v1 CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: In which control slowly unravels as hidden truths spin loose.

Susan stabbed at a point on the map. “You think it might be somewhere around here?”

Cassandra scowled. “Like I said… I’ve never actually been to their facility. They asked me to assist with a training exercise there. I turned them down. Bad vibes.” Susan had finally convinced Cassandra to show up at St. Andrew’s and help in the search for Micki. The demon hunter was reluctant to involve herself in matters of the Church, but seemed interested in bantering with Susan.

“I told you so,” Maria had crowed after their most recent phone call. “I knew that you, Susan Miller, could charm that girl into coming by. Total crush.” Susan sighed, trying to erase the memory.

“But you’re sure they said the nearest train station was Otisville? That’s close to the Catskills… and a lot of other undeveloped land.” Susan tapped a pen on her lower lip. Cassandra watched her intently, but she tried not to return the look.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “They said it would take about an hour to reach from that station.”

“Well, that’s something,” said Maria. “We can’t just sit here all day waiting for John to come back.” She looked at her watch; it was a few minutes before noon. “What if we go looking now?”

Cassandra shook her head. “From what I hear, they’re bound to have some sort of magical perimeter around the place—a ward or barrier.” She drew a zigzag line on the Catskills for no apparent reason. Susan frowned in consternation. “If you try to cross it without permission, you’ll get zapped by some kind of energy field. If you don’t know how to break it, then you won’t be able to enter.”

“So, what do we do?” asked Maria.

“Let me worry about that,” said Susan, thinking. Then she looked over at Cassandra and tried to put on what she thought of as a winsome smile. “Unless you have anything handy that would disable a perimeter like that, Miss Demon Hunter?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, but the demon hunter didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned away from Susan and stared out the window. Susan thought she saw a faint blush on the girl’s cheeks. Finally, she said: “Not really. Why? What’s the plan… you going to break in there?”

“Yes,” said Susan. “I’m going to break in there.” She shrugged. “I’ll just have to figure it out as we go. From what little John could get Monsignor Boudreau to let slip, they almost certainly have her at a facility like the one you’ve described. First step: go up there with the detector and see if we can pick up her trace. Well… see if it works at all.”

“And then?” asked Maria.

“Then we rescue Micki Belmont,” said Susan. She looked back at Cassandra, who had not turned her gaze from the window. “Uh… do you want to come?”

Cassandra nodded, then spoke—and her voice sounded strained. “Yes,” she said. “I have… a little time to spare.” Her tone sounded stern and nervous at the same time. Then she shook herself and continued more normally, “I’ll come along to help watch your back. None of you are professionals.”

Susan smiled. Cassandra didn’t sound helpful or excited; her look was closer to the way she imagined a wolf might stare at a hiker… but that might be just what they needed. “Well, thank you for that vote of confidence,” she said. “Now let’s get moving. We’ll have to explain everything to John when he gets here.”

***

Mick yawned as he wandered down the hallway, wearing only a pair of navy boxer briefs. Why can’t I find the bathroom? Maybe I’ll get a glass of water first, then piss and head back to sleep. Hell’s bells, I’ll piss in the kitchen sink if I must.

He went around a corner and found himself in a section of the building he’d never been in before. Moonlight shining from a window at the end of the hallway illuminated a row of doors that looked more like the entrance to prison cells: white, heavy-duty, with small windows covered by metal flaps. Where the hell was he?

From somewhere ahead, he heard crying. A child, or a girl.

As he got closer to the source of the noise—it seemed to come from behind one of the closed doors—a nervous prickle touched his spine. What am I worried about? There shouldn’t be anyone in the dorm building other than recruits.

He reached out and grabbed the door handle: locked. As soon as he touched the cold metal of the knob, his heart began pounding like crazy in his chest. Something bad was happening here; whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. The girl’s sobs were getting louder and didn’t sound like they were coming from the same door anymore, but further down the hallway.

Mick turned and walked back the way he came. There was an open doorway in front of him, and through he saw a bathroom! Finally. Strangely, it didn’t look like any of the bathrooms he’d seen elsewhere in the dorm building. This room was bigger; there was a square shower in one corner and a bathtub in another.

Shelves lined the bathroom walls, containing bottles of shampoo and conditioner, moisturizer and other toiletries—the things a girl might use, personal effects. He went to stand in front of the toilet and pulled his cock out of his briefs, feeling its heft in one hand with a faint twinge of disgust. Time to drain the trouser snake. Gross. Why do humans have such disgusting genitals...?

A mirror hung on the wall next to the toilet. Odd positioning, he thought. Did people like to watch themselves piss? There was something odd about the angle of the mirror; he didn’t see his own reflection. Looking closer, his eyes widened in shock. He saw a hand right at the edge of the reflection: a red hand with long, black nails.

The owner of the hand moved into view: a petite but well-built woman with dark red skin, wearing nothing but a leather harness with numerous straps curving around and below her sizable breasts. Black hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders, and from the hair above her temples curled a pair of graceful, curved horns. She was cute—a button nose, lips like a small bow—but her eyes were yellow-white with the rectangular pupils of a goat. She glared at him with an intensity that shocked him. The last drops of piss drained from his rapidly shrinking dick.

He knew this woman—no, demoness. This was the creature who had made him into what he was now. Yael. Now he could sense her presence permeating this place: in every drop of water, exuding from the walls, inside of him. She dared to stand before him openly, challenging him. Yael opened her mouth, screaming words of anger, but no sound emerged. Trapped on the other side of the glass, Yael pounded her fists against it, butted it with her horns. The mirror cracked like ice under pressure, lines snaking across it.

Mick ran from the bathroom. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. What if she got out and caught him again? What if he couldn’t find his way out of here?

Then he remembered. The girl. If Yael was loose, she was his responsibility. Monsignor Thomas told him of his sacred duty to keep the succubus bound… but there was some girl trapped in this building with a demon who might rampage. Something doesn’t add up, he thought in one corner of his mind, but kept running through the hallways, turning frantically before stopping. Everything was quiet. Yael didn’t seem to have escaped, and no sounds of pursuit echoed down the halls. Listening carefully, he heard crying again.

He now stood outside a door left slightly ajar; he pushed it open and peeked inside. A girl sat slumped in the corner. Her clothes were blood-stained and torn. She looked like a teenager, lanky but with soft curves visible despite her huddled posture curled against the wall. Mick couldn’t see her face, but she seemed to be a Bloodliner: soft brown ears poked up out of her brown hair, and he thought he could see small horns.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mick asked.

The girl jumped at the sound of his voice. “Who’s there?” she said.

Mick held up his hands. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “My name’s Mick. I can see that something’s happened to you—we’ve gotta get out of here before she gets loose. But tell me if you’re injured, OK?”

He kneeled next to her and felt her wrists. There were bruises on them, but they didn’t seem broken or bleeding. “Can you stand?” he asked.

She nodded. He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. The feel of her warm body against his reminded him of the much more disturbing sensation of Yael’s form appearing next to his in the mirror.

“I’m going to get you out of here, Sherill,” he said. “We’re going to escape.”

The girl stiffened. “How—how do you know my name? Who sent you? Who’s getting loose?” Mick didn’t know the answer to her first question, either. The name had come to him out of nowhere; he’d never seen this girl before. But it didn’t matter, they had to move. They needed to get away from here, fast.

“Yael,” he replied. “She’s trying to kill me.” As soon as the words left his lips, Mick regretted saying anything. The Monsignor had warned him not to utter her name, lest it give her power. Yet now that he’d done so aloud, it was too late to take it back.

The girl’s eyes grew wider than ever before. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “Who’s Yael, what’s happening?”

Mick shook his head. “There’s no time to explain,” he said. “How did you get in here? I’m lost, but we need to find the exit.” He lifted her easily and carried her out of the cell, and down the hall the way he’d come. At the end of the hallway, he saw a door on the left with a red sign that read “Men.” That must be where the men’s bathrooms were, but it was precisely what he didn’t want anymore; he turned right instead of left and hurried away from the bathrooms.

“Wait,” whispered Sherill in his ear. “You don’t know, do you? This is a dream. I’m sorry, I must have pulled you in.”

“It’s not a dream,” Mick insisted. “This is real—you’re really here. We have to run!”

Sherill looked at him with wide eyes. “No,” she said. “It’s not. I know, I’m a baku. Dreams are what we do. Wait… are you the succubus? They said something about how I had to be kept far from the succubus, because our oneiric fields might entangle. But Mary Elizabeth, she kept telling me about the succubus whenever she made me dream with her.”

“Yes,” Mick answered. “That’s me. Although I prefer ‘incubus,’ to be honest. I didn’t know we had a baku recruit.” He set her down. If they were in a dream, there was no use running. They would only end up in another hallway, another room, endless corridors.

Besides that, the strangeness of names in this dream unnerved Mick. He’d spoken Yael’s name, and that might give her power over him; he’d known this girl’s name, too. Maybe it was better not to talk to this at all. What if she was one of Yael’s minions?

Sherill shook her head. “I’m not a recruit. I recognize you now… I’ve seen you sometimes, out the windows with the others. They won’t let me leave the research building. Do… do you know my father? He works here.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the windows at the side of the hall.

Mick scratched his head. “What’s your father’s name?” Before Sherill could answer, a crashing sound came from a door behind them. Something was trying to push through the doorway: an immense mass of curly black hair. The top of a curved horn poked through. Another crash resounded as something slammed into the wall on the other side of that door. Sherill froze, but Mick grabbed her hand.

“Tell me while we’re getting out of here!” yelled Mick, pulling her along in his haste. “Can you, like, wake us up or something?”

Sherill gasped for air, stumbling. “Yes! But please, tell my father I need him! I don’t know why he’s forgotten me!”

Mick looked back at her, exasperated. “Who is your father?!”

“His name is Jimmy,” said Sherill. “My name is Sherill Kincaid, he’s Jimmy Kincaid.”

***

Mick woke up in a tangle of limbs, their outlines barely visible in the darkness before dawn. It was a good thing he’d convinced the Monsignor to get him a king-size bed; there were three other bodies tangled in the sheets, all girls who’d been eager to jump his bones, and not just for the thrill of having their bodies sculpted.

He sighed and got to his feet, pulling some pants and a tank-top over his toned limbs. It was all well and good to be stocked up with sexual energy, but doing the work got tiresome. He just wasn’t into sex lately… and that wasn’t something he could admit to his friends, but didn’t seem that strange for a priest who needed to keep a succubus restrained within his soul.

Outside, he tried to discern which building he’d visited during his dream. He’d studied the baku recently, drawn by an unexpected curiosity. If there was really a girl with baku heritage nearby, then the details of the dream could give him a clue as to her whereabouts; she would have constructed the dream environment based on her life experiences.

With one eye on the position of the moon, he thought he spotted a tall cedar, bare of needles at its highest point. He’d seen that tree in the dream, which meant… he was looking for the three-story office building near the perimeter fence, the one supposedly under renovation. He paced towards across the dimness of the compound field, hoping nobody was watching to see his destination.

When he reached the front door, he stopped to listen; no sounds came from inside. He knocked hard—three solid thunks. Then waited. He tested the handle, but found it locked. Maybe there was another entrance? Mick circled the stucco wall of the first floor until he found what looked like a maintenance door: aha! It was open.

He slipped through and closed it, feeling the chill of winter morning air leave his skin. There was enough moonlight to navigate without bumping into things too much. Up the stairs, on the second level, moonlight filtered in through windows set deep in the walls. He couldn’t find the hallway from his dream, probably because his own sleeping mind had distorted the baku’s construction.

Instead, he found himself in what looked like an office area, full of neglected desks and filing cabinets. The place looked as if nobody had set foot in or touched it for months. As he entered, fluorescent lights blinked on overhead. Mick froze, cautiously looking around, but nothing else moved. Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten.

There were two desks right near him; the left-most was obviously a reception desk. Behind it stood a wooden chair with a partially broken seat. A phone hung off the cradle. Next to the right-hand door, a framed picture sat on the ground. When Mick stepped closer, he saw the photo showed a family: a man and woman in their twenties, with a small girl in the man’s arms. Though he was much younger, Mick recognized the man: the priest—James Kincaid. Must have been before his ordination, thought Mick.

Through the right-hand door, another office centered on a table with papers spread messily across it. Someone had written the word “CONTAINED” on a whiteboard, with names written underneath it: Spencer, Andrianakis, Whitehall, Boudreau, and then his name: Belmont.

Mick glanced back at the photograph. That must be Sherill.

As his eyes swept over the paper clutter, something drew his attention: a folded-up piece of yellow legal paper. On top of it, in bold letters, were words in red marker:

THEY ARE COMING

THEY WILL TAKE WHAT THEY WANT

Below that, a set of file folders with labels that looked like the names of demons. Nezz. Megaera. Lysaxaura. Ereshkigal. Mastema. Wait, Mastema? He knew that name from somewhere. Wasn’t that the demon that Church agents had exorcised in New York recently? Some recruits had gossiped about the incident.

Mick picked up the folder, which felt oddly heavy. It rattled when he shook it, and the sound of metal hitting the floor echoed in the room. He opened the cover and found the contents neatly organized: notes, pictures, and other documents. A dossier on someone named Father Antoine Boudreau, detailing his involvement with the Knights of St Sylvester. A list of grievances Boudreau had presented against the church. Someone had written notes on the side: Contemptuous, bitter—Mastema candidate?

Mick didn’t know what to make of it. But there was one thing he could recall from overhearing rumors: Mastema was a demon of contempt. This all must be connected somehow, he mused, then closed the folder. The next folder bore a name that froze him: Yael.

He swallowed, then reached out and flipped the folder open. On top was a stack of photos. At first glance, the images appeared to be of a naked young woman, though the image was too blurry to really tell. Other photos looked like antiquated engravings, mostly of parties.

Beneath the photos was another dossier about a priest: Father Michael Belmont. There were pages filled with details about him, his family, his job history, his parents. Strangely, his birthdate and date of ordination were both incorrect by over twenty years, and the photos were of someone else: a middle-aged man with a kind but weathered face, thinning hair on top. God help me if I ever ended up looking like that, thought Mick.

There was another page of notes with his name on top. Michael Belmont: loyal, devout, placid, effeminate. Mick snorted. Who the fuck wrote this? He was the least effeminate guy in the compound, even if he fantasized about guys occasionally. Over a decade of service at St. Andrew’s, said the notes. Mick frowned in puzzlement. Wrong again, he’d never been there… had he?

He kept reading. Online search records show closeted homosexual. Probably severe repression. Possible gender identity issues. See: 1845 Brockenridge incident. YAEL PREFERENCE: male-to-female.

Then his gaze fell upon the last photo. His heart stopped for several seconds. This wasn’t a picture of a middle-aged priest; it was a faded picture of a teenage boy. The corner had a date stamped in orange by an old camera, but the year was three decades prior, long before Mick was born.

His throat tightened. My god. No. Not possible. He knew that boy, that face, he even remembered that T-shirt. It was his own face, younger. But he’d looked like that only a decade ago… hadn’t he? I’m not… in my forties. I’m in my twenties. And I’m not, what… a repressed homosexual? I don’t mind having tendencies—an itching at his scalp interrupted his thoughts. A lock of long hair fell in his eyes.

This is impossible. Wait, what is impossible? His thoughts raced. Was it impossible that Michael Belmont used to be a teenager long before Mick had been? Or that Mick was a teenager only a few short years ago? Or was it impossible that a succubus has possessed him, made him into her sex slave, forced him to become a woman?

Mick rubbed at a bump at his hairline. When did I get a bump there? Did I hit myself on the head? He gripped the desk for balance, and his nails, somehow long and sharp, dug into the wood.

Shit. His body was changing. He had to get this under control.

Mick turned to the window. Outside, the sky was light; the sun rising. Preferably, he’d also be out of the building before anyone missed him; he’d have to come back to look for Sherill another day. Suddenly something pulled at his ribs, his stomach churning, feeling like his waist was being compressed in a vise. Mick tried to breathe, gasping raggedly.

“Father?” The voice was distant, muffled. “Father, are you okay?”

Mick shook off the strange sensation and turned to the door. His hair was longer, fluttering around his ears in dark waves. His vision was blurry, and his feet felt too small for his shoes. He stumbled towards the door. “Help! I need… I need Monsignor Spencer.” Mick’s voice was cracking now, too.

The man opened the door. “Father? Are you okay?”

Mick’s mind raced. If he said nothing, maybe the man would leave. Maybe the man wouldn’t notice.

“Father? Can you hear me?”

Mick’s tongue was thick. He gasped, in a high lilting voice, “I’m changing. She’ll be free if you don’t… if you don’t kill me.” He felt his chest ripple, his nipples rubbing against his tank top.

The man stepped away from the doorway. “What did you say? Please repeat yourself.”

Mick leaned forward. There was no way to stop; he could feel a rush of blood to his crotch as his flesh writhed in his briefs. His shirt was tight across his chest, tenting into two soft mounds, small but pulsing with heat.

“It’s a trap,” Mick croaked, his words coming in a whisper. “She’s trying to escape. You must not let her.” The man stepped forward and pressed something against Mick’s arm. He felt a sting.

“Father Michael, I’ve given you one of Monsignor Spencer’s emergency injections; it’s a compound of hydralazine and midazolam. This should temporarily suspend your body's tendency to revert to previous forms, but you must calm yourself. Focus your thoughts on what Monsignor Spencer tells you your body should look like.”

Mick looked up through bleary eyes. His muscles had stopped twitching. The man was James Kincaid, but older than in the photograph, wearing the black hoodie he always wore under his clerical jacket.

“Father Kincaid… I’m sorry, I…”

Mick closed his eyes. The room spun. “I can see why he chose you. You’re very good at this sort of thing. Very professional. How old are you?” Mick’s voice sounded strange, singsong, teasing in the way it rose and fell in a higher range.

Kincaid cleared his throat. “Thirty-five, Father.”

“And how old would you say I am, Father Kincaid? Please help me out here.”

Mick heard Kincaid shuffle his feet. After a moment, he spoke. “You seem like a young... man, Father. I can say that much.”

“You can say more, Father James Kincaid,” Mick demanded shrilly, feeling his ire rising despite the calming, dizzying effects of the injection. “Tell me how old you think I am… and be honest.”

Kincaid paused. Then, after a brief pause, said: “Twenty-five, Father. Perhaps twenty-six. Yes. Twenty-six. That sounds right. Wouldn’t want to guess wrong, now, would I?”

Mick took a deep breath. His voice was deepening again, at least. “And how old is Father Michael Belmont, pastor of St. Andrew’s Church?”

Kincaid hesitated again. Finally, he answered. “Fifty-three, Father. Fifty-three. But that doesn’t matter. We don’t need to talk about him. Father, you’re not supposed to be in this building. The Monsignor has closed it, since—you’re not supposed to be in this building. Once you have regained control, we will leave. Please continue to calm yourself.”

Mick nodded; the motion sent a shock of pain through his head. The two priests were silent for a while, Mick’s heavy breathing the only sound.

“Father Kincaid, would you kindly tell me about the young lady who lives in this building?” Mick asked.

Kincaid was quiet for a long time. At last, he replied: “Her name is Sherill. My daughter. My only child. A lovely girl. Smart. Strong. Kind. Beautiful. Sweet. She loves the Lord, and she will do great things for Him. She’s staying with her mother while I work. We’re estranged, but her mother is very healthy and alive and takes good care of her. Sherill is happy in San Francisco.”

“Do you truly believe she’s happy, Father Kincaid?” Mick asked.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t she be, Father? What could make her unhappy in such a beautiful city, surrounded by so much art and culture? All her friends are there, and…”

“Father Kincaid,” Mick began. “Sherill is not in San Francisco. She is here, in this building. She thinks you have forgotten her, turned away.”

There was only silence. Mick opened his eyes, feeling calmer. Father Kincaid was staring speechlessly at an empty wall, his eyes wide with terror.

Mick put a hand on Kincaid’s shoulder, steadying himself. He leaned forward and whispered in the other priest’s ear, not entirely sure what he was doing or why. “You desire... to remember her.”

Monsignor Thomas Spencer had trained his aide to resist the suggestive power of demons, for obvious reasons. But Kincaid’s desire to remember was strong, and his mind weak from years of loyal work. The memories of Sherill opened like a flower, petal by petal, falling into his mind. Kincaid’s mind flooded with images. He saw himself holding his baby daughter; heard his wife’s loving words to him. Kincaid felt the warmth of his own love for his child. He remembered his joy at being a father.

“No… Sherill. What have I done? What have I done?!” cried Kincaid.

He collapsed to the ground, weeping.

Mick kneeled beside him. “Father, tell me what’s going on here. We can help her… maybe you can help me, too.”

Then, suddenly, Kincaid was no longer crying. He stood, the tears drying on his face incongruous with the blankness of his expression. “Father Mick, there are some matters that we should not discuss outside of the confessional. This is one of those matters. Now… Monsignor has restricted this building, and breakfast is under an hour away. You and I are both on the duty roster for a supply run today, so we should go.” In a businesslike way, the big man turned Mick’s shoulders and pointed him towards the stairwell.

As they climbed down, Kincaid said, “Father, why did you join the priesthood?”

Mick blinked, surprised. “Well… the Monsignor always reminds me I was aimlessly looking for something to do after college, and kind of fell into it by chance. But I seem to recall… perhaps I thought about it at length, years earlier?”

Kincaid said nothing. Not sure what else to do given Kincaid’s odd behavior, Mick followed him outside.