than usual. Was she wearing lipstick?

"I hope everything's okay? Any more..." she waved her hands. "I feel like I ask you this every time I see you, but… any more changes?" she said in a loud whisper.

Michael nodded slowly. "Why don't we talk in the office. Father John's handling repairs, I believe, but he's staying nights here at the rectory right now, so..." Susan nodded, raising a finger to her lips to show she understood. They walked back into the office; no sooner had Michael closed the door than Susan began speaking again.

"So, what have you been doing? What's going on?" she asked. It had been less than a day since they left the hospital, and Susan still looked as if she was healing up from the fight with the golem, with some bruises and scratches. On the other hand, she was still more eager than ever.

Michael shook his head. "Nothing right now except writing to-do lists. But there’s a lot to deal with." He gestured towards the list on the blackboard.

"Quite a list, but not impossible." Susan said. "What's this one where you're consulting me? New clothing, again? What now?"

Michael could see she wasn't going to let up until he explained the latest changes to his body. "Well... although I'm not sure it was entirely demonic in nature… I did experience one more change. My... my private parts, they're now fully..." he gestured at himself, a kind of V-shaped motion with his palms. "Fully female. Like a woman."

Susan's eyes went wide. She looked like she was about to faint. Then she gave a little laugh and covered her mouth. "Oh! Oh!" she giggled. "I knew something had changed from the way you’re acting. But that? That's amazing. Wow. I’m sorry, this must be difficult for you." Michael stared back at her with a wan expression.

"Well, welcome to the club, Michael," Susan said. "You don't have to be embarrassed. And although I don't intend to be your personal shopper forever, I can imagine a few things you might want for your… altered equipment."

Michael nodded. "Looking at the rest of this list... I think John has the repairs under control, although I should check with him. I ought to lead mass today, or soon. But what do we do about Father Boudreau and his resident demon, Mastema? Any thoughts? Preferably a plan that won't land us both in the hospital again."

"We need to find Father Boudreau first," Susan said. "Then we can figure out how to destroy—or at least contain—Mastema. As for your own situation, well, I've got some ideas."

"I would appreciate them," Michael replied. “But really, let’s think about how to locate Mastema. He won’t be returning to his old haunts if he suspects we’ll come looking for him again. He must have noticed when one of his golems didn’t come back, even if he doesn’t realize we had help from Cassandra.”

Susan placed a finger thoughtfully on her lower lip. “A few possibilities present themselves. We could ask Yael for help again. We could enlist Cassandra’s services.” Michael looked dubious at both suggestions; there were downsides for him in either case.

Susan was counting off more ideas on her fingers. “We could research Mastema to determine whether he might have other allies. We could use what we know about the demon to make a guess at where he might be feeding or lairing. Or we could use divination and scry for him, since we have his name and nature.”

Michael smiled. “Susan Miller, you are a wonder. Once again, you walk in and come up with a plan for our predicament. Are you sure you haven’t conducted occult investigations before?”

She laughed. "This is my first time dealing with possession cases that are more than simply theoretical; it's all new to me." A moment later she added with a twinkle in her eye: "Although… as a semi-professional I wouldn’t say no to an increase in my stipend, Church rules permitting!”

Michael chuckled. “You know why I’d rather not get help from either Yael or Cassandra,” he continued, “but perhaps some combination of the other three. Learn more about Mastema. Discern where he might be; as a demon of contempt, he’s likely to feed on the energy of those who look down on others. The type of folk who see their enemies as less than human.”

“Hmm. I’d say an Internet forum, but I don’t think a demon like Mastema could feed there without drastically changing his nature. Maybe some other sort of grievance-driven political group. There are too many possibilities, however, so… yes, maybe scrying? Ooh, do you still have the spellbook I gave you last week?”

Michael nodded. "It's in the desk drawer behind you." Susan opened the drawer and removed the leather-bound tome. "Hmm, this book includes selections from the grimoire called Le Livre de la Morte D'Orfeu," she explained. "When performed correctly it will allow you to speak with the dead. But I suppose you’d like to avoid necromancy, Father?” Michael raised an eyebrow and nodded with exaggerated slowness.

Susan laughed nervously, “All right, all right. I know it’s pushing it to advocate that we do any kind of magic here on sacred ground. In fact, I can go back to my apartment if it’d be easier… or,” she perked up, flipping to another page, “we could try a water divination!”

"That sounds interesting," Michael agreed, "and certainly better than talking to ghosts."

Susan nodded vigorously, reading from the book. "Yes! The natural connective, communicative properties of water can amplify our connection to the unknown. It’s magic, but of a form innocuous that in the 16th century, the sisters of the Abbaye de Mont St. Michel were allowed to study and practice water divination as part of their vocation—"

Michael cleared his throat to cut off her rhapsodic scholarship. “Thank you, Susan. I have a slight familiarity with the topic. And that would be fine. Perhaps in the meeting room upstairs… it can be locked. What do you need to scry with water?”

"Just a glass bowl and enough clean water to fill it several times over. I could use a large towel as well, these things can get wet.” Susan was already leafing through the spellbook and making notes.

Michael nodded. “Those are easy enough. I’ll meet you there.” Susan grunted, lost in thought, the very picture of a distracted scholar as she tucked a strand of loose black hair behind her left ear.

***

When he arrived upstairs hauling a large bowl, towels and two plastic jugs of water, Michael found that Susan had set out several glasses on the central table‘s plastic tablecloth. Susan had also procured a bottle of communion wine, and one of the glasses stood half-full. She gestured towards the bottle and then toward Michael. Michael poured himself a glass of the sweet wine; the taste was pleasant, familiar, but he'd never developed much of a taste for alcohol. "Shall we begin?" he suggested after taking a sip.

"Sure," Susan replied. "If you wouldn’t mind filling that bowl to the brim, along with the empty glass, first of all. Then, take a seat near me while I finish writing this charm." Michael did so and watched her scribble something onto a piece of paper.

Susan took a deep breath and spoke clearly: "O Water of Life! O Fount of All Goodness! By Your Mercy Grant That Which You Bestow May Be Returned To Me!" After saying this she lifted the glass filled with water and began chanting another incantation: "O Spirit of Earth! O Breath of God! By Your Mercy Grant That Which You Bestow May Be Returned To Me!"

This done she put the glass aside; then picked up the bowl and held her hand over the fullest part of the water surface, in the center of the bowl. "Now pour the water over my hand," Susan said. Michael did so—slowly and deliberately so as not to make noise or splash—and when he was done he saw that the water which had flowed over her fingers was collecting in a hill or fountain, spouting beneath her palm.

"Now hold your hand above the bowl and watch," she instructed him. Sure enough, the water within the bowl rose up like a miniature geyser until it overflowed the edge of the bowl entirely. Susan reached down with the emptied glass and caught the pooling stream before it could spill onto the floor.

“As I thought,” she said. “I have some talent, enough that the water responds immediately, but you have raw power to spare. If you don't stop agitating the water so energetically, you'll flood the room. I don’t have to tell you where all that power is coming from.”

Michael nodded. “The energy of a demon would be aligned with fire or air, as they are fundamentally intangible spirits, formed of ideas, emotion and energy. But water, of course, is associated with desire, passion, sexuality. So, the water is responding to… to the succubus in me.”

Susan clapped her hands. “Very good! I didn’t know you were so well read on the elements, Father!” Michael blushed; he hadn't expected his comment to elicit such a teacher’s pet reaction. "Now—let's see if we can figure out what Mastema is up to." She took the jug and poured more water into the bowl.

"I'm going to try a different approach now,” she said. “This will be harder than the last one… so if you want to help, I could use your assistance. Hold this glass—the empty one—over my hand like before." He did so; then she began chanting a different incantation, this time in Latin. Michael understood much of the language from his studies at seminary, but these words were unfamiliar.

This time, Susan kept her hand over the water as it flowed over her fingers. When it was done filling up again, she lifted her hand and let the water spill back into the bowl. The ripples spread to the edge of the bowl and bounced back, propelled by an unseen force, creating patterns in their overlapping shapes.

"All right," she continued. Susan removed her hand from the water. At first nothing happened. Then there was a disturbance in the surface of the water: a small circle appeared within which something moved. Susan stretched her fingers towards the circle, clawing at it as if beckoning something forward. She chanted, louder than before; Michael could feel her voice vibrating through the glass he held—and suddenly, the pattern of circles and waves exploded like a soap bubble.

Susan sat up straight. "Oh my!" she cried. "Father Michael, look! Look what's happening!" She pointed to the center of the bowl where the water had been disturbed. A tiny figure formed from water stood on two legs, with two human-looking arms hanging by its side and a pair of wings sprouting from its shoulders. It looked like a child wearing a tuxedo and top hat. Its eyes were closed and its mouth hung open; it seemed to be sleeping or dead.

Michael gulped. “Is that… is that Mastema?" he asked.

Susan nodded, her face pale. "That's him. That's the demon who's possessing Father Boudreau, or at least a representation. His energetic state appears to be dormant... or feeding. Now, to see if we can determine where he’s feeling so at home and relaxed.” She spread her fingers towards the center of the bowl, and moved them apart, sending ripples wavering outwards. Slowly, deliberately—like someone trying to coax a cat from under a bed—she drew the circle outward until it encompassed most of the water; then she began chanting again.

This time the circle did not break. Instead, the water within the circle began to move, like an amoeba being pulled by invisible threads toward the middle. A picture formed around the figure: a crude drawing of a man sitting in a chair, with his head bent forward and his mouth moving as if he was talking. The water still swirled around the image, but there was no sign of any other surroundings.

Susan smiled. "Now I think we're getting somewhere. That looks like it could be Father Boudreau… but of course we’ll need to see where he is.” She attempted to pull the circle out again, from the demon to the human host to, Michael supposed, wherever the old man was sitting.

The picture wavered, grew blurrier, but he could make out a room—a bedroom? —and the faint outline of a person sitting in a chair. Susan tried pulling on the image; the water resisted. Then she started chanting again. This time when the circle broke and the water fell into the bowl, the image became clear. It revealed more chairs, in a loose circle. Other figures were moving amongst them, a crowd.

Michael squinted. “Is he in… a hotel?” Susan was straining, twisting her fingers as the image wobbled and broke apart, reformed.

“Father, I’m going to need your help… I don’t have enough energy to—“ she gasped.

"Susan," Michael said softly.

She stopped struggling; she stared down at the bowl. Her brow creased with worry. "It's too much."

"Then let me help you. We'll both do it together." He reached out tentatively towards the surface of the water. His hand passed through it like mist… and then the droplets began to dance, as if electrified. A tingling sensation shot up his arm and across his chest—as if a thousand ants crawled beneath his skin—and suddenly they were plunged into what felt like another world.

The water in the bowl, in the two jugs, on the floor, all of it rose in the air and began to flow, in vapor and beads flowing together into laminar streams, forming a dome above their heads; the streamers of liquid flowed downwards and joined others to form a web-like structure which hung before them like a curtain. The strands shimmered and danced before them; they looked upon a cityscape: buildings tall and narrow, crowded together along streets teeming with anonymous human-shaped figures, cars, carts selling steaming nuts and other foodstuffs.

The view changed, as if a camera was swooping and turning over the crowded streets, all rendered in droplets of shining liquid. Michael felt as if he was flying—or rather, as if he were falling through the air, watching everything below him pass by in slow motion. There was a sense of vertigo, as if he were plunging downward at great speed—but he wasn't falling; he was floating forwards towards a large building, wide entrance doors swinging with the passage of those coming and going.

“HILTON,” read a sign formed out of mist, and then the scene plunged them into the hotel, through a lobby and into some sort of conference area. Crowds of men in t-shirts and lanyards milled around in groups, talking animatedly. Somehow, fragments of other sensory impressions filtered through: vibrating strings of liquid flow sounding like conversation, and the atmosphere of the vapor-hazed room growing sweaty, dank, somehow angry.

A faint smell that Michael could only describe as “bilious” rose into Michael’s nostrils. He made out a snatch of discussion. “…bitches only interested in alpha males, and that’s beta behavior. Plus, your genial angle…” and then “…total social justice warrior bullshit, from the usual pink-hair pronoun crowd…” My God, thought Michael, it’s a gathering of men’s rights activists, red-pilled incels. There could be no better feast for a demon of contempt like Mastema; a bunch of resentful losers who blamed women and liberal society for all of their personal problems.

Then he saw Father Boudreau—or rather, his image, the impression of him that had been created by Susan's scrying. The old man sat in a chair at one side of the room, looking bored. A few people were listening to him speak: "As you know," said the figure of Father Boudreau, "we have an important subject at hand. We're going to discuss how we can best address the issue of so-called sexual harassment.”

Susan was staring intently at the scene, but also at Michael. The priest was standing stock still in the exact center of the watery rendering of a hotel conference center, and he was glowing. Incorrect, she thought, it’s his eyes that are glowing. That is NOT good, she thought, but it makes sense. This is a kind of vision, his vision directed by but amplifying my scrying. She was itching to take notes, but everything was soaking wet, and the strange conversation was continuing.

"We don't need any more laws," said another voice—one that Michael recognized as belonging to an infamous right-wing commentator, popular from online videos. "If these women don’t want to be sexually harassed, they should just grow a spine and learn to live and operate in a man’s world."

"That's not what I'm saying!" protested Father Boudreau; but his words were drowned out by a chorus of shouts from the crowd. A large man with dark hair and glasses stepped forward: "What about all those female politicians who like to parade around, flaunting their sexuality, their boyfriends? What about their behavior?"

"You idiots!” yelled Boudreau, rising to his feet. “You’re as bad as any of the people you complain about, and most of you are worse.” The priest stalked away into a corridor, and the view of the water-scrying followed him. Suddenly, Boudreau turned and somehow gripped the scrying, so that most of the water in the room coalesced into his snarling, angry visage. “I SEE YOU,” he roared.

The crowd of men in the distant background stopped and looked at Boudreau—and then they stepped back and vanished from the scene. "Oh god," said Michael, noticing that it wasn't exactly Boudreau's face that was hovering before them. It resembled a middle-aged man in a clerical collar, but the eyes were too wide, the jaw too square, the features distorted. It was an aspect of Boudreau's face but twisted into something else; something inhuman.

The demon-Boudreau looked around the room. "I SEE YOU, pawn of Yael. Your suffering will be legendary." The hand of Mastema reached out, watery-soft, towards Michael. Susan cried out in alarm.

“No,” said Michael in a loud voice. But it was not his voice that emerged from his throat; it was the voice of a queen—the voice of a woman who had walked the earth and beyond for many centuries. "Not this man," said the voice. "Notice served, property of Yael." Michael’s left hand sliced across the watery form in a chopping motion that shattered the visage into a thousand raindrops.

Susan was yelling a reverse incantation, trying to undo the scry: “O Water of Life, O Fount of Goodness, O Source of All Blessings …" As if responding to some command, the billowing clouds of fragmenting droplets withdrew from him like a cloud blown by a storm. The demon's shape retreated into a pool and was gone.

Michael turned to Susan, the light still glowing in his eyes. “He knows where you are, and is incensed, Susan Sunghi Miller,” said Yael’s voice. “Prepare for his coming.” Then the light faded, and Michael staggered, falling to his knees. His face contorted; tears poured down his cheeks. He moaned in agony, clutching his face. "Noooooo!" he screamed. Then he collapsed onto the floor. Susan ran to him.

"Michael? What happened?" She touched his face. A wet substance dripped from his fingers. Something like tears, but also thicker—almost like honey. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Michael’s eyes had become yellowed goat-slitted orbs with horizontal, rectangular pupils, the iris and white blending together. They were the same as Yael's, she realized, the eyes she had seen when first facing the demoness at the hospital.

“What… what has she done to me now?” he gasped. “I can’t see! Or I can, but it’s all…” he swung his head. “…so strange.” Susan helped him to his feet. "Come on," she said; and they made their way out of the drenched room, each half-supporting the other.

“I’ll add sunglasses to the shopping list,” said Susan.