v1 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: In which contempt rears its head with infinite arrogance, and acid etches a church floor

A figure was making its way through the debris, taller and broader than any man Michael had ever seen. Black armor wrapped its body, glittering gold in the fading light of the sun. Atop the helmet was a crown of golden thorns and red flames, and it left fire in its wake, spreading across the floor of the nave in crackling tongues that flared and guttered.

The creature raised a great club above its head and charged forward, directly towards John and Michael.

“Golem!” screamed Susan. At Michael’s side, Father John leaped out of the way. Michael stood in front of Yael, paralyzed. She wasn’t moving. There was nothing left to do—he couldn’t run away; if he did, the demon would overtake him in moments.

A shape hurtled down from the rafters, swinging on some sort of line. It intercepted the golem’s charge with a blow from two combat boots, knocking the creature off trajectory into the pews. The figure landed lightly next to Michael and swept a leg around like a matador, then straightened. At first, it looked like Cassandra was wearing the same outfit as the night they’d met. But now the coat was open over a white shirt and black tie. “My prey is here,” said Cassandra. She really is into the sudden rescue thing, thought Michael.

“Foolish hunter,” came Mastema’s voice, echoing through the nave from near the entrance. The golem swung its club around; Michael recoiled, but Cassandra was the target. The club smashed into her, sending her flying into a column. She slid down into a heap at one side of the nave, clutching her ribs.

Mastema stepped into the church. The demon’s body cloaked itself in shadow and flame. But now that Michael could see him properly, there was no mistaking it. It was Father Boudreau, but the possession had fully overtaken his mortal form, shrouding it in fiery darkness and strange growths erupting from the old priest’s skin.

The golem had risen to its feet, recovering more quickly than Cassandra could. It lifted one end of the pew next to it and flung the shattered wood aside. The flying pew narrowly missed Father John, who was—wait, what was John doing? The younger priest was hauling a large plastic barrel directly towards the golem, although the creature’s attention was on Michael.

“Hey! You ugly motherfucker,” yelled John. The golem swung ponderously at John, who ducked beneath the blow and heaved the barrel over towards the armored thing. John had cut the top of the barrel open, and now a gush of liquid flowed out over the golem—or at least over its feet. Michael couldn’t discern what the substance might be, but Father John was reeling back, coughing. Some kind of caustic vapors, he realized, and called out.

“John! Fall back towards the choir!” Michael and Susan each grabbed Yael under one armpit and tried to haul the half-tangible form of the incarnated succubus towards the rear of the church. Her manifested body, though largely made of energy, was strangely heavy, swollen with power.

Father John stumbled past them, coughing. “What was that stuff?” yelled Susan. The golem was moving towards them again, increasing in speed. Suddenly, it stumbled, and its legs broke off at the ankles, feet crumbling.

“Hydrofluoric acid,” explained John. “It dissolves clay, and I had a connection to a chemical supplier, so...” he shrugged. “I was never good with chem lab precautions.”

“That should slow it down,” hoped Michael. The golem was now crawling, pulling itself forward on its arms, heavy as tree trunks. Its legs were gone; they would have to hope its arms were less useful for locomotion. But as they dragged Yael toward the doors of the sacristy, the golem heaved itself forwards, coming within reach. With a screech of metal on stone, it began dragging its own arm along the floor like a claw, swinging at them.

A whip coiled out of nowhere, wrapping itself around the golem’s wrist. A figure stood behind it—Cassandra had recovered. She pulled the whip taut and yanked hard against the creature’s grip on the church door. A loud crack resounded as the golem’s fingers broke apart from their hand. Then Cassandra let go of the handle; the broken fist thudded to the ground beside her. “I’ll take care of this thing.” She vaulted over it, smashing it in the face with a gauntleted fist. Chips of clay flew. Even the heavy-looking metallic helmet seemingly consisted of some sort of clay, merely in the guise of armor.

On the other side of the choir, Mastema was circling around towards the sacristy as his clay servant struggled with the demon hunter. He curled a fist. “You scum. How dare you meddle with me, think to hunt me? Your hell-spawned slut may have laid low my followers, but you still have me to reckon with. I am Mastema.” The demon’s voice echoed through the church like thunder. “And your puny human mind cannot comprehend a single syllable of my true name.”

Michael, all too aware that he wasn’t wearing any pants, stepped in front of Yael’s prone form. “I rebuke thee, Mastema. Yours is not a righteous anger, but a hollow one. Your rage is impotent in this place.”

“Oh? Do you know why your words ring false?” The demon’s eyes burned with fury; he pointed at Yael’s form, sneering. “That whore! That filthy succubus!” His voice was almost incoherent now. “She’s been dwelling on this so-called sacred ground, in your own soul. You, supposedly a man of faith, acting as her lair for months! This place has been defiled, a travesty!”

Michael tilted his head slightly and met the demon’s gaze. The thing’s head was like a gaunt skull shrouded in a dark cloud, Father Boudreau’s drawn and pockmarked features visible within a buzzing, humming movement. Tiny flies, or gnats, or simply shards of absence.

“This place is our home and community. Nothing about what’s happened changes that.” He tried to make his voice level and firm.

“Everything has changed,” said the demon. “You’re nothing but a pathetic husk of your former self—a weak shell of a man without hope. All that’s left is the succubus’s twisted desire, pulling your strings. I can tell what you’ve been up to, all of you. Didn’t you question why you were suddenly lusting after each other?” For a moment, the only sound was that of Cassandra’s ongoing scuffle with the golem, heavy crashes and grunts.

“Yael, as she’s been calling herself for a few millennia now, won’t rest until you’ve done everything she wants you to. Until this church is only a husk of what it used to be. Reverence turned to desecration. Look at you! All of you, covered in the filth of your own fornication. Strands of man-seed all over the pews and altar. I could vomit, but this host would give out sooner than I’d like.” His voice was hectoring, the tone of every aggrieved uncle, every incensed old man.

Michael gritted his teeth. “You brought those men here. You created this situation, but you will never take responsibility, because you’re a sham. Contempt, lies and outrage for those different from you. Such a creed can only destroy, never build.”

The demon laughed. “Such blind arrogance from the mouth of a once-man. What do you think you can offer anyone? A corpse, a puppet, a pile of ash? Even if you weren’t a miserable excuse for a man, a travesty of a woman—you’re too much of a coward to do anything. My remit is to smite the wicked. I did so as an angel of the Lord, and I continue in that role. Mine is a righteous anger, and it destroys those who deserve destruction. Fools. Cowards. Deviants.”

Michael stared at him, eyes burning. “You’re wrong. We are the ones who can save this church and everyone in it. Because we are good people; we care, and we can love. We can learn from each other and be better together. If you purport to save the souls of these men, then you need to look past their sins to the goodness in them. Even the misguided souls who followed you here deserve another chance, though their minds are twisted with lies.”

Mastema spat, a curdling yellow gob of bile that smoked on the ground. “You’re like all the other sanctimonious fools. No one ever listens to you, do they? You think your own beliefs are right, but disregard everyone else’s. But this isn’t about belief or sin, it’s about action. You don’t even try to understand the truth—because you can’t, you haven’t got the guts. I don’t even care so much that you’re turning into a cum-soaked demon slut. It’s the cowardice that disgusts me. You’re just letting it happen.”

Michael’s face grew red, his cheeks hot. The demon’s taunts were getting to him. “Your truth is pure opportunism, not about belief at all. You wanted to exist in this world, so you’re burning through the form of Father Boudreau, who may not be perfect—but he certainly deserves better than you, a supposedly principled being who put himself in league with the worst, most fetid pool of resentment he could find, just to hunt us. There is no principle here, no justice. Just tools.”

Mastema grinned. “But I myself am justice. The justice of God. Justice is not a principle; it’s a tool. But like any tool, a man of principle must wield it. The kind you purport to be.”

Michael’s breath caught. “Thank you, Mastema. I rest my words and deeds on principle and faith. No matter what I look like, no matter what becomes of me, that’s still true. Thus, I can wield justice.”

Mastema’s scowl grew deeper. “Can you? Will you take ANY kind of action to defend yourself, or your parish? Or will you simply let it fall into ruin?” As if to punctuate the demon’s statements, Cassandra rammed the golem’s crumbling head into the floor, crashing into the church’s font.

Michael and the demon stared at each other. Finally, the demon turned away. “You’re scarcely worth my time. I will consume you, eat your rage, and be on my way.” Michael gestured to Susan, who stepped forward, her arm extended.

Michael clucked his tongue. “I’m not a fit meal for you. I may feel angered at injustice, but I bear no resentment, and little contempt.”

Mastema sneered. “I have heard it said that ‘anger is like a fire; it burns its fuel as well as its enemies.’ Perhaps there is something to be learned from you after all. Come, girl-boy. Let’s see how deep your faith runs. What did you think when you saw the body of this young woman—Susan, is that her name?—when the succubus offered her up to you? You felt positive, gracious about the whole thing?”

Michael’s jaw tightened. He stared at Mastema, who continued to taunt him. Michael felt his body flush, his anger rising. He drew himself up tall and spoke. Susan was lighting a candle behind him, then another. “What I know is that your sneering attitude has nothing to do with my own. What I know now is the purpose of this verbal fencing. The reason it’s worth exposing your feeble, stupid, hypocrisy, worth showing you for the base manipulator you are.”

Mastema’s eyes widened. “Oh? And what is your so-called purpose?”

“To distract you from the important action,” said Michael, and slammed the butt of the exorcism baton into Mastema’s gut. The staff, nearly left behind in the nave, but which Susan had scooped up. Mastema’s form wavered, a double image of the craggy demonic form superimposed on Father Boudreau’s body.

Michael struck again. Mastema reeled backward. “My Lord! My Lord!” cried the demon. Michael kept pummeling.

The demon’s voice sounded like it came from Father Boudreau’s mouth. “No! Stop! Please. That’s enough.”

Michael looked at the priest. Boudreau’s eyes were wide and wild. Then his gaze fell on Michael’s naked, shapely thighs and the demon couldn’t help but sneer in contempt once more. Michael struck Mastema-in-Boudreau over the heart and triggered the hidden catch on the staff. What Susan had called the “demon dagger” flicked out, a sharp lance plunging into the demon.

“Pull the crucifix!” yelled Susan, and suddenly Father John was there bracing him, pulling the silver crucifix on the top end of the staff, opposite the dagger. “Keep pulling!”

Michael pushed while John pulled, and something gave. The demon’s insubstantial form ripped from the priest’s body like curtains being torn from a rod. A horrible shriek of pain and loss echoed through the church. Michael saw a gap where the demon’s face had been, and the pale, drawn face of Father Boudreau beneath. The demon’s visage vanished. Boudreau collapsed to the floor, insensate. Not far away, Cassandra was stomping on the remains of the golem’s face, splashing more acid onto its remains from the empty barrel.

Michael was still holding the staff, leaning on it. “I’ve got it. Let me have that.” John pushed the blade back into the dangerous weapon, and Michael sat down heavily on the floor, feeling the cold stone against his hairless, feminine underside.

Susan kneeled next to Father Boudreau. She placed a hand on the priest’s chest, then looked up at Michael. “He’s alive. His heart is still beating.”

“We should... we should call for help. But this... this place,” Michael gestured around him at the shattered benches, the unconscious bodies covered with their own semen.

“We’ve really made a mess.”