v1 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: In which a new storm approaches, in waking life and restless sleep.

Susan set a plastic shopping bag down on the desk of the rectory office, startling Michael out of his uneasy reverie. He looked up from his work—a draft of a sermon, though he was having trouble focusing through his new pupils—and peered at the contents of the bag.

"First, some sunglasses," said Susan, handing him a pair of dark tinted glasses. "Wraparounds, not the most fashionable. But if anyone asks… uh, maybe something about light sensitivity due to antibiotics, or something?” Michael tried them on. His vision was still oddly distorted, as if he was always looking through a panoramic lens and seeing further than he was used to on either side. But at least the sunglasses made him feel less self-conscious.

“I’m slowly getting used to this,” he said, turning his head to the side. He could still see Susan’s worried expression clearly, though she was off to his left. “There are some advantages, but…” he reached out for a pen on the desk, gauging where it was to snatch it up. “My depth perception feels off.”

Susan tapped her lower lip, thinking. “Your eyes are like a goat’s, so… hmm, try this. Turn your head to the side, so that your eyes are tilted.” Michael did so. After a moment of adjusting to the shift in perspective—and feeling slightly nauseated—he managed to pick up the pen. “That was easier.” He adjusted the tilt of his head, looking for all the world as if considering Susan coyly, or playfully. Michael reached out and touched her arm; then he drew back quickly.

"Michael? Are you okay?" asked Susan.

"Sorry," he replied. "This is very strange."

"Not at all," she replied. "You're going to need to practice using your new eyesight for a while before you can master it fully. Like a goat, you seem to have excellent peripheral vision. It helps them get a sense of their surroundings and detect predators. Unlike a goat, your eyes don’t seem to rotate to keep your pupils horizontal.”

She started writing something in her notebook. “I was wondering about this! Succubae, in particular, are always described as lolling their heads or considering humans sidelong. When you tilt your head, your vision becomes more like a predator’s, focusing on a target. This would make a lot of things much easier—like catching prey without being seen—but it makes it harder to judge long distances and heights accurately, since your head is tilted. Your eyes aren't meant to be perpendicular to the ground when walking upright."

Michael nodded. "It's hard to explain exactly how it feels. It's like my brain isn't connected properly anymore. Like… everything is being rewired.” Susan handed him another pair of sunglasses; these ones were red-tinted, curved and rimmed with little sparkling rhinestones. "Try these next," she suggested. "They look cool."

"If they didn't have such, ah… fancy frames," added Michael. "Then it might be worth wearing them? I appreciate it, in any case."

Susan smiled faintly. “I’m trying to plan ahead a bit. Just in case you need to, you know… disguise yourself.”

“Disguise myself…? As what?” Then he realized what she meant. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "As—as a woman? Oh dear. If it comes to that—" he shuddered again, rubbing his arms against goosebumps "—then I'm really in trouble! Really Susan, you don’t need to dress me up like—I mean, thank you for thinking of it, and for helping me with all of this. But I don't think I should wear that sort of thing."

Susan shook her head. “You’re already quite a way to the point where you won’t be able to hide, Father. We mustn’t lose hope, but we must prepare ourselves too. Just putting on different underwear may not seem like much right now, but when you begin to change more completely and visibly, then people will notice. You need the option to blend in. The best thing is to be prepared, rather than spending time wallowing in shame.”

She opened the bag wider so he could see inside. “You should try these out too.” Inside were four pairs of plain, grey cotton panties: two bikini style and two boy shorts, along with one lacy black thong. Michael picked up the last one with an incredulous look at Susan.

“That one’s for wearing with pants or dresses that are tight enough to show the line of underwear,” she explained. Michael reddened.

“I know what a thong is! I’m simply not inclined to disguise myself as the kind of girl who wears them—or anything like them!" he said defensively. "Not even if it would help me fight a contempt demon," he added, half-jokingly. "If there was something else that would help me hide my transformation better, maybe… but this is just silly."

Susan sighed. “You’re not going to like what’s in the bottom of the bag, then. I got you some pads, in case your new equipment becomes, you know. Active. I’m not even sure whether you have a uterus at this stage, but succubae are known to breed—“

"I'm not going to use those either!" exclaimed Michael. He was still very uncomfortable with the idea of wearing female clothing, using female things. Susan didn’t quite understand; it wasn't about him being ashamed or embarrassed by his own body.

It was more that he felt he didn’t have the right; even if his body was changing, he wasn’t a woman, not really! So how could he use the female form as a disguise? As far as he was concerned, a woman's body should be respected and valued; not used as some sort of get-up.

"I’m sorry. We don’t have time for this, Susan. Didn’t you tell me that… that Yael, when she spoke through me, said that Mastema was coming, or something like that?” Michael shoved the underwear back in the bag, along with the red sunglasses. “We may be facing bigger problems soon.”

Susan nodded. “I’ve been keeping an eye on that conference, the event where Mastema has been feeding. It’s run by an organization calling itself the Brothers in Arms, dedicated to the advancement of men worldwide and to ending to what they’re calling… male oppression.” She made a face, “According to them, it mostly seems to consist of the fact that they can’t get laid.”

Michael nodded wearily. "I’ve heard of that type. Celibate, but for different reasons than I am. Or used to be. Again, I find myself grateful for you, Susan; always on top of a situation and with impeccable research."

"And there's something else," continued Susan. "I've been doing some digging into Mastema’s past—or rather, Father Boudreau's past. Apparently, he was involved with the Knights of St. Sylvester, which is apparently another male-only group. They were a secret society of Catholic priests, an illicit offshoot of Opus Dei who were trying to cleanse the church from its corruption by evil influences. Supposedly, they had a lot of success: but then someone betrayed them to the Vatican, and they were disbanded."

Father Michael considered this information. “Yes, I recall hearing about the Knights. They even tried to get me to join once, years ago. Father Boudreau was already quite old back then. He didn't have much time left for such things anyway."

"It’s quite possible that Boudreau’s susceptibility to Mastema’s influence goes back earlier. It sounds like the Knights were rather resentful, or at least they were the traditional hard-liner kind of priests who resisted any kind of change in Church doctrine? On the other hand, they would have been opposed to demonic influence as well,” noted Susan, lecturing absent-mindedly.

“In any case,” coughed Michael, “what we need to worry about right now is this Brothers in Arms group. Is the conference still going on?”

Susan nodded. "It looks like they're planning a big rally three days from now. She pulled out her phone and started tapping. “That’s strange... it’s been updated. They’ve moved it to Union Square, and now they’re gathering tomorrow?”

Michael frowned “That’s much closer to this neighborhood than the midtown hotel they were at before. Is Mastema planning to… use that crowd against us?” Susan’s face darkened; her brow furrowed in thought.

"Not good," she muttered. "This is too close; if he can get them together, he could have an army ready to go by morning. There are a lot of people involved here, and a some with sway: pundits, video streamers, angry minor celebrities, the usual suspects. He knows where we are, he threatened us... something's going on. We have to assume they might be coming here."

"I agree," said Michael. "Keep tabs on their activity, Susan. I’m going to have to alert Father John right away. Monsignor Albert too, much as I hate to say it.” Michael sighed heavily. "If only we had some way to get rid of Mastema without endangering Father Boudreau’s life."

"What about the exorcist?" asked Susan. "We know someone is coming from Rome; maybe they’ll arrive in time to save the day?”

"Wait for the cavalry to charge in? Not likely," replied Michael, shaking his head. “God helps those who help themselves. We’ll have to expect the worst and plan accordingly.”

***

Once again, Michael had a hard time falling asleep. They’d filled Father John in on the situation, and the younger man was understandably perturbed, full of questions that Michael couldn’t quite answer. Still, John set about making sure the church's entrances were repaired and secure. Older Catholic church buildings, as a rule, were made to withstand quite a bit, and the main church could serve as a haven from unrest or protest, if necessary.

Michael reached Monsignor Albert on the phone, and his superior had only been mildly helpful. “If you suspect a demon may be using mortal pawns, do what you’d do if an ordinary crowd of violent protestors were coming to harass you,” Albert said.

“And… what’s that, Monsignor?” Michael asked hesitantly.

Albert paused; then he spoke slowly: "You don't need me to tell you how to deal with hooligans—you've dealt with minor trouboles before, haven't you? Call the police. We may have to deal with the demons, but they know how to handle rabble.” Michael had hung up the phone and sighed. He had little idea what to do next.

Now he tossed and turned in bed, exhausted but also afraid to sleep. Rain pattered on the window, but failed to lull him. Yael must be somewhere nearby, watching, he thought. Waiting to invade my dreams again. He got up and walked, clad only in his boxer shorts, to look out the window at the street below. There was no movement or sound besides the rain streaking the windows, disappearing into puddls. Even though there had been no sign of Yael since her almost-helpful intervention against the vision of Mastema, he couldn't shake his feeling of dread.

There was something strange about his reflection in the window, a movement he couldn’t quite identify amidst the shadows of his bedroom, faintly illuminated by faint streetlights outside. He stared into the darkness beyond the glass, trying to see more clearly, and his heart pounded like a drumbeat. He reached to the nightstand lamp and turned it on, the light from inside revealing his reflection clearly.

It wasn't Michael's own face staring back at him. It was someone else's. A woman's face—not Yael’s mischievous imp features, but a startled-looking, tired woman with a sleek wave of black hair, curving around her gracefully pointed chin.

His own bone structure was somehow still visible in the woman’s face, the position of his eyes, ears, and cheeks, but everything had been softened, made delicate. Her brows arched delicately over deep brown eyes; her nose was sharp and angular; wide lips slightly parted as if she were surprised or shocked. But there was nothing innocent about this stranger. She seemed to be looking right through him, studying him… just as he was studying her.

He reached out to touch the window, suddenly very aware of his slender fingers, with the long dark nails he’d neglected to trim since earlier in the afternoon. The windowpane was cool against his hand, not like Michael's skin at all—his own flesh felt hot and feverish, though it had been many hours since he’d tried to relax in the heat of a bath.

This is a dream, he told himself, but felt that wasn't true. It seemed was too real. He touched his own face, and the reflected woman touched hers. With a gasp he realized his own hands were running across a smooth jawline, a pointed chin, high cheekbones. Hair tousled around his fingers—her fingers. Michael looked down at himself. At first glance he could see no difference: both he and his reflection wore the same grey boxer shorts, had wide hips and small breasts, the size of lemons.

But now Michael’s waist had narrowed to make his curves more pleasingly feminine. His limbs had abruptly become more lissome and slender, and his belly soft and just slightly rounded like a woman's. Below that stomach, hidden beneath the waistband of his boxers, was the flat, hairless mound of a feminine vulva.

The woman in the window watched him, her eyes moving over his body. She smiled at him. "I’m beautiful," she said, and his mouth moved. “But I’m also late! Time to get ready.” Her voice was winsome, musical; nothing like Michael’s.

As if on cue, the lights in the room came on. All other thoughts and worries vanished from Michael’s mind. He was late! He had to look his best before going to the party! Michael turned to the clothes drawers. He needed an outfit to accentuate his figure, makeup for an alluring look; after all, it was time to go out on the town!