v1 CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: In which everything gets worse.

Micki woke up yelling for the second time that night, cold and clammy with sweat. Her eyes were open, but everything was blurry and dark around her; she couldn’t see anything clearly. Where was she? Was she dead? Why wasn’t she at home, or with Susan or John?

After a terrified moment, she remembered she was at the hospital; she’d come here after the attack yesterday. She was wearing thin pajamas instead of her usual t-shirt. Micki sat up, feeling her breasts move. Why were her breasts so heavy? Had her arms gotten… thinner? Memories returned, but they were blurry: a shower, soap, bandages removed. A nurse insisting that she take a pill.

Micki heard a door opening somewhere close by; someone spoke to her. A man’s voice. “Hello? Are you awake?” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

This voice sounded familiar. “Who are you?” she croaked.

He laughed softly. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re safe now. Can you tell me your name?” When she hesitated, he repeated himself: “Your name? Do you remember what it was before this happened?”

“Micki,” she whispered, settling back against her pillow. “My name is Micki.” Something else seemed important—what could it be? Another name? Michael? When she had woken from a nightmare earlier, the nurse had demanded she take one of the clozapine pills, supposedly to help her rest. But something was making her feel so strange.

“Is that Micki with an e-y at the end? Or spelled a different way?” asked the voice. Micki thought about it; it felt like a spelling mistake. She spelled it out: “…c-k-i.”

“All right,” the voice continued. “I see. You are recovering with surprising speed, Micki. But I need you to do something for me.”

Micki tried to sit up but found her arms weren’t working properly; she slumped back onto the pillow again. “What am I supposed to do?” she croaked.

“Tomorrow, your friends will return to take you out of here,” replied the voice patiently. “When they do, once you are outside of the hospital, you must tell them you forgot your sweater upstairs, and that you really want a bottle of water to drink. Ask them to get these things for you.”

Now that Micki thought about it—she had a sweater at home. It was blue with white polka dots on it. But she hadn’t had breakfast yet today. “I don’t remember leaving my sweater,” she said doubtfully.

The man’s voice sounded amused. “It’s the middle of the night. You can go back to sleep. I’m sure this is all very confusing. But you really should remember to ask them. I’ll see you soon, Micki.”

Then Micki was asleep again; this time it was like falling down a black hole into a dreamless void.

***

Micki woke up slowly, groaning and clutching at her chest as if she were having a heart attack. Susan was sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a book, and bolted upright. “Hey! Hey, you’re all right. You’re at the hospital!”

Sensations rushed into her awareness. The room smelled like flowers and soap. There was no pain in her chest anymore. She looked at her arms and saw that they were human again—she had dreamed they covered in coarse hair, ending in hooves. Nothing else of the dream remained in her memory. “I had… a very weird nightmare. They made me take an antipsychotic.”

Susan smiled gently. “It’s not real. The sun is shining, and you’re getting a lot better. Seems like you still heal demonically fast.”

Micki closed her eyes tightly, feeling her entire body ache, although the bruises were no longer sore. Some wounds will take longer to heal—she knew it from tending to others’ trauma, and now all too well through her own experience.

“Can we go home now?” she asked desperately. “I want to go home.”

Susan nodded. “Maria went to meet Father John, who’s bringing a car to pick us up. We convinced them to release you into our care, although we had to promise we’d take you to the other hospital for etheric treatment. It’s amazing what you can accomplish between a serious-faced priest and someone who looks like a cover girl.”

Micki opened her eyes wide and stared at the wall across from her bed. A clock read 7:35 AM. The lights were off except, and a soft glow was filtering through the curtains. “I need my clothes… but not what I was wearing? The shirt, my underwear… got torn.”

Susan shook her head. “They took that stuff for the rape kit, boss. I brought you some of my clothes and new underwear that should fit you. Here are your shoes—they cleaned them for you; they didn’t get banged up badly.” She handed Micki a pair of sneakers and a small pile of clothing, then picked up a small overnight bag from the side of the bed.

Micki lifted herself off the bed, her body sending her mixed signals. Recovered from injury, differently proportioned, and with a deep inward ache. Susan eyed her curiously as she undressed.

Micki knew her changes were obvious—she felt very different, with her smaller, shorter frame making the weight of her breasts and the curve of her hips more exaggerated. She looked at the magenta bra on top of the pile; its cups seemed enormous compared to her camisole. The tag said “32D.” Really?

Susan pulled open the curtain covering a window to let in the strengthening sunlight. “Get dressed. It’ll make you feel better.” Susan dropped a handbag for Micki on the bed, next to her own cellphone. “I know everything’s been awful, but… I believe in you. You’ve been through so much.”

Susan stood behind her, steered her towards a mirror. “That’s still you, Micki. All you, not Yael or anyone else, not some fantasy. Just you.”

Micki stared into the mirror. In front of Susan’s pretty, round face with its long brown fall of hair, she saw another woman; petite, cute, but not a girl. She had sleek black hair, cut in an angular bob that fell around her cheekbones and jawline; delicate-looking horns that arced into points, large yellow eyes framed by thick lashes, a slightly prominent nose. Her face had the shape of a heart, and the graceful lines of her neck continued into slender shoulders and defined collarbones.

My eyes look sad now, Micki thought, although people were likely to notice the color and pupils first. She was barely shorter than Susan now, a startling change.

This other girl was still Micki Belmont. But she didn’t seem real in this moment, or somewhere between a reality Micki wanted to live in, and the reality events had thrust her into. She was still herself, but also more like Yael. Nothing seems real at the moment, she realized. It’s like a wind’s blowing through me and lifting my atoms away. Maybe it’s fine to be a little unreal in a world like this.

Micki picked up Susan’s phone. “It’s buzzing.”

“Answer it!”

Micki pressed the green button and held it to her ear. “Hello?”

The voice was deep, husky, and filled her with warmth. “Micki? Is that you? It’s John… we’ll be there in about ten minutes. There’s some traffic on the expressway. Can you meet us downstairs?”

Micki nodded. That’s right, she recalled. John’s taken over all of Father Michael’s duties, and now he’s here. How lucky am I to have him? He was helping her keep it together through all this mess.

She turned to Susan. “Let’s go… I’ll just throw this stuff on.” She stepped into the underwear and wrestled the bra around her boobs; they were big enough now that once she’d got them nestled in the cups, she could barely close the clasp, but the way the bra supported their weight felt oddly reassuring.

She glanced back at the mirror. The girl there was of the “petite but stacked” type, with a figure like a pinup girl—long legs and small waist, big breasts, and pleasing curves all over. Micki was used to seeing herself as a girl, but it was weird to have become someone slightly different, yet again. A little thrill went up her spine. How will John react to this body?

She pulled off the rest of the thin pajamas to pull on Susan’s gray tank top and yoga pants. After signing some paperwork, they went downstairs together and left unchallenged.

At the curb, waiting for John and Maria to arrive, Micki abruptly turned to Susan. “I forgot… the nurse gave me a sweater she said I could keep, and I left it in the drawer upstairs! And could you grab me a bottle of water? The breakfast here was so salty, I’m quite dehydrated.”

Susan gave Micki a strange look. “They didn’t bring you breakfast. But I can go look for the sweater and get you a bottle of water, if you like.” Micki nodded with a grateful smile, and Susan hurried away.

Micki looked down the street. A black SUV was approaching. Was that John behind the wheel? Her heart flooded with relief. If all her friends were around her, maybe she could relax for a spell.

The car screeched to a halt in front of her; the door slid open, and a man climbed out. He wore a black suit with a white hooded sweatshirt. In the passenger seat sat another man—also in a black suit. Both men had their hoods up, shrouding their faces. Micki flinched as both men stepped close to her. This isn’t right!

“Father Michael Belmont,” said the man. “We’re from the Vatican Curia for Supernatural Warfare. We need you to get in the car right now, please.”

They reached for her arms; another man came around the front of the car. Micki backed away, shaking her head. “No… I think you have the wrong person, I’m not—” What did they want with Father Michael? Why couldn’t she go home with Susan? She turned to run, to look for her friends.

The three men grabbed her and held her tight. Micki struggled; she felt like a fly struggling against a human-sized fist. One man pushed her toward the car, and she tumbled in, the men clambering over her. The doors slid shut behind them. The engine started. As the car began to move, she heard Susan shout from the sidewalk: “Stop!” Micki tried to scream, to yell for Susan. Someone was putting something over her mouth, like a face mask.

Micki fought harder. She kicked the two men holding her. They didn’t seem to notice. Another wave of panic rose inside her. This is bad, terrible, dangerous. These aren’t priests! Whoever these men were, they worked for the Vatican, but they weren’t clergy. Did they work for Thomas Spencer?

“Just let me talk to Father Spencer,” she tried to say, but the words came out muffled by the mask strapped to her lower face.

“The vocal restraint is effective,” one man said. “You can take out your earplugs, brothers; the demon can’t talk to you now.”

Micki rocked her head, trying to shake loose. No way would she simply give in! If she couldn’t speak, then she would fight even harder than before—she’d do anything to keep these men from taking her away, exorcising her, trying to destroy her. She tried to kick again, and her sneaker collided with one man’s chest, but it was like kicking a door. They grabbed her arms, restrained her, wrestled her into a white coat with long sleeves.

A mist sprayed into her face, and everything went dark.