v1 CHAPTER TWENTY: In which a local church finds itself amidst a bevy of unwanted guests.

Michael’s worries had been well-founded. By mid-morning, Susan was already monitoring several social media feeds full of reports about the growing rally in Union Square. In addition to the Brothers in Arms, other fringe groups such as the American Guard and the Righteous Lads had joined forces under the banner of “Take Back America.”

All these groups had been involved in recent violent confrontations in Portland and Berkeley; and while the protests had been able to maintain some semblance of order in New York City thus far—mostly thanks to the presence of police officers and a sizable crowd of peaceful counter-protestors—their anger was beginning to spill over into violent outbursts.

Father John looked over Susan’s shoulder at one angry rant by a man with American flag face paint and an an American flag t-shirt. “You don’t get it, man! The things the Catholic Church is hiding are unbelievable! They’re behind everything: child abuse rings, money laundering, Satanic rituals in the basement of St. Andrew’s Church, not ten blocks from here!" He shook his fist angrily. "We have to expose them for what they are!"

His listeners nodded in agreement. This was a common refrain among many of these groups: someone in power was abusing children and worshipping demons. of course, there was no evidence whatsoever that the Catholic Church had anything to do with any of the alleged events. John shook his head, a stormy look on his face.

“This all just… came out of nowhere? And you two found out yesterday that the demon who sent you to the hospital is involved? I guess I can’t think of any other explanation for why they’d suddenly be targeting St. Andrew’s.” The tall priest paced back and forth in the rectory office. “Someone has to be behind this—who else could it be? He’s obviously your biggest enemy out there.” Unless you count a succubus who’d love to hollow me out and use my body as her new home, thought Michael, or a demon hunter eager to euthanize me before that happens.

“His golem sent us to the hospital,” corrected Susan. “Mastema is not a powerful demon physically, but his ability to inflame the weak-minded is obviously… well, you can see for yourself.” She held up her tablet, which showed a group of young men pumping their fists around a burning cross, yelling, “Death to the infidels! Death to the enemies of God! Death to the demons in the walls of the Church!" More people were chanting along in the background.

“Tear down St. Andrew’s!” screamed one man. “Their cult leader, Michael Belmont, has already sacrificed his body to the demons!” Michael blanched, his mouth falling open.

"Good Lord above," gasped John. "We have to evacuate this place. I’ll contact everyone who was due to be here today and check the grounds for anyone else who’s around.” He turned back to his laptop; Michael knew the younger priest’s concern was first and foremost for the community of worshippers at the church, and for that he was grateful. After a minute of typing away furiously—and probably praying—John pulled himself together enough to address them. "When will you two be ready to lock up and get out of here?"

Susan looked over at Father Michael for guidance. “Are we running, Father? Or staying here? Mastema is likely to show himself. And he might attract… other visitors?” Michael wasn’t sure if she meant Cassandra or Yael. He wasn’t really looking forward to seeing either of them, even if they might be some form of assistance against a demon.

John stood up, looking shocked and incensed. “Are you being serious right now? There’s a mob on 14th that may head this way soon. And the two of you are thinking of sticking around? You should both be safe up at the Cathedral while the police handle this." He paused and took a deep breath. "You don't need to come right away; we can call someone and have them escort you there. But if you're going to do anything in this situation—"

"I'm going to fight," interrupted Michael.

Susan nodded. “We’re going to fight. It’s Father Boudreau’s only chance.”

Father John looked grim and said nothing for a long moment. Susan and Michael sat with him in silence. “All right,” John finally sighed. “I don’t know what else to say. I think you’re crazy… but I can’t say I feel any less crazy. Boudreau helped me get to where I am today. So…. I guess we had better prepare. Have to make some phone calls… and as for defending this place…”

Susan interjected, “The main church building is the most defensible. If we can bolt the side doors shut with metal barricades, we can concentrate them at the main entrance and hopefully lure Mastema out.”

Father John said, "Not to mention his golem. He had two, but one of them was wiped out, right?” Michael nodded. “All right,” scowled John. “We’ll see what we can do with that. Michael, can you call Monsignor Albert for reinforcements?”

Michael replied, "Before we do that—Susan thinks that Mastema will try to attack us from outside. That means we should look for weaknesses in the walls of the church. We've already found a few places where bricks were crumbling or loose. I can help fix those. Then we'd better set up barricades across every window facing the street." The other two nodded, and then the three of them went their separate ways to prepare.

***

“What exactly are you asking me for, Father Michael?” retorted Monsignor Albert. Michael could practically feel his scowl through the telephone. “More exorcists from the Vatican? The first one you asked for hasn’t even found time in his schedule to return to New York.”

“I understand,” said Michael. “But we’re talking about Father Boudreau, and a powerful demon, and one of the city’s most venerable churches under attack by a mob. Surely there’s something we can do?”

There was silence on the line for a moment. Finally, Albert spoke again; "I have authority over Church resources, you understand. But those are not terribly useful for quelling mobs. How do you think the clergy has dealt with situations like this in the past, Father Michael? Use your head.”

Michael paused for a moment. “You mean… we should call the police?”

Monsignor Albert sighed. “Yes, Father Michael. Call the police. I will contact some higher authorities as well. As for demons, I suspect you know as well as I do that the NYPD is minimally equipped to deal with demons—and certainly not prepared to battle Mastema or his minions. This is beyond their ability; it is too dangerous for them to take action without proper preparation and planning."

Michael felt sick to his stomach; the police might deal with some of the self-styled protestors, but it would be on his small team to stop Mastema and whatever other monstrosities he brought along for the ride.

Monsignor Albert continued to talk. "This is why I contacted Cardinal Spera and his office earlier today, when you first told me of these events. I knew that they would want to send an official representative from Rome to assess the situation. Unfortunately, they have been delayed because of another emergency—so in the meantime, take every precaution you can, and do not confront the demon.” Michael said nothing. He wasn’t going to flee his own church, nor would he abandon Father Boudreau.

Albert spoke again; "Of course, we cannot forget the presence of the demon's minions: the violent thugs who have slandered our priests and faithful. They must be dealt with by the authorities before they can harm anyone else. Now if you will excuse me: there are even more crises afoot that I must tend to, Father. Good day."

Michael hung up the phone and turned to Susan. “Well, there will be little if any help from upstairs. Do you think we should call… Cassandra?”

"Not yet," Susan replied. "If we can delay things from escalating, or fend them off entirely, we might not need someone that… threatening? At least not until we've had a chance to see how things play out." She looked at Michael. “On the other hand, I think you should like, meditate or something, and have a conversation in your mind, with Yael? Maybe she’ll do something.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Every time I ask Yael for help, or see her in a vision, I end up with some part of my body warped into hers. So although I’d prefer to wait on that as well… hmm. You may be right, this is a desperate situation.”

***

As evening approached, the crowd outside grew larger; it seemed that there were more and more people arriving each minute. Some of them carried signs demanding that the Church remove Father Michael while others shouted obscenities about the Church and called the priests murderers. A few threw rocks at the church windows.

Michael sat on a rug in the shallow gallery of the north transept of the church, trying to relax his spirit while also confronting the succubus within him. It hadn’t been hard to contact her; she had been listening in all along.

“You should have simply heeded my offer of power, priest.” She appeared, stretching her lithe form out on the balcony railing. “You’re in a horrible little pickle, my pet. You need either force, or flight, and you’ve chosen not to flee for some reason I can’t fathom.” Her typical smiles and winks had disappeared, and her goat-like gaze was ominous.

“It’s too late for that, Yael. The demon Mastema is enraging his followers against us… it seems likely to me that he intends to pursue us, wherever we go.” Michael exhaled heavily. “So our plan is to face him, and hopefully imprison, exorcise or destroy him. I could use your thoughts…”

Yael laughed. "Oh, Michael. This is a fool's errand—a pointless death. Why are you doing this? What do you hope to achieve?"

"I want to stop Mastema from hurting anyone else," Michael replied. "If you have any ideas how we might be able to accomplish that goal without risking our lives or losing our minds, now would be a good time."

Yael shook her head and sighed; her expression became more serious than it had been since they'd met. "No, Michael. If you're going to fight the demon, then you must understand what he wants: he doesn't like being bound by rules and laws, because he resents anyone whom he considers a fool, and that includes all mortals. Rather than be bound, and because you have chosen to pursue him, he'll try to kill you if he can.”

"That sounds about right," Michael said with a nod.

"Of course," Yael continued. "As I'm sure you know, there are two ways to defeat a demon if you’re not a practiced exorcist—you can bind it or you can outwit it. And so far, you've proven competent at neither."

“You mentioned at the hospital that we might be able to force him to recognize his own hypocrisy. But how would we accomplish that? A debate?”

Yael shrugged, her gorgeous crimson shoulders rippling. “You could certainly try; but don't expect much in the way of results. The thing is, demons like Mastema aren't really interested in listening to reason—they're more concerned with making their point and getting rid of opposition as quickly as possible. They also tend to be rather short-sighted; they believe that humans are inferior, and they won't consider any other possibility.”

"If you want to get through to him,” Yael continued, “you must find a way to make him glimpse the error of his ways. You need to appeal to his vanity. It's probably best to do this without trying to persuade him to change their beliefs or actions, which would only backfire on you. Do your best, I suppose.”

“And what of binding him? Do you know how we might do that, O Yael?” Michael asked.

Yael laughed again—a deep throaty sound like a growl from an animal. "Oh, Michael," she said with a grin. "There are so many ways to bind a demon, and even more ways for them to escape if you fail. No matter how well you plan, there will always be something unexpected that happens."

She twisted, and suddenly her naked form was wrapped in chains of dusky smoke. “Oh, Master! You’ve imprisoned me… I beseech thee, hurt me not, for this succubus will pleasure thee day and night to avoid a cruel fate!” She laughed cruelly. “I’ve used that one a bunch, suckers them right in.”

Michael winced; he'd never heard anything quite as contemptuous as that laugh before.  "Do you have any particular ideas?" he asked.

Yael shook her head. "No," she replied. "But I’ll stick around for the show…”

***

The seething horde of men came down the avenue just as the sun was setting. They seemed to be boiling with rage, yelling “Burn Down the Church” and carrying signs with slogans that ranged from the prosaic (“Divorced Fathers Unite!”) to ridiculous bursts of pure trolling (“Women Are Property, Not People.") A few were dressed in the sort of outfits you might expect from a modern-day Klan rally; others wore T-shirts bearing slogans such as "Hate Is Normal," or "I'm Sorry Your Husband Doesn't Love You Anymore." Most of them had their faces covered, though some didn't bother—a few wore ski masks, while others had bandanas tied over their mouths.

"This is insane," Michael said to himself. He turned back towards the small office in the rear of the north transept. "We're going to need help. There are too many of them for us to handle alone. We have to… I don’t know, call for backup, somehow!"

“The NYPD is out there,” called Father John from the windows looking onto the street. “They’ve got a barricade up, and there are some altercations… but something strange is going on. The officers are arguing with each other, it’s as if they can't agree on what to do next. Could they be… under demonic influence?”

John paused again, for a long, tense moment. Michael could hear his own heart beating, a panicked sensation rising in his chest. “Hold up,” said John. “It looks like the crowd has stopped advancing; they seem to be waiting for something. I think we should go outside and see what's happening."

Michael nodded. "All right," he said. He gulped but followed Father John out onto the broad steps of the church.

"Hey, Michael!" shouted a man standing in front of the barricade. "Why don't you come down here? Let's talk about this!" Michael glanced at the sign held by the speaker—it read “End the Reign of Priests.” As he looked away from it, he noticed that the words were printed in red ink. Or was it blood?

“Michael Belmont!” screamed another. “You fucking pedophile! Release the Vatican secrets you’ve got in here or we’ll expose you! He’s a deviant, a succubus in disguise!” Michael inhaled a hissing breath between his teeth. Mastema was intent on targeting him in particular, spreading… well, the uncomfortable truth, in some ways.

Michael stepped forward and walked down the steps towards the barricade. He could hear angry shouts behind him as he approached: "Come on out, Belmont!" "We know you're hiding something!" "You like little boys, don't you?"

As Michael approached the crowd, he saw that there were several police officers lined up along the barricade—but they weren't doing anything. They seemed confused, staring at each other with expressions of shock and confusion. One officer stood off to the side, looking at his phone, while another sat slumped against the metal railings, his head bowed.

"Michael!" shouted Father John from above. "What are you doing? Come back inside; we can't stay here! We'll be trapped if they attack."

Michael ignored him. He stopped in front of the barricade. The crowd cheered.

"Hey," he said to one of the police officers. "What's going on out here?"

The officer turned around slowly, as if it were an effort for him to do so. Michael realized that the man was drunk—or drugged. His eyes had a glazed look, like someone who'd just woken up after having too much to drink.

"What's happening is you've got some seriously fucked-up people in your ranks, pal!" the officer replied, seemingly increasingly disoriented. "I'm not talking about me or my friends down here; we're fine! No, what I mean is, you have to take these assholes seriously. This isn't a joke anymore. Do you have pedophiles up there?"

"No," Michael said. "This isn't a joke. What's happened?"

The officer shrugged. "I don't know. Something weird. We were standing guard at the barricade when suddenly everyone in this crowd started yelling and screaming at each other. It was like they couldn't agree on anything. Then—and this is the part that really freaked us out—one of them started screaming 'We want to see Belmont's dick!' and then suddenly the whole crowd started chanting, over and over again: 'We want to see Michael's dick! We want to see Michael's dick!' Are you… him? This Michael pervert?”

Michael’s heart sank. He looked up towards Father John, who was still watching from the window of the church office. "Father," he called out. "What should we do?"

Father John shook his head. "I don't know, Michael!" he shouted back. "They're pushing towards the barricades again!”

“You could show them your dick?” suggested the officer, who now seemed almost drunk. “I don’t think we can keep them from coming up the steps if things get unruly again. I... I don't know what we should be doing. But maybe you do?”

“Regretfully, I have no way of acting on that suggestion,” said Michael, and walked back to the top of the steps. “People!” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the din. “This is not the way.”

The crowd—which had been growing louder by the moment—went silent for a few seconds; then someone screamed out: "We want to see Michael's cock! We want to see Michael's cock!" The chant began again.

"All right," said Michael. He turned around and looked down at the police officer. “Please do what you can. But don’t get hurt.”

The man nodded, looking away from the crowd to gaze up at Michael. Then a club fell on the back of his helmet, and the officer went down as the barricades began to do the same, under a press of bodies.