v1 CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: In which ***REDACTED BY HOLY DECREE OF THE CURIA FOR SUPERNATURAL WARFARE***

Micki awoke in a room illuminated by a single line of light: the gap at the edge of a door ajar. Her eyes adjusted, and she saw there were no windows; only the door, a single recessed light fixture dark in the ceiling, and a shape in the corner that might have been a toilet—she couldn’t quite crane her neck far enough to make it out. She lay on a bed, her wrists and ankles bound to the sides by metal chains that dug into her skin. They felt painfully hot, as if coated in some chemical that seared her skin.

With a start, she realized someone else sat in the room with her—a woman in a chair at the far corner, facing her. Micki turned to look at her. If I look scared, she thought, scared and helpless, maybe they’ll undo these chains. But she didn’t have to pretend at fear.

As a Catholic priest, Micki had met hundreds of nuns. There were plenty of nuns who served at St. Andrew’s, or visited. This woman wore the habit of a nun and had the demeanor of a nun, but looked older than any nun Micki could remember. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. Her hair, the strands of it slipping from the edges of her coif, looked stringy and dirty.

When Micki made eye contact, the nun’s eyes narrowed; she stood up and left by the door, shutting it behind her and leaving Micki in darkness. A few minutes later, the ancient nun returned with two others. One was a big man who’d been among her abductors—the one who’d asked her to get in the car before his entire team grabbed her. He still wore a black suit and a hoodie, but she noticed the collar of a priest at his throat. The other was another nun, at least from the informal veil she wore—but instead of a full habit, she wore a conservative gray business suit on her rounded frame.

The man glanced at her, then away. “Sunglasses, sisters. She’s fully conscious.” All three of her captors pulled dark glasses from pockets and put them on. Are they worried I’m going to give them the evil eye? Micki wondered. Or hypnotize them?

“Father Michael, my name is Father James Kincaid.” The priest gestured to the elderly nun. “This is Sister Mary Margaret…” He turned to the second woman, the one in a business suit, who didn’t look much like a nun at all. “…and Sister Mary Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Michael,” said the second woman. She gave Micki a warm smile; her face was plump and plain, reminding Micki of a schoolteacher of her youth; she had short brown hair under her veil, and a round nose and chin. Micki didn’t feel frightened of this one at all. Given the situation, is that less disturbing… or more?

“We will assist Monsignor Thomas Spencer with your exorcism,” Kincaid continued. “Please understand that we may need to keep you restrained, or put you in a straitjacket again. That’s only if you don’t cooperate, or if you try to harm or subvert any of this facility’s personnel. If you understand me, nod your head.”

Micki nodded. This wasn’t how she imagined it would go—but it made sense. They would barely let her move, let alone speak or have the free run of the place, until they had thoroughly exorcised her. What could she possibly do?

What if I just went along with this? Would her old memories, as Father Michael, wash away her sense of self as Micki? Would her body change back to Michael’s body? And if so… would that be so bad? She felt a shudder of revulsion without understanding why.

“We have some questions for you, so that we can understand your state of mind. I’m going to remove your gag now, but you may not try to persuade anyone to do anything or speak any kind of incantation, curse, or chant. Please nod if you can agree to that.”

Micki nodded. Sister Mary Margaret came forward and removed the mask over her mouth. Micki took a deep breath; the air felt cool and dry in her mouth, but much better than inhaling her own exhalations.

“Now, please tell us about your relationship with Father John Hayes. How long have you known each other?” asked Father Kincaid.

“Eight months. We met at St. Andrew’s when the archdiocese assigned him to our church, following Father Boudreau’s retirement.” Micki paused. They already knew these details, of course; she wanted to probe somehow, find out what they already knew, without offering too much herself.

“Have you ever thought of him romantically?”

Micki felt her cheeks grow red. Her succubus body seemed to be made to exhibit that kind of flush. As Father Michael, she’d practiced hiding her homosexual attractions to other men for years, but now that guise was coming undone. Seems as if they know everything, she thought. They’ve been watching.

She took a breath. “Sometimes. Never seriously. Not like that.”

Sister Mary Margaret gave her a stern look. Father Kincaid continued to ask questions. Did she love him? She didn’t know. Probably? Maybe. Was she attracted to him physically? Yes. Had they kissed or touched each other in sexual ways? Micki paused. “Yes,” she admitted. A wave of shame washed over her; she was betraying herself in front of these people—the authorities who might undo her transformation, change her back—she was making herself vulnerable in front of them. She was losing control again.

Father Kincaid pressed on. “When you were sexual with Father John,” he asked, “was it of his own volition? Or was he affected by some kind of outside influence?” She knew what he was getting at. She didn’t answer right away. At last, she muttered: “I believe it was his own choice.”

“Do you believe that Father John is being possessed by a demon?” he asked bluntly. The room fell silent. Micki stared at him blankly.

“Father John? No. I’m the one—you all know this. I’m the one who’s possessed. But I did nothing to him… not consciously.” She looked up at them; they didn’t seem like they believed her. Their eyes held secrets, information that she wasn’t privy to.

Father Kincaid cleared his throat. “Tell me about your childhood,” he asked gently. Micki closed her eyes for a moment. Why are they going through all this? Then she recalled similar questions from Susan. She began telling them about her life growing up in the suburbs of New Jersey. She talked about her parents and siblings, teachers, and friends from grade school through high school. When she got to college, she told them about her studies in history, theology, philosophy, literature, and art. They probed every detail of her life: her family background, her romantic relationships, her time at seminary, her friendships with others at St. Andrew’s.

Sister Mary Elizabeth raised her hand, pausing her colleague. Kincaid seemed somewhat deferential to her, Micki thought. The woman fixed Micki with a sharp gaze. “What is your name? Who am I speaking to right now?” Micki blinked; they knew and had been using her real name—or rather, her previous name. They had called her Father Michael Belmont. But that wasn’t her real name. She opened her mouth to explain, but stopped herself. She was supposed to be Michael Belmont.

“You’re not sure?” probed Mary Elizabeth. “The person you’ve been telling us about, it’s not really you anymore?” Micki didn’t say anything. “Then how do you know what you’ve been saying is true? You’ve been telling us about Michael’s history, but how do you know you’re Michael?”

Micki swallowed hard; her mouth suddenly felt parched. “Because I remember my past clearly,” she said finally. “And because it feels like it’s the truth.” She remembered what Father John had told her: that her mind was different now than it was before, but at the core she was the same person. “I know who I am, and I’m the same person as Michael Belmont.”

Kincaid leafed through some papers on a clipboard. “But you’re not using that name anymore, are you? You’re calling yourself…” he looked at her expectantly.

“Micki.” It felt strange to say aloud—she hadn’t used that name since she was twelve, as Mickey. Now she found she wanted that name, Micki. It sounded like a little girl’s name to her at times, but she still loved to hear John and Susan calling her. Then she realized that even if it sounded like a youthful name, she knew herself for a grown woman. “It was my nickname, growing up.”

Mary Elizabeth leaned forward. “But you didn’t grow up to look like you do now, did you? To wear a bra, like that which you have on now. Or a dress, as we’ve observed you in… Micki, if I may call you that. Please forgive this question if it feels rude: are you a man or a woman?”

Micki hesitated. How could she answer that question? If she said “man,” would that be lying? What was the right answer? “It’s complicated. But you also know the answer. I am… I was a man who was possessed by a powerful demon; and now I am female.” She looked up at them—they gazed back at her with expressions that were calm, but devoid of compassion. “I am both,” she said simply. “Now I’m mostly the woman who lived inside, risen to the surface.” They nodded solemnly.

“We would speak with Yael,” said the elderly nun, Mary Margaret. “Can you summon her forth, child?”

Yael? How did they know that name? Had someone mentioned Yael in public—John, Susan, herself? For that matter… where was Yael? She hadn’t appeared at the hospital, and Micki had barely heard her voice since the attack in the park. Was the succubus hiding somewhere?

Micki shook her head. “She doesn’t appear when summoned like a spirit; she shows herself when she has something to say to me.”

“Then we must have her come out,” said Kincaid with finality. He pulled a small glass vial off his desk and handed it to Micki. “Drink this.”

Micki frowned. “Can you explain to me what it is first, Father?”

“This is holy water, from a cask blessed by the Pope himself. Drink it and Yael will come out.”

Micki took it gingerly and sniffed it. She’d blessed water from the font at St. Andrew’s many times herself. But this liquid smelled horrible, like bitter almonds and sulfur. Maybe that was just her body’s reaction. She swallowed it in a gulp, hoping it really was holy water and not some kind of ruse.

Her throat burned; the poison taste of bitter almonds lingered on her tongue. The room seemed to shift sideways. Suddenly there was a pressure on her chest—a weight pushing against her sternum. She gasped for breath and tried to open her mouth to scream, but couldn’t find air. Father Kincaid rose to his feet, but Sister Mary Margaret threw out a bony arm, barring him from approaching.

Yael spoke into Micki’s ear like an echo: “Don’t tell them I’m here. Just play it cool, and maybe we can get out of this. Unless you’re planning on betraying me?”

Yael was talking to her again. The terrifying silence after what had happened in the park had been disturbing. Now, with the demoness returned, Micki should have felt terrified or panicked; instead, she felt calmness wash over her like a warm breeze on a summer day. Yael could guide her. Or swallow her soul. Or both.

Micki turned to the priest and the two nuns and frowned. “I’m sorry. She’s gone, I don’t see her.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. “You drank the water.”

“Yes,” Micki agreed. “But sometimes, after expending her power, she’s been dormant or… away. For days at a time.” That much was the truth.

Mary Margaret was on her feet, leaning in towards Micki. “You mustn’t deceive us, false girl. I saw you. You heard the devil’s voice in your ear, and I saw you listening.” Her hand reached out; it hovered close enough to touch Micki’s forehead. “Your soul is dark with sin!” This old woman hates me, thought Micki. And she senses Yael. But how, why?

Father Kincaid stepped forward and grabbed the old woman’s wrist. “That’s enough—”

“No,” Micki interrupted. “Let her speak. I am not afraid.” She glared at the elderly nun and felt Yael glaring alongside her.

The priest looked like he wanted to protest, but let go of the woman’s wrist and sat back down. Micki waited for whatever accusations might follow. Instead, Mary Margaret stood still with her hand hovering above Micki’s brow. Finally, she backed up a step and lowered her hand. “We will fence another time, little succubus. I know who you are, and what you are.”

Micki stared defiantly at her. Something about this woman made her want to snarl and spit. To curse her, to let out vile imprecations. But when those impulses arose, it was as if she felt a warm, black-taloned hand pressing down on her shoulder, restraining her. As if Yael was pushing her towards calm, silence.

“She is not a succubus,” Father Kincaid with stern determination. He put a hand on Micki’s arm. “This man is a priest; he knows right from wrong.”

Micki nodded at him in gratitude. Was this some kind of good priest / bad priest scenario? If so, she’d play along. “Father Kincaid… I want to be exorcised. I want this all to be over, even if I’m… confused about my gender right now. Can you tell me what the process is like? Will I remember all of this, remember my recent life?”

Kincaid was about to answer when the nun in the suit, Mary Elizabeth, barked at him. “Protocol!”

Kincaid blinked and nodded. “I may not heed your requests, Father Michael. As agreed, you must not attempt to persuade any of us to do anything, not even to answer your questions, inhumane though that may seem.”

“But—but surely you would like to listen to my concerns! I just want to know—”

Micki’s breath cut short as Mary Margaret slapped her hard across the face. “Silence, foul one! You will not speak! You will obey and do nothing but obey! Or we will send you screeching into Hell!” Then she turned to address everyone else: “This is not a matter of negotiation or discussion; it is a matter of discipline.” There was no trace of kindness in her voice now. Micki rubbed her stinging cheek. Is she truly of a holy order? Is this God’s work, in this woman’s eyes?

Father Kincaid cleared his throat and consulted his clipboard. “I may make a few things clear. We are assessing your current state and your nature. Some of this process will involve tests and physical examinations. But you should know that Monsignor Spencer does not consider you a candidate for exorcism.”

Micki stared at him. “What?”

Kincaid continued: “Your body is currently undergoing rapid metamorphosis; you are transforming from human to demonic form. This transformation is being sped up because it results from possession by a succubus—a demoness who specializes in corruptions and alterations. It is unlikely that you will ever return completely to human form; an exorcism would be much more likely to kill you than to remove the demon possessing you.”

Micki’s jaw dropped open. “Then why are we going through all of this?”

“There are other options available to us,” Kincaid replied. “We’re doing everything we can to keep you alive without removing the demon from inside you. That is our primary goal. If we are successful, then eventually, you will serve as a living containment vessel for Yael’s essence until such time as the Vatican issues a decree to destroy her permanently. Of course, you would have to remain sequestered, but you may continue to serve God as part of a religious order.”

Yael growled in her ear. “This is fucked… totally fucked. They want to shackle us together, gag us and throw us in a nunnery forever.” Micki felt a wave of dizziness, and a rush of adrenaline. She tried to get to her feet, and the chains tightened. Silver, she realized, to bind the unholy.

“Sit back down!” Sister Mary Elizabeth ordered. Her eyes burned like fire. Micki fell to the ground again.

Kincaid raised his hand. “Please don’t force me to restrain you further; if you try that again, we will have to sedate you.”

“Fuck you!” Yael yelled. “You fucking priests, you think you can make us into slaves, you filthy whoremongers, you scabrous shits!” Suddenly Micki realized it wasn’t Yael who was yelling; that was her own voice. She struggled against the chains binding her wrists behind her back. Kincaid stepped forward, his size and speed a menace. “No,” he said firmly. “If you force us to do this—”

Micki interrupted him: “Then what? You’ll kill us both? Instead of locking us away forever? This is not a path of mercy or justice, Father. Jesus taught us—”

The face of Sister Mary Margaret loomed in front of her, and something heavy and wooden slammed into her gut, against her ribs, her shoulder, her breasts. “Silence, whore! Do not speak of the Son. Keep your disease-ridden hole shut, demon! Or I’ll beat you until you can’t open it!” The old woman was snarling, screaming back at her.

Micki coughed up blood; she could feel it pooling around her mouth. The pain was unbearable.

Father Kincaid looked on impassively. “This is no way to speak in the company of ladies and clergy,” he noted. “Both of you. Now, if you don’t sit still like a good girl, we will have to take measures to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Sister Mary Margaret—that will be enough. Please.” He glared at the older woman with obvious distaste.

The three clergy left shortly thereafter. Micki crawled back onto the bed, coughing and crying. “What the fuck… what the fuck are we going to do?” she asked weakly.

Yael laughed bitterly; Micki heard it coming from everywhere: above her, below her—the floorboards cracked and split open under her weight as the boards rose and fell like waves. Darkness swallowed her.