v1 CHAPTER FIFTY: (18+) In which violence is authorized in the name of discipline.

Thomas Spencer stood with arms crossed, staring at the wreckage of the compound's van, which had rammed headlong into the side of his testing facility. He stared at the flames in the nearby bushes, and at his operations chief, James Kincaid, who was trying to break down the locked door of the testing facility basement with an axe.

"Father Kincaid," he called. "Stop this at once. You cannot accomplish anything this way."

Kincaid turned towards him with bloodshot eyes, his axe still in hand. "Give me the combination, Spencer. I'm taking my daughter out of here. Sherill deserves better than this prison."

Spencer shook his head. "You know that's unwise. I changed the combination on the door last year because of your erratic behavior, and you're not thinking clearly now either."

"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years! And I don't care anymore!" Kincaid yelled, swinging his axe wildly and leaving a dent in the metal door frame. "My daughter is in danger. I need to get her out now, before they come back for us."

"Your daughter? Are you sure she's even here, Father?" Spencer asked, his demeanor calm. "And who are 'they,' if I may ask?"

"Don't play games with me, Spencer. I know my daughter is in trouble, so I'm going to get her. Now give me the damn code, or else!" Kincaid turned towards the Monsignor, still gripping the axe, but Spencer stared him down. Even in his agitated state, something of the man's programming remained. Spencer knew he was no match for Kincaid physically, but with all the commands he'd inscribed on the big priest's soul over the years, there was no way Kincaid could touch him. For that very reason, he was hesitant to lay down even more orders for Kincaid to follow; his mind was beginning to leak.

Sister Mary Elizabeth ran up. "I'm sorry, Monsignor. Mary Margaret is still in no shape to do more than yell and berate her charges. She's still not physically recovered."

Spencer scowled. "And what about you? Can't you hex this mad fool or something?"

Mary Elizabeth shook her head. "You know I may not. Not until the moon next wanes, and the geas on my bones—"

Spencer waved her away. "Yes, yes. As usual, I will have to deal with this myself."

Some trainees were approaching, having heard the commotion. Spencer shouted orders to extinguish the fire. He still wasn't sure why Kincaid had started burning things before trying to force his way in to the research building. Two more people ran up to him. The trainee boy, Brad—but with a woman he didn't recognize. She was blonde, looked to be in her mid-30s, and wore black track pants with a tank top that was stretched too tight across her sizeable breasts.

"Who the hell is this, Brad?" Spencer demanded, not in the mood for another problem.

Brad coughed and said nothing. The woman blanched, then stood at attention, her brow furrowing. Spencer watched in astonishment as her hair darkened and shortened into a pixie cut, her figure becoming slender and her face youthful, angular.

"Father Belmont? What on earth do you think you're doing? I never authorized you to change forms. You know it's potentially catastrophic! And into a woman!?" Spencer was livid, his scolding seeming to strike the womanly priest like blows. Mick's transformation halted partway; he looked more androgynous but hadn't yet resumed his male appearance.

"I have no excuse, Father." His protégé's voice was husky, but feminine. "This is a new form, and a rather poor one. Please forgive me; I indulged myself over much while trying to master my powers." A note of shame crept into Mick's voice. He glanced at the ground. "It's been hard to control."

"We can discuss your errors later," Spencer snapped. "Right now, Father Kincaid needs our help." The young priest, looking for all the world like a waifish ingenue, took a deep breath and nodded.

"Father, perhaps you can assist me by—" A loud noise interrupted Spencer: a siren wailing from the direction of the main gate.

"That's a perimeter breach!" gasped Sister Mary Elizabeth. "If there's an intruder, we can't... I can't..."

Spencer motioned her to silence, just as Kincaid finally hacked his way through one panel of the reinforced door far enough to force the lock. "Fine. Something is clearly pulling the skein of our home's destiny towards a crux. If we have unwanted guests, I will attend to them."

He turned back to his trainees. "Father Belmont... Mick. I hope you're still going by Mick, given... your unsightly appearance?" He motioned towards Mick's chest, where the swell of small breasts still unmistakably lifted the fabric of the tank top.

Mick nodded, his face reddening. Kincaid kicked the door open and descended towards the basement of the building.

"This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. I need you to go after Father Kincaid and prevent him from... hurting himself or damaging any equipment. There are instruments both delicate and dangerous in that facility; retrieve him as soon as you can. I don't care if you beat him unconscious—though you may need to grow some more muscles for that—or use your powers to enthrall him, drain him of energy. Just get it done." Spencer spoke in a tone of calm command, and Mick felt his head nodding obediently.

"Do not open any of the inner chamber doors." Then Spencer pulled a heavy black pistol from his belt, chambered a round, and extended it to Mick. "You know what...? If Kincaid won't desist and come back out here—if he won't cooperate, just shoot him. Preferably non-lethal, but I'm not picky." Mick gulped, but reached out for the gun.

***

Susan thrashed her way through the bushes, thankful she'd chosen outdoor clothing for this rescue attempt. She glanced back at the others. "So... I guess that was the perimeter we just crossed?"

"What gave it away?" Cassandra growled. "The flash of runic light, or the sirens going off?" There were lights and open space ahead, but they were trying to stay out of sight, circling around. That had been Cassandra's idea; nobody else had even a shred of experience sneaking into an enemy base, so they went along with her suggestions.

John and Maria were not far behind, with the priest watching their rear. At least Maria had changed clothes, wearing stirrup pants and sneakers. Still, Susan thought, the four of us are not exactly an ideal infiltration team.

They reached a clearing. A building loomed over them, a three-story structure of gray stone that resembled an old school building. It seemed to have no windows and few exterior features; only the second floor had windows. They could hear shouts from around the far corner, and saw the flicker of flames.

Maria caught up. "What the heck is going on around here? I smell gasoline... do you think they usually have stuff on fire and sirens around here, or is this commotion about us?"

John shook his head. "Not sure, but either way, we're not sticking our necks out for long." He turned to the others and lowered his voice. "We'll wait for a minute, then see if we can get around to the far side. Maybe we can spot someone who's alone—if we can corner one of them, they might... feel intimidated enough to give us information."

Cassandra nodded and pulled out a knife that looked to be about eight inches long. The others stared at her.

"Preferably without violence!" added Father John. "Can we please at least try to get our friend out of here with no one dead or maimed?"

Somewhere inside the building ahead of them, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoed.

***

The lights in the basement were dim and flickering, but Mick could see the heavy figure of James Kincaid moving ahead of him. Gurneys and carts full of instruments littered either side of the hallway that stretched into the gloom. Ahead, Mick spotted the doors that Spencer had warned him not to open, lining the hall like the entrances to prison cells. One of these, he thought, might hold Sherill. She really is his daughter. But does Kincaid know which, or is he just going to break stuff until he finds her?

He had his orders. "Father!" Mick yelled. "Don't go any further! Monsignor Spencer has... he's authorized deadly force!"

Kincaid didn't stop. Mick followed him into an open area, with what looked like an operating theater in the center. A raised observation room loomed behind glass at one side.

Mick cleared his throat. When Kincaid still ignored him, he said again: "Father!" Finally, the man turned to face him.

"Who the hell...?" Kincaid stared at Mick in confusion. Puzzled for a moment, Mick remembered why. He currently resembled a slender, androgynous brunette with a pixie cut.

"It's Mick, James. Don't mind the look—there's no time to explain. Come outside with me. Maybe we can persuade Monsignor Spencer to let your daughter go. If she's here at all, I mean."

Kincaid shook his head and spat on the floor. "She's my daughter, Mick. You can't possibly understand how I feel."

Mick stepped back, then held up the pistol to show he meant business. If he won't cooperate... "Your memory is faulty, James. I realize Monsignor Spencer must have done that to you. Still... you don't have to throw everything away. You could see Sherill again, if you cooperate."

Kincaid laughed. "Done to me? It's not just me. Do you know anything about what we've done in this place? Some of the evidence remains... the bodies. The prisoners who're still locked up. Many of them children—used like batteries, or science experiments, all to create abominations like you and the others."

Mick reeled. Experiments? Create abominations... like me? There wasn't time to grapple with these questions right now. He aimed the pistol at Kincaid's forehead and thumbed the safety off.

"Come outside, now. That's an order from Spencer. Help both of us out, Kincaid, and just follow his orders."

Kincaid looked sad as he approached Mick, his hands extended with palms up. "I'm through following orders, kid. My daughter is waiting for me. She might be injured, or worse. Why don't you come with me? From the look of you, you're not enjoying being one of Spencer's lads any more than I am. Do you even remember what you looked like when you arrived, Micki?"

"Stop. Stop talking!" yelled Mick. His hand shook, but he held onto the gun. He'd practiced at the target range, time and time again. How hard could it be? "I will shoot you dead, Kincaid. Walk outside, or I swear to God, I will kill you where you stand. Thomas Spencer's orders."

Kincaid seemed to consider. "No," he said, and lunged forward, moving inside Mick's guard more quickly than seemed possible. The big man thrust an arm up, slapping at Mick's gun. Mick squeezed, and the report of the pistol firing thundered, deafening him. The bullet struck the wall behind Kincaid, but a streak of blood marked the burly priest's face. Kincaid grabbed Mick by the wrist and pushed him backward; he stumbled and fell against a table. Kincaid advanced and punched him in the face.

Mick felt blood pour into his mouth as Kincaid landed another punch, this time in his gut.

"I don't enjoy hitting a girl," yelled Kincaid, "Or whatever you are. But my girl's in trouble and I've left here there for... for months!" Mick scrambled backwards and crouched into a fighting stance, his small fists up. Kincaid pushed his sleeves up, pumping his meaty hands downwards in two strikes at the air. Holy shit, thought Mick. I've never tried to take him unarmed. Also, I just fucked my best friend, landing me in this petite female body from his fantasies.

Mick threw himself to the floor as Kincaid swung.

The priest missed. Mick grabbed the legs of a nearby chair and tossed it towards Kincaid, giving him a chance to regain his footing. Then Mick stepped forward once, twice, and kicked Kincaid in the chest as hard as he could.

Kincaid grunted and staggered. But Mick's reduced weight wasn't enough to take Kincaid down. He grabbed a beaker from a nearby table and flung it at the big man. Kincaid dodged, and the glass smashed on the ground behind him.

Then the priest came at Mick again. This time, Kincaid was fast—fast as the men who'd chased Micki through the park. One of the priest's punches hit Mick's cheekbone. The blow glanced, but still sent him spinning to the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, Kincaid was on him, grappling on the ground.

Kincaid's arms wrapped around Mick's neck and began choking the breath from his lungs.

Mick fought to break the hold. It took all his slender strength, but he somehow managed. Kincaid's eyes bulged; the priest grunted in pain as the back of Mick's head rammed into his chin. Still, Kincaid's arms had simply shifted to Mick's shoulders and chest, tightening like iron bands.

Mick struggled, trying to pull his attacker into an unbalanced position, but the priest was too strong. If the priest got the upper-hand, Mick didn't know what could happen. He's crazy! He doesn't know where his daughter is or what's going on... he could... he could... Mick screamed and kicked backwards, hoping to smash the priest in the crotch. "Fuck you, you fucking rapist!" he screamed, his voice high and panicked. "You fuckers can't do this to me again! I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!" Mick thrashed, and his head slammed into Kincaid's nose.

Kincaid gasped but shifted his grip to pull Mick into a full nelson hold, one of his huge legs pinning Mick's. "Nothing like that is happening or going to happen," he wheezed. "I don't want to hurt you. But he's controlling you, too. Fight off Spencer's influence... if you can. I can't, not for long. I don't have much time."

Mick thrashed and bucked; he didn't have any leverage. Kincaid pressed harder—his face reddening with effort, his expression grim, almost angry.

With a cry, Mick arched his spine and pulled his shoulders backwards, using his weight to throw Kincaid off. All that accomplished was pushing his body into Kincaid's, and his panic deepened.

Something in Mick's mind clicked. You are a succubus. You have other weapons at your disposal. Mick was teeming with the energy he'd collected over weeks of dallying with the recruits. He let out a long breath and relaxed. Kincaid still held him fast, but the tension in the larger man's limbs eased as Mick's muscles softened.

"Belmont, before it's too late—we have to get Sherill. We have to—" Kincaid inhaled sharply as Mick twisted in his grip, grinding his ass against Kincaid's crotch. He was no longer trying to get free, instead trying to feel him, straddle him, press their bodies together.

"James..." Mick's voice emerged in a breathy whisper as his body writhed against the priest, "your desire has been long denied, long frustrated. I feel it burning in you. Show me."

Kincaid froze, then blinked. Slowly, his hands loosened on Mick and the two fell away from each other.

Mick stood up, shaking his head, his breathing ragged. Kincaid stared, openmouthed, as though seeing salvation for the first time. As if seeing someone else. "Deaneara...? Do you know Deaneara?"

With that name hanging in the air, a vision unfolded in Mick's inner sight, plucked easily from the thousand shattered images tumbling through James Kincaid's mind. A gentle face, with soft lavender-tinged, doe-like ears poking up from waves of dark hair, alongside nubs of horns. Wide lips and milky gray eyes, with prominent lower canines. A full body, round and sensuous.

With a long sigh, Mick's form flowed and changed, growing and rounding, a cascade of hair pouring down his shoulders as his ears migrated upwards and grew fuzzy. As he took the form of James Kincaid's lost wife.

Micki looked at herself, at Kincaid. Kincaid was staring wide-eyed at her. Then the priest threw himself forward and crushed her against him. She could smell the scent of her husband. His heart pounded wildly; she felt the heat of his blood. "Deaneara... where have you been? Oh, God Almighty. He's brought you back to me."

She heard the words, knowing he didn't mean them for her, as if she wasn't there.

Then Kincaid pulled her down, held her close, and laid his head on her soft lap. The man closed his eyes, at peace. He and this woman had done this a hundred times, a thousand. Deaneara Kincaid was a baku, Mick realized. A shaper and eater of dreams. But succubae also walk in dreams. She reached out and twisted something intangible in his mind, weaving it across her awareness, through the undefinable space between souls.

Together, they fell into the tortured dreams of James Kincaid.

***

Maria started at the sound of the gunshot. "Was that...?"

Father John nodded. "Some serious shit is going down here, and we stumbled into the middle of it. I have a bad feeling..."

"...that Micki might be caught up in the middle of it?" said Susan with a grimace. "You and me both, Father. How do we get into this building? Someone boarded all the windows up."

She stepped up to the corner of the building and peered around it. "The coast looks clear so far, but there are definitely people up ahead. Looks like they're trying to put that fire out." She turned back to the rest of the group. "I suggest we—"

Cassandra's yell of warning came too late. Someone was right behind Susan, wrapping one arm around her waist, the other at her throat. Somehow, I missed her approaching, or this woman was sneaky enough to—then, with a sudden feeling of shock, Susan realized the woman behind her was holding the edge of a blade against her neck.

"Hey! Hey, hold on now," yelled Father John. "There's no need for that! Please... Sister?" John's voice went higher in confusion as he noticed the woman's habit. She was a matronly figure, round in face and figure and slightly shorter than Susan. Her face twisted in a sneer of contempt.

"Who are you people? What are you doing here?" The nun squinted in the dim light. "Don't move or this one's dead. Don't think I won't do it!"

Although John couldn't believe a woman of the cloth could go through with it, there was a disturbing edge to this sister's voice that made him doubt his preconceptions.

As if reading his mind, the woman laughed: a low chuckle, almost a growl. Then she pressed the knife harder into Susan's skin. A faint trickle of blood welled up, and Susan let out a whimper.

John felt himself tense, ready to rush into action. He had to keep control of his emotions, for Susan's sake. He cast his eyes to one side. Maria had her hands up, but Cassandra was edging to the right, and with little subtlety. He had to trust the demon hunter would stay cool.

Susan stood frozen in the nun's grip. "We're looking for a friend," John explained, pressing his hands downward in the air in a calming motion. "Her name is Micki Belmont."

"Micki?" the woman repeated.

"Yes, yes, Micki. We believe she was brought here by mistake."

Sister Mary Elizabeth smirked. "I see. You must be Father Hayes. And this," she jerked Susan slightly backwards, towards the corner of the building, "I should have recognized this girl as Susan Miller. How amusing... some sort of rescue attempt?"

Susan gasped out, "So she is here... what do you want with her?"

The woman ignored the question. Instead, she looked past John and said, "You two—get over by the wall. Now!"

Maria and Cassandra obeyed. As they did, John took a step forward and held his hands out, beseeching. "Sister, I don't know what's going on here, but I'm sure we can just talk about it."

"What if I were to tell you that your... colleague was perfectly happy here? Having joined our Curia? I suppose you wouldn't simply walk away contented, would you? Nor could we allow you to leave. You'll all have to come with me so that—"

Another gunshot suddenly echoed from inside the building, somewhere below them, followed by a woman's scream. The nun's eyes darted sideways, and suddenly Susan found the adrenaline to elbow her captor hard in the ribs. Cassandra darted forward, quick as a raptor, a knife flashing in her hand. The nun grunted, but held onto Susan, then slashed the knife across her throat.

A spray of blood erupted from Susan Miller's carotid artery.