v1 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: In which the Church has some questions about the Siege of St. Andrew’s.

“Please proceed, Miss Miller. You contend that this demon, Mastema, was banished by this… demon dagger technique, as you call it?” The reedy priest spoke with a thick French accent. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peered at Susan.

“Yes, Father. I am sure of it. By the principles of exorcism,” Susan was saying with a studied air, “if one cannot banish a demon back to Hell, then the only way to be rid of it is to destroy the body that it occupies. Forcing Mastema out of the body he occupied—if we could do that without killing the body itself, it was our only chance to save Father Boudreau. I understand he’s in critical condition, but stable?”

Susan sat at the conference table, wearing one of Michael’s old sweaters over a pair of sweatpants, her hands folded on the table. She wore her hair in a loose bun and wearing what she called her “serious glasses.” They looked almost exactly like her usual black-rimmed frames.

The French priest cleared his throat. “That is correct. And I am familiar with how exorcism works, young lady. However, your method… and the circumstances… seem somewhat unconventional. Clearly, you have some experience with demons. How did you come to know of this demon? Who told you how to perform these rituals to banish it?”

Susan took a deep breath. “I learned about demons from studying theology and occult demonology under Professor Yates at Columbia University.” The priest, who had introduced himself as Father Garnier, wrote something in an enormous, spiral-bound notebook. “To be clear,” continued Susan with a slight stammer, “I have never trafficked with, summoned, nor maintained compacts with any demons. It is a scholarly interest.”

Garnier raised an eyebrow. “You are aware that Church doctrine forbids such studies? And that many would see your actions here today as blasphemy of the worst sort? Are you certain that this creature—this Mastema—is no longer present within the priest?” Susan took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Garnier was clearly of the stripe of Catholic clergy who deplored any contact with the supernatural in no uncertain terms: a hard-liner.

“Father,” she said, “if the Church excommunicates me for my actions here today or in the future, I will accept that sentence with equanimity. I can say that I acted in good faith to save a man from damnation and to protect the souls of others from the same fate. I have done nothing wrong in pursuit of my duty to God and the sanctity of human life.”

Garnier was about to speak, but Monsignor Albert cleared his throat noisily. He was watching the proceedings from a chair at the head of the conference table. Father John sat next to him, resting his elbows on his knees with an intent gaze at those speaking. Father Michae, on the other hand, sat in the room’s far corner, in a low armchair, wearing a hat and sunglasses, as well as a baggy cassock.

Garnier cleared his throat. “That matter is not for me to decide, not here or today. Let us proceed. The demon dagger in question, part of the exorcism rod. You received this from…?” Garnier’s eyes flickered towards Monsignor Albert, and Susan nodded.

“When the Church assigned Father Michael and I to investigate the disappearance of Father Boudreau last week,” she said, “The archdiocese’s armory sent over a crate of tools. That crate contained the demon dagger.”

Garnier nodded. “I understand that Father Michael Belmont has suffered… what some refer to as aetheric injuries. Are you concerned about his well-being?” he asked.

Susan hesitated. She knew Garnier would not simply take their answers at face value—that there might be another motive behind the questions. But if Garnier found out about Michael’s true nature? Or her own behavior?

“Of course,” she began. “As his friend and colleague; yes. Of course. We’re all worried about him. If we could find the source of his troubles—” she paused before continuing. “If we could discover the precise cause of his condition, then perhaps we can help him recover.”

Garnier gave her a curt nod and wrote something else in his notebook. He turned to Father Michael.

“Father,” the French priest asked, “you are not obliged to answer my questions, but I am still curious about the nature of your injuries. You suffered them while struggling with the demon, Mastema?”

Father Michael cleared his throat, as if concerned about his speaking voice. “Yes. I apologize for being less than entirely forthcoming, but these injuries have left me enervated and, well… somewhat embarrassed. My body and hair are… unsightly now, and my eyes are incredibly sensitive.”

“I am sorry for your suffering; but I should like to examine you further. Perhaps we can determine demonic possession has also afflicted you—and if so, what form it might take?”

Monsignor Albert stood up. “Garnier, that’s enough. We discussed this; I will see to Father Michael’s treatment as part of my office in the Curia for Supernatural Warfare. I know you’re curious, but please allow the man some dignity.”

Father Garnier blanched. “Of course, Monsignor,” he blurted. “Of course.” He closed his notebook and tucked it away into his coat pocket. He bowed to the three men and departed the room, brow furrowed, saying nothing further.

Susan watched him leave through narrowed eyes. Obviously, Garnier was on a classic witch-hunt, but she did not trust Monsignor Albert either. What was the game being played here? Garnier was clearly a representative of the hardline faction, with zero tolerance for the supernatural. But what of Albert?

Albert, if he was an enigma, combined a secretive quality with a most forthright sort of disdain and vexation. He turned to the three of them as the door closed, and hissed, “Well, that’s the most I can do to fend off suspicion; let’s hope it’s good enough. Now—what’s done is done. Let’s move forward with the business at hand.” He strode to the center of the room and faced them. “Father John, you have behaved admirably in the face of unexpected danger and threats to your parish. Please expect a commendation or other honors.”

Father John smiled weakly and ducked his head.

“As for you two,” Albert continued briskly, turning back to Michael and Susan, “you completed your assignment, I suppose. Father Boudreau is… relatively safe. No signs of possession remain. However, in the process, you caused a great deal of damage to St. Andrew’s church. The building itself remains intact, and repairs are underway, but the interior is, shall we say… tainted? Demonic energies, human… bodily fluids. Some sort of acid, eating away at the floor.”

“That last one was my fault,” said Father John. “It worked against the golem, but I didn’t think about how it would affect the stone.”

Albert nodded. “Yes, well—I suppose we’ll have to factor that into the report. Commendations might be premature. Onward.” Albert paused briefly and looked around the room. “Now then, what about Father Michael?”

Silence hung in the room for a long moment before Father Michael spoke. “Do you mean my, ah… injuries, Monsignor? You said something about treatment to Father Garnier.”

Albert put a hand to his forehead, exasperated. “That was a bluff, do you understand? The Vatican is sending their best exorcist, but I do not know when he will arrive. Until then, your parish has been contaminated and you yourself are… in no shape to appear in public, clearly.”

Michael reeled for a moment, internally. Albert had apparently known—or suspected—for a while now that Michael was the “unknown parishioner” possessed by a succubus; why hadn’t he confronted him? Some hidden purpose? Plausible deniability for the Vatican? A bit of both? Albert had never shown much sympathy or regard for Michael, but if there was a reason for the animosity, it was unclear to Michael.

Michael could see that Albert was waiting for an answer from him. “Then should we wait here until this exorcist arrives?” Michael asked.

Albert shook his head. “No. This place is too exposed—too many people coming and going. Take a leave of absence from your duties; I don’t want to risk anyone else being compromised, beyond the three of you.” He glanced pointedly at Michael and added, “Or your own situation worsening.” Michael’s mind recoiled at the thought of leaving St. Andrew’s after everything that had happened—after his years of uninterrupted service.

Susan put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You can stay with me if you like. It’s not ideal, but my apartment is quiet and comfortable.” She squeezed his shoulder gently. “If you need any help to get ready—anything—just let me know.” Michael felt the warmth of her touch through the layers of fabric separating them; the scent of her perfume wafted past his nose. Despite himself, he found his eyes drawn downward toward her chest. What was wrong with him? Every day, he found his thoughts drifting further from his usual restraint, and his past patterns of attraction.

He cleared his throat and looked up at Albert again. “All right.” He took a deep breath and tried to force himself to focus on Albert’s words. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit at home? Pray for guidance?” Nobody said anything in response.

Father John raised his hand. “If I may… I would like to continue services for the parish at a different location—perhaps another church in town or maybe a school; it doesn’t really matter where, as long as we continue serving the community. We’ve already started holding mass at the local homeless shelter once a week and have gotten good attendance there.”

Michael nodded. He was uncomfortable abandoning St. Andrew’s entirely, but no other options presented themselves. “Even if I’m not staying in the parish,” he said hoarsely, “I will do my best to continue my service as the pastor.” They were all silent at this. Although John and Susan wouldn’t say it in front of the Monsignor, who seemed determined to maintain an air of ignorance, they were clearly all considering the disaster inherent in a demonically possessed priest performing Mass.

“Father John,” snapped Albert. “You shall oversee the congregation; Michael is in no condition to do so right now. As soon as he can return—and if things are stable by then—I will reinstate him. Until then, you will serve in his stead.”

John bowed his head slightly and murmured something about doing the best he could in Michael’s absence. Michael blanched; he couldn’t deny the safety of the decision, but—then Father John met his gaze. “Michael. You need to take care of yourself first.”

The expression on the face of his friend and junior partner became stern; John leaned forward and placed both hands on Michael’s knees. “As your confessor and spiritual adviser, I must insist that you attend to your own needs. When you can safely attend Mass again, consider joining us at the shelter; even though we’ll be using a meeting room rather than a proper house of worship—”

Michael held a hand up and nodded. “Say no more. I understand.”