v1 CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: (18+) In which a man remembers his family, a little too late.

James’ head still lay in Micki's lap, resting on the soft and ample thighs she’d copied from his memories of his wife Deaneara, Sherill’s mother. In place of the operating theater in the abandoned basement where they’d fought, they floated amid a hurricane of broken glass, with each shard an image. Beyond the cloud of glass, their surroundings were startlingly empty, like a blank page of paper. We’re asleep, Micki realized. Or something like sleep. A vision? Is this mess what Father Kincaid dreams about? It was no wonder the man had a blank, robot-like demeanor; Spencer’s will had suppressed and overwritten Kincaid’s memories so many times that they’d gone to pieces.

Micki tried to understand the images floating by; flashes of James yelling, of Sherill’s face looking scared, of Thomas Spencer saying something. Other senses mingled with the visions, odors, and sounds—the sound of a drill, the smell of blood. How could she get this jumble under control? Can I stitch this man back together?

I’m wearing the form of a baku, she told herself, which must have something to do with this broken dreamscape. She’d never read about succubae with this kind of power, but who knows what could happen when different strains of ability mixed? Micki tried to concentrate, willing the pieces of memory and dream to unify. Nothing happened; they still floated in the middle of a swirling storm.

Micki closed her eyes and said the name James had muttered. “Deaneara… wherever you are, here or beyond, help me. Help me calm him.” After a moment, she heard something like the sound of people talking, as if a signal was slowly tuning in on a shortwave radio. She opened her eyes.

A room contained within a vast box unfolded in front of them, as if they watched a play on a stage. A group of three red-robed cardinals faced a figure she recognized: Monsignor Spencer.

“We will grant your request, Monsignor, though with only limited funding for the new Curia. The entire enterprise is risky; you invite scrutiny by those within the Vatican who find your methods… suspect.” Spencer nodded, his face controlled.

The cardinal continued. “Our goal is to create an ecclesiastic division that the Holy See can trust to deal with the supernatural… and only the supernatural. A curia not beholden to politics or religion.”

Spencer spoke again. “I humbly agree. But we will still need equipment, facilities, security. Even my minimum requirements…”

The third cardinal leaned forward. He was young, and very handsome; his brown hair touched the tips of his ears, and his beard narrowed to a well-groomed point. His voice was rich and smooth. “Monsignor—if you wish to move forward with your project, bear with us. In time, you’ll find your patience and perseverance amply rewarded. We have, of course, given some thought to the matter of security.”

Another man stepped forward from the side of the room. James Kincaid, looking quite different in a military uniform. His face was stern but full of personality, Micki realized—emotion and spark she hadn’t seen in the man until tonight.

“Monsignor Spencer, this is Colonel James Kincaid, late of the Swiss Guard. He has… a personal interest in these matters.”

The scene faded, replaced by another. Kincaid stood over a table wearing the same uniform, but unbuttoned. He was in the offices upstairs, Mick realized, back when they were still in use. Kincaid was yelling at Thomas Spencer.

“I won’t be a party to this, Monsignor! It was one thing to assist wiling volunteers who have supernatural… issues. But if someone fails to live up to your standards, you can’t simply imprison them… much less use them as research subjects!”

Thomas Spencer looked like he was going to say something, but Kincaid cut him off. “And it’s worse than that, Thomas. We’re talking about literal children. We don’t have the facilities here to care for the ones who’ve fallen ill.”

Micki watched as the two men argued and felt herself growing angry. Spencer had embarked on his crusade; as she’d grown accustomed to, the man couldn’t stand anything being out of his control.

The Monsignor’s tone was level, even. “Calm yourself, Colonel.” It was as if Micki could see the wave of power that emanated from the priest, washing over Kincaid, silencing him. “You know our mission. We can’t allow dangerous entities to roam free. We’ll never have the resources to exorcise all of them, nor can we undo their heritage. Instead, we must contain them… but we’re fortunate in that we can harness these unfortunates in service to humanity.”

“Service?” Kincaid’s voice was quiet, but tense. “Is that how you would describe it? Hooked up to machines, sedated, your fluids drained to amplify others’ powers? That’s not even living.”

Spencer shrugged. “We all do the best that we can. There is no other way. We will make them… comfortable as long as we can.” He approached and put his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “I realize you’re thinking of your daughter. But you have my word that nothing like this will ever happen to Sherill. She’s too valuable, and I want to make sure we train her well. You have my word.”

Hot tears stung Micki’s eyes. Liar. She felt more certain than ever that Sherill was somewhere here, in one of these cells, just as she’d seen in her dream.

The scene blew apart as if buffeted by the feelings welling in her. Images and fragments of movement, sound, speech fluttered around: a sobbing boy with a broken antler, oozing dark ichor; Kincaid in front of a gravestone, now wearing a priest’s collar; Thomas Spencer flanked by the two Sister Marys; Thomas Spencer in a dark room, turning to see someone enter, his eyes flashing yellow in the gloom.

A woman with cracked, dark skin lay on a hospital bed, her body seizing and then flatlining as Kincaid rushed to help. Monsignor Spencer said, “There’s no helping it. These will have to be disposed of.” Kincaid clenching his fists, staring at Spencer, who returned the gaze impassively and said, “It’ll be better for your conscience if you forget, James.”

Abruptly, the shards of memory fluttered to the floor like snow. The two of them sat huddled on the floor. She cradled James Kincaid in her arms.

“Deaneara… are you really back? I’m sorry about… sorry about everything. But we can get Sherill now, we can get out of here.” His voice rasped, little more than a hoarse whisper.

Micki shook her head. “James, I’m not her. I know you want her back, and I’m here for you… but I’m not her.” And they both wept, silently gazing at each other.

The click of a bullet chambering pierced the quiet. Micki looked up, the last shred of dream flaking away. Monsignor Thomas Spencer stood ten feet away, the pistol Micki had discarded in his hand. “I thought you two were taking a little too long,” he said. “We have other problems outside. And this doesn’t look like a proper draining, Mick. What sort of succubus are you?”

With a roar, James Kincaid lunged to his feet. Micki tried to grab him, but he was too strong, too quick. “James, no!” she yelled, trying to get in front of him. Spencer fired. A bloody bud sprouted in Kincaid’s neck. Micki screamed, and the sound of shattering glass echoed in the hallways. The burly soldier-priest grabbed at the wound, spurting blood from between his fingers. He fell to the floor, taking Micki with him as he toppled onto her.

Micki could feel the warmth of blood on her shoulder. Her vision swam. Had the bullet hit her as well? Her side ached. Thomas Spencer was walking forward, approaching them with measured steps. James Kincaid was trying to tell her something, but he couldn’t speak. Blood bubbled on his lips. Kincaid’s hand found hers, pressed something into it: a tiny vial of liquid, dark and red.

Spencer pulled her from beneath Kincaid’s body and hauled her to her feet, stronger than his tall, thin frame might suggest. “He made you over into that vexing woman of his? Pathetic.” The Monsignor’s tone had lost its cool, collected quality. “Are you content to become the shapeshifting whore of every sad, lost man in this camp? Shape yourself up, warrior of God. Return to fitness immediately.”

As Kincaid died, Micki felt the strands of his desire leaving her body, and the intensity of Spencer’s will wash over her in its place. He wanted her to be strong, tall, well-muscled. A proud son or brother, a warrior for his fight; sharp of wit, forceful and seductive in the most masculine of ways. She felt her body shift and change again: the muscles hardening, the breasts flattening. She felt her genitals drop into the familiar configuration of Mick’s equipment, and her shoulders strained as her frame broadened and grew, while the flowing locks of the baku retracted into her skull.

Mick became a man once again, standing before Spencer in a torn pair of tracksuit pants and a black tank top. He stared at the Monsignor with undisguised anger. “It wasn’t enough to break his mind, over and over? You had to kill him? He was loyal to you from the start.”

Spencer eyed Mick warily. “He had been through enough. Too much, perhaps. You’re right about his loyalty; he must have told you more than I’d realized. My hold was slipping.”

“I know enough. I know that Boudreau, I and others… you planned our possessions, didn’t you? It was you who set Yael on me,” Mick spat. “You’ve been using us like pawns from the beginning. What are you really trying to accomplish here, Spencer?”

“I am not your enemy. I’m helping to save souls. That’s why I established this facility near New York,” explained Spencer. “Long a haven for sin, and now a nest of demons.” Mick wanted to strike the man, lash out physically, but couldn’t bring himself to act. Once again, he felt strangely passive in Spencer’s presence.

The older priest placed his hand on Mick’s shoulder. “You were weak, Michael. Because you’d locked away your perverse impulses for so long. That repression made you an ideal candidate, and now I’ve made you into the ideal man.” Spencer smiled like a father who’d watched his child grow strong. “I shall mourn Kincaid, but his loss was only a matter of time. I’d prefer to make this a new moment of triumph, with you at my side.”

The lanky exorcist motioned towards the stairs that led outside. “If you’re ready to serve, Michael, come with me. We must marshal our allies inside of the Church, and all those on our side of the Curia. Those who know we can only battle darkness with shadows… and that there are greater battles to come.”

Mick stifled a nervous laugh. “Battles? You haven’t even been able to control this operation, Monsignor. James showed me what you’ve been doing to people here. To children. Torture, human experimentation…”

Spencer raised a finger. “I’m not sure I would call them human. Not most of them, at any rate. But I certainly am in control, even if things got… out of hand with Father Kincaid.” The priest sighed. “If it makes you feel better, Michael, I’ll tell you that James was complicit in all of this. He helped me willingly… until he didn’t. And then, I had to change his mind.”

Mick took a step backwards. It was like pressing against a strong, intangible wind that wanted him to move towards Spencer. “I know you’re one of the Contained, like me. The demon within you must want this. It’s inhuman, and it’s making you commit inhuman acts.” Memory trickled back into his thoughts. “That story you told me… the boy who couldn’t force himself to become more evil? After so many years of trying…”

The priest looked at him sadly. “We never make these decisions for ourselves. All too often, we can only survive through sacrifice. For me, the path has always been a sacrifice of both body and soul. How do you think we can win when the forces of evil are stronger than ever before, and the Church itself has lost its way?” Spencer walked to a table holding syringes and picked one up. “Now, let me see… we must have something that will help you control these thoughts and urges. You keep transforming yourself into a female, and that’s clearly her idea.”

Spencer approached Mick. He took another step back, struggling, then held the vial up. “Maybe I’d rather take this one, Monsignor.” The other priest paused.

“Where did you get that?” the Monsignor snapped. Then, regaining his composure, “I wouldn’t advise you to ingest random substances you found lying around in this facility, Mick. You have no idea what they might do to you.”

Mick smirked, showing one side of his teeth. His canines gleamed, sharp in the dim light of the operating theater. “Father Kincaid seemed to think I could have it. And I seem to remember something, as if in a dream… you offered me a vial that looked just like this, didn’t you? As my precipice, the temptation at the spire of the temple? If I drink it, I give myself over to faith. Give myself not to God, but to… her.”

Monsignor Spencer remained silent for a long moment, then nodded. A look of resignation passed across his face. “Yes. Yes, it is your last test, Michael. Your last chance to be free from Yael, to return to the man you truly are. You may overcome this final temptation, throw it to the ground, crush it under your boot. Whether you choose to join me in the fight or prefer to part ways, you’ll walk out of this building a free man.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be your man,” said Mick. “Or any kind of man.” He popped open the vial. “You didn’t mean for me to have this, nor for me to recognize it. But when you brought it to a dream, it looked just like this. We can never control every last detail, Thomas.”

Spencer held up his hand, his voice growing harsh. “Think about what you’re doing, you fool! You’re risking eternal damnation, the annihilation of your soul! Would you unleash a fully empowered demon on everyone here?”

“You’re a monster,” Mick said, “and you’ve tried to make me one. But I would rather be her monster than yours.” He upended the bottle on his tongue.

***

John and Cassandra both yelled, the first in words and the second in sheer rage, running towards the nun and Susan. Maria stood frozen in abject, silent horror. She watched it happen: milliseconds stretched out, the bright arc of blood arcing from Susan’s neck as the strange, matronly nun drew the knife across her throat. Her friend’s face went pale and glassy-eyed in shock, her eyes rolling up in her head as she lost consciousness.

Then the night grew brilliant. Light threw the shadows of nearby trees into stark relief, golden brilliance spilling out from where blood had gushed a moment before. Light was pouring out from inside Susan’s body, through the wound. The woman who had slashed her, the nun who still brandished a bloody knife, screamed in pain and fell backwards, staring at the bizarre spectacle of a woman bleeding pure luminescence. Droplets of blood hung in the air, gathering halos of light as golden beams spilled from Susan.

Susan’s head lolled strangely to one side. She turned towards the fallen Sister, her eyes still rolled back and unseeing; she pointed a finger at the nun. Light still flashed around and seeped out of the ragged cut in her neck.

“What is happening?” John shouted at nobody and everybody. He grabbed Susan’s arm gently and was startled at the way her limbs moved, waxy and flexible but unresponsive. He shook her shoulder. “Susan!” Her eyes rolled back into view, and she turned to look at him—but her gaze was still unfocused, a blank stare. The gash in her neck was closing, sealing up like a zipper. Somehow, blood was flowing back into her body, ushered by strands of golden light.

The nun scrambled backwards, her expression terrified. She muttered something under her breath; blood dripped from her fingers onto the grass. Suddenly, the woman’s eyes widened. She threw her hands forward and let loose an ear-piercing shriek. “Ahhh! Ahhhhhhhh!” As if someone had poured boiling water over her, the nun collapsed to the ground and writhed. “The covenant! Archons, I swear I have not broken it! I would never!”

The light faded as Susan’s neck wound closed completely. Cassandra lifted Susan from the other side, helping John support her, but they both felt her stiffen like a board, then fell limp against them. She went rigid one more time—a sudden jolt of tension running through her body as though she’d touched a live wire. A second later, her muscles relaxed again; this time she stayed limp.

The nun got to her feet and staggered a few steps away, staring at Susan. She breathed heavily, with a fearful expression, but seemed otherwise unharmed. The nun turned and ran, yelling incoherently as she did.