v1 CHAPTER FORTY: In which controlled dreams and novelty cakes herald the return of a kindly parish priest.

In Micki’s first dream, Susan paced around the rectory meeting room, papers fluttering in her hands as she gesticulated. “I should never have left her! They came out of nowhere… and just grabbed her!” John tried to interject, attempting to calm Susan—but the priest was clearly just as angry.

Susan picked up the old rotary telephone; Micki remembered that telephone. “I’m going to call Monsignor Albert,” she insisted. “He’s got to know something—they can’t just disappear her without a trace!”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything other than that the Church has her in custody for treatment, and that we can’t see her.” John clenched his fists with a desperate look. “She’s at an undisclosed location. According to Albert’s assistant, they’re ‘doing everything possible,’ whatever that means.” Susan dialed a number on the phone: 666. She walked towards Micki and held out the receiver, looking somewhere to the left of her head.

“Please, Micki. I know you’re out there. Talk to us and tell us where you are.”

Micki’s eyes widened; she leaned forward and tried to talk into the phone but could only whisper. “Susan…” Her throat felt raw. “They’re—I’m—” Micki gasped for air, and a noise like static emerged from her mouth. The room’s corners faded, then shredded into mist.

Mick sat at a metal table in a garden. She recognized the place: the private gardens of the Cloisters, in uptown Manhattan.

A handsome, older man sat opposite her, sipping some tea. She recognized his sharply trimmed beard and salt-and-pepper hair, his maroon monsignor’s shirt: Thomas Spencer, the famous exorcist.

“Hello, Michael,” he said. “Are you ready to work together? I hope to help you.”

Micki nodded slowly. “I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.” Her voice had returned to its melodious contralto.

A young boy walked towards them carrying a tray with an arrangement of cakes. They smelled delicious. Micki cast a curious eye over them, then realized that each cake looked like something vulgar, in shape or decoration: breasts and penises, depictions of sex acts.

The young boy placed a cake on the table in front of Micki; it resembled a vulva with a giant erect penis thrusting into it. Micki gawked, disturbed by the incongruity of the setting, the confections, and the calm gaze of the exorcist.

“You’ve been granted an invitation to join our ranks—to become one of us.” Spencer said it as if explaining the cakes, this dream, or her entire life. “You may rise to be an elite officer of the Curia… if you can survive.”

Micki quelled an unruly impulse to lick the frosting off the genitalia-themed cake. “What does the process involve if the recruitment might kill me?” she asked.

Spencer smiled, encouraged. “We’ll begin with a thorough medical exam, conducted by two of my assistants, Dr. Roderick and Dr. Dibs.” Two men stepped up behind Spencer, as if walking into reality from nowhere. They were inhuman in a surreal, cartoonish way: one had an enormous syringe in place of a head, the other a scalpel. Seeing Micki’s gaze, Spencer turned to glare with irritation at the two figures, then waved his hand. The nightmare doctors dissipated into bubbles.

This dream is a little off the rails, thought Micki. Yael’s more of an expert at this stuff; no matter how famous an exorcist, Spencer isn’t fully in control.

“You have some important decisions to make. Michael, or Micki? A dignified priest, or the little girl you appear to be now?” Thomas Spencer leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“We can work with you either way if we must. It would be simpler in the long run if you returned to your male form. You’d have to take vows as a nun otherwise, and the Curia imposes certain… restrictions on women.” Spencer picked up a cake shaped like a vein-emblazoned penis and bit directly into its side. “Of course, I don’t need to tell you what the Church can be like. That’s one reason I look forward to your cooperation.”

Micki stared at him. “I… I can go back to being male?” she stammered.

Spencer shrugged. “If you wish. It doesn’t matter to me; we’ll get by whatever your choice. If you wish to remain female—though I’m not sure why you would choose to look like a young tramp—we will accommodate you.”

The exorcist hummed thoughtfully, then offered her a cake that looked like a pair of hairy testicles. “Try it out here in my gardens if you like. Eat this one.”

Micki picked up the cake, raising one dark eyebrow. “Go on,” he said. “Eat the whole thing, please.”

In that moment, the man’s suggestion seemed incredibly sensible. She’d have to be an idiot not to try, just to see what happened. This was her chance! She took a bite of the cake and savored the taste: sweet buttercream filling and crumbly crust. The combination was delicious.

“That wasn’t so bad.” She licked her fingers and took a second bite..

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “Of course not. Masculinity is a hell of a drug.” Micki finished the cake, feeling abruptly queasy.

Something fell in her lap. It was a clump of dark, shiny hair. Her own hair. She looked down at it in shock. “What—” she began.

Micki’s mouth gaped in a silent scream as she felt her chest smashed against her lungs—a horrible sensation like her ribs were caving inwards. As she stared, her shirt sagged as her breasts emptied and sprouted curly graying hairs that bristled up between her buttons. Her nipples shriveled away into small hard bumps beneath her chest hair.

Her calves thickened and widened and bulged with flesh, also itching with hair that she felt spreading up her body. She was growing again, no longer petite of frame but bigger, heavier, her weight pushing against her light clothing. Her flat stomach rippled and swelled as additional fat rolled across her abdomen.

Micki could feel her bones shifting around under the layers of fat and muscle forming on her body; her hips pressed inward with a painful snap, cracking and changing the position of her legs. Her tail fell to the floor, discarded and lifeless. Even as her silky locks fell out, leaving only a sparse patch of gray strands, more hair sprang out of her chin, her cheeks, and between her legs, where she felt the folds of her labia close and bulge, reshaping themselves into the forgotten sensation of a wrinkled scrotum. Her testicles popped back out of her abdomen, and then she felt it, her clit growing and throbbing, writhing longer and thicker, veins curving around its girth as it hardened—

—and suddenly he was staring at his own face in a mirror. Nothing like the face he’d come to know, but far from a stranger: strong jawline and nose, with a thin mouth and eyes that were small, but kind; a wide chin and ears that stuck out a bit. His hair was almost gone, just a thinning comb-over. His hands grew knobby, weathered. The familiar cock writhing in his pants settled down against his thigh.

Micki was gone. In her place was a man with a beard, staring at himself as the other priest at the table helpfully held up a hand mirror. “Michael?” he asked aloud. His voice was a gravelly baritone.

“See?” said Thomas Spencer. “Easy as that. Welcome back, Father. Do you think you can keep all that nasty business bottled up again?” Michael didn’t know what to say; his head spun with confusion.

“Don’t worry,” continued Spencer. “You’ll get used to being human again. Well, not fully human.” He grinned. “But you won’t need to sleep anymore or eat food—not unless you like it. You don’t even really need to drink water. Your body will take care of itself and heal naturally.” Micki looked down at herself. At himself. Was he Michael Belmont again, Father Michael?

No, she thought. I’m not him anymore. She remembered her life as Father Michael Belmont: the work he did for the Church, helping people, preaching how to live a noble life. A pious man devoted to God. No more. I have already become something else: something powerful and dangerous. For now, I will play along.

The face of Michael Belmont smiled at Monsignor Spencer. “Amazing. How do I make this permanent in the waking world? I’d like to walk the streets again, return to my parish…”

“Not so fast,” said Spencer. “You’re still quite new at negotiating these changes, and malign influences may have damaged your soul.” Spencer paused, watching Micki’s eyes widen. “Before you’re ready to go home—assuming you agree to work for the Curia for Supernatural Warfare—you must come clean with us.”

Micki stared quietly at the priest, feeling the faint breeze in the garden ruffle the whiskers on her chin. “We know everything about what’s happened to you, and what you’ve done during the process of transformation. Although I could not come to visit you myself until recently, our agents began monitoring when Yael possessed you. Demons and their followers have tricked and suborned you, Michael. Made you a willing participant in your own corruption. I’d like to believe in your sincerity, but please believe me when I tell you that you are still not yourself.” Another pause. Micki waited patiently. She needed him to finish.

Spencer continued, setting down his teacup. He smiled, and his mouth was terribly full of teeth. “You must realize by now that I’m not an ordinary human, either? Nor are the Sisters you met; the same is true of every Curia elite. Thus, I can visit you right now, in your dream. If you want to become like me, a master of my power and destiny, you must give up these charades… Micki.” His voice got louder and sharper. “Micki! Wake up!”

Her eyes snapped open; her body jerked from side to side in alarm until she saw the familiar faces of Susan and Maria, standing over a bed she knew. She was in the guest room at Susan’s apartment.

“Oh, thank god,” she whispered. “Praise the Lord, thank you.” She sat up and hugged them both with all her strength, feeling tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked down at herself—back in her own body, with her own face, her smaller limbs, the smoothness of her skin and the weight of her breasts.

Micki let go of her friends. “Thank you for helping me get out of there. What happened?”

“I don’t understand it myself,” said Maria. “But after they took you from the hospital, I saw. It told us how to find you! We chanted, and a bird appeared…”

“I didn’t see anything like that!” Susan was frowning, thoughtful. “I saw a big black cloud hovering over the river.” Her eyes sparkled with gold flecks.

“That too,” Maria agreed. “We heard a voice in our heads saying, ‘Go to the river; you will find Micki there!’ So, we ran towards the water…”

Micki wrinkled her forehead. “The river? What river?”

Someone flushed the toilet, and a moment later Thomas Spencer stepped out of the bathroom, leaning to peer through the bedroom doorway, smiling.

“You see, Micki? This incoherent scene is what you’re still hoping you will happen. A wish-fulfillment dream.” He waved his hand, and wisps of smoke replaced Susan and Maria.

“What? Where did they go? Why are you doing this?!” cried Micki.

“They were nothing but fantasies. They aren’t here anymore—they never were. Of course, neither were you.” Spencer gestured, and the fabric of reality tore apart like a veil of tissue paper. Micki started; they were sitting in the Cloisters, having tea. She was still in her own body, and Spencer narrowed his eyebrows as he inspected her.

“You are still dreaming,” repeated Spencer. “That was your dream; this is mine. Your subconscious wants to be rescued by people who you’ve trusted most in recent weeks. Understandable. Please consider whether they truly have your best interests in mind, Michael. Or is it Micki?” He quirked one corner of his mouth in sly curiosity.

Micki took a deep breath; it felt like inhaling air after being underwater as her lungs expanded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If we can talk about this calmly—”

Spencer shook his head. “No more talking.” He swept the plate of cakes, the teacups off the table, the whole service going crashing to the grass. This man likes to keep me off-balance, Micki realized. He doesn’t want me calm, collected, or in control. Indeed, it was hard to feel that she was in control of anything.

Spencer kicked the metal table aside easily, then approached to clap Micki’s shoulder familiarly. “What if I put the offer to you right now? Join me, or refuse? If you join, you can learn to use Yael’s powers for your own benefit. Under my guidelines and restrictions, of course… for the good of the Church. You’ll enjoy a long life, the privileges of the Curia, and contribution to our cause: battling the dark supernatural forces that threaten humanity, just like you always hoped to before you gave up on anything but your parish.”

Micki winced. Spencer had done his research on Father Michael Belmont, at least. “And if I refuse? What then?”

Spencer leaned over Michael’s shoulder; his eyes seemed to glow slightly from behind his spectacles. “In that case, you die.”

Micki stared down at her knees, feeling suddenly small—and very young again. This is his feeling. Pushed on me, she thought. It’s not what I’m feeling.

She struggled with the sensation, but Spencer laughed again, catching her off-guard. “Just kidding! The Vatican is not in the habit of executing its priests anymore, Father, not even for lapses, fellating each other, or heresy.” He chuckled to himself. “Though perhaps His Holiness would make an exception for those who defy God by becoming succubae or incubae of their own free will.”

Micki raised her eyes to meet Spencer’s; the man’s stare was icy. “What are you offering me then, if I refuse?”

Spencer looked around the garden like a cat might look out a window, searching for prey. Then he sat down in his chair, resting in the grass by itself. “If you refuse… well, we cannot suffer Yael’s freedom. She must be bound in our service, hate it though her kind does. We could exorcise her, but that would probably kill you. Kincaid told you that. I’d give you a 25% chance of survival, 5% without disfigurement or internal malformation of the degree that would require lifelong assistive technology. In that case, the Church would take care of you, of course, Father. Of course.”

Inside his heart, Micki could feel an anger rising, hissing and spitting like a cat. Yael’s anger. If only she would appear here, Micki thought. I wouldn’t be so alone.

“Why so reluctant to exorcise her?” said Micki. “You’re a priest, and a specialist in battling the unholy. Isn’t this the goal of your Curia? Power and dominion over the dark forces that lurk among us?”

Spencer nodded. “Yes—but I think you mistake what power is. An application of force can cause destruction or fear, certainly. Exorcism accomplishes this, when necessary. True power is the ability to give or deny consent. To bind others to our will through mutual compact. You and I will enter a sworn covenant; that is the true power of the exorcist.”

Micki looked away from Spencer. Her heart was pounding. So, this was it: the moment she had dreaded for so long. The moment she would bind herself to a new master. Inside, Yael screamed.

“If I say yes,” said Micki, “what would you have me do?”

Spencer smiled like a snake, leaned forward, and whispered into Micki’s ear. “I want you to help me save the world.”

Micki just stared ahead at a row of neatly trimmed hedges. Spencer straightened. “You’re not ready to decide that yet, so I’m not officially making the offer right now. Think about it for a while first. Enjoy our hospitality.” He walked away, turned a corner, and was gone.