(AN: Be sure to check out the original illustrations posted as comments to the first paragraph of each chapter!)
It had been twelve years since the portals opened: first in Central Park, then in major urban hubs across the world. They led here from places beyond human knowledge or imagining. In those twelve years, magic had flooded into everyday life, awakening some beings from slumber, while changing the nature of others, while visitors from high-tech worlds and magical realms arrived through the portals. In that time, New York became a very different place, home to huckster fae and techno-magic sorcerers, nanotech swarms, sentient AI, mutants and djinn, mystical plagues, and man-made horrors.
In the parish church on Christopher Street, Father Michael swept between the pews, scratching occasionally at his hairy paunch, and letting his thoughts drift to the state of the world and his small place in it. By and large, he considered himself an ordinary man. He focused what resolve he had on preserving a candle-flame of stability, dignity and tradition amidst all the changes wracking society and the natural order.
Every Sunday, Michael addressed his flock with a gentle homily meant to evoke peace and wisdom. Even if he didn't always hit the mark perfectly, Michael was devoted to feeding the hungry and counseling the lost, and so the Archdiocese of New York allowed him to hold his post. Like all Catholic priests, he was tasked with beating back the tides of superstition, fads of occultism, and the far graver threats that could emerge in their wake. Quite frankly, Michael hoped that he didn't have to do too much of that. He was certainly concerned about what the bishops, archbishops and cardinals called "a tide of darkness threatening to wash humanity away"... but mostly he wished everyone could coexist and get along.
The leader of his senior's group had left him a note earlier today, saying she'd heard strange noises when locking up after a community meeting. Poking between the pews, Michael hadn't noticed anything strange. It had been a fairly uneventful day, so he wasn't expecting much; probably just some mice or rats? If so, he'd need to call the exterminator, fill out forms... Quieting his own mild frustration, he silently said a prayer of thanks for the quiet life of a parish priest, even here in New York City.
You can tend to your flock, care for the elderly, and spend days in contemplation, thought Michael. It wasn't quite what he'd imagined in his youth, but the priesthood had always seemed like the best way for him to simply exist. It wasn't as if he was going to get married to a woman, have kids, experience a "normal life." It wasn't as if he could ever come out of the closet, or summon the nerve to act on his attraction to men, his other fantasies. He never had; he'd barely spoken a word of any of that to himself. So, Michael lived a quiet life... what was the phrase, a quiet life of desperation? No, it was never quite so bad as all that.
Michael began to whistle to himself, not really a tune but not off-key either. He stopped, thinking he heard something strange, then began whistling again. There it was: as if someone else was whistling at the same time as he was, a strange off-kilter stereo sound. It sounded a bit like someone trying to follow his tuneless meandering but not quite succeeding in synchronizing, or even harmonizing. Was it an echo? Where was that coming from?
He turned around. The church stood quiet and empty as it had a minute prior. Then the whistling sounded again, even though his own mouth was open, surprised, silent.
"Is... is someone there?" he called out. "Can you hear me?"
No response, just the whistling, getting louder now, echoing in his ears. Michael took another step forward, still cautious, but hearing the sound as if someone were right behind him. His heart started pounding, his palms sweating, but nothing seemed amiss. "Hello?" he called, turning around.
"Michael!" came a voice, crystalline and clear, but not quite matching the cadence Michael might expect from someone calling for him. Lilting, singsong, just slightly off. "Michael Belmont!"
There was no mistaking the voice. He knew that voice. Not just the voice, but the intonation, the timbre, the cadence, the tone of command. It was someone he knew. But it was not. It was simultaneously alien, a stranger, an outsider, a foreigner... and horribly familiar. A name came unbidden to his mind, from somewhere within him that was also not part of him.
"Yael...?" Michael whispered. How did he know that name? Where had it come from, into his thoughts?
She laughed, and he felt her presence brush against the back of his neck. "You've been so busy lately, Father? I know how hard it is for you to maintain your piety in this city of sin and temptation. In this neighborhood, even."
Michael's hands shook as he gripped the broom handle tightly. "What... what are you? What is this?" he asked quietly, fear creeping into his voice. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, goosebumps rising over his skin. Invisible fingers touched the back of his head, and Michael shivered violently. She giggled; a musical laugh that made him want to scream. Michael whirled around, trying to locate whoever this was. "Show yourself... show yourself, demon!"
But Yael's laughter continued. Her presence grew stronger, pushing Michael backward. A presence moved like a phantom in the air before him. "Oh, you're afraid! Such a sweet little priest, aren't you? Afraid of me, because you think I'm some sort of demon sent to corrupt you and make you my own. Hmm. I suppose that would be a good guess!" She barked out the last two words as if they were slurs.
The apparition speaking wavered in the air, misty and white but undeniably female in its curves, then grew more tangible, more detailed. Michael saw ringlets of dark hair, skin an inhuman shade of burgundy, a svelte body clothed in an embroidered black teddy that fell to her waist, a pair of eyes that glowed like molten gold, a face that looked like a child's in the wrong proportions. The features were too long, too slender, too pointed at the chin and jawline, too wide and round at the forehead. His gaze traveled down her form, seeing her breasts, her flat stomach, the swell of her hips and her naked vulva, her tail curled like a snake with a featureless head, her ridged horns spiraling upward from her temples. Despite all that, her face remained eerily humanlike, her body somehow terrifying and soft and sleek at once. At some angles, she might look like any teenager you'd see on the streets of New York; at others, impossibly alien, remotely beautiful... something from beyond. He felt drawn to her, hypnotized, as she floated closer, chuckling softly, eyes alight with amusement.
The apparition reached out with both arms, taking hold of Michael's shoulders. Her touch was warm and smooth, electric, sending a tingling sensation through his skin. "So nice to meet you, Father Michael. So, so nice. So nice. Let's be friends, Michael. You and I." Michael's paralysis broke, and he staggered back, falling to the flagstones.
Yael stepped in close to him, looming over him. She kissed him gently on the lips, tasting of honey and wine, the scent of roses and spice, with a hint of vanilla.
Michael closed his eyes, shuddering as his knees buckled beneath him, feeling Yael's hands sliding up his chest, caressing his nipples. Why couldn't he resist? Of course, he thought, this must be a succubus. This is what they do. He fumbled inside his cassock for the chain of his crucifix, gripping it like a life preserver. Yael smiled, licking her lips. "I love it when you struggle, Father Michael," she said huskily. "It makes me feel powerful."
Michael tried to push the phantom girl away. He stumbled backward, trying to keep his balance, but Yael followed, keeping pace, catching him every time he tried to run. He pulled the crucifix out, brandishing it in the precious space that separated him from the demoness. "Deprecare Deum pacis, ut conterat Satanam sub pedibus nostris..." he chanted, sweating profusely, "ut coterat Satanam... sub pedibus nostris! Ne ultra valeat captivos tenere homines... um..."
Yael grabbed the crucifix, yanking it from Michael's hand, then thrust it into her mouth, chewing it furiously while Michael gasped in horror, trying to pull away. The crucifix was bending, shattering, shards dropping from the demon's lips.
"Let go, foul one!" Michael roared, throwing himself backward, but Yael kept pace, moving with him, always following. The chain still snaked out of Yael's leering, grinning mouth, and was still wrapped around his hand. He jerked her forwards, pulling the strangely petite form off balance. In that instant, he had the impression that she was still amused, still toying with him, even as they both tumbled over a pew into the narrow space between the rows.
Michael's shoulder hit the wall, and the chain snapped. Yael fell atop him, pinning him down, her weight crushing Michael's body. He struggled, struggling for breath, gasping for air, his lungs burning.
"You can't escape me now," Yael purred, leaning in close, her voice low and sensuous. "I am part of you... I'm inside you already, silly! And soon... let me lay the big secret on you. Soon, you will BECOME me!" She declared as if discovering a surprise birthday present, with childish delight and glee. She kicked her legs happily, the cloven hooves where her feet should have been striking sparks from the church's flagstones. She laughed again, and Michael could hear the sound echoing within his own skull.
"You cannot get rid of me, Michael. No matter how hard you try. I have already claimed you, body, mind, soul. Your very essence... your very life... is mine to control. Mine to command."
Michael knew it was not true. His anger, his will to survive, so long repressed, raged in his heart. He would not give in to this thing, even with the tools of his faith shattered, even with the words of exorcism failing on his stumbling tongue. His resolve, at least, would not falter. Inwardly, he prayed to Jesus and envisioned His holy light. He held onto his strength, refusing to surrender.
But Yael was not discouraged. She laughed, the sound like thunder, rolling across Michael's ears like an earthquake. She leaned forward, pressing her lips against his ear, whispering:
"Your body belongs to me, Father Michael. Your soul is mine to control. Okay, okay, I'm repeating myself. Let's get to work, shall we?" And suddenly, the incongruously heavy weight was lifted from Michael's chest, as the succubus skipped playfully towards the altar.
She turned and grinned impishly, holding out her hands in invitation. "Come here, my pretty little priest boy. Come and worship. Come and kneel before me." Michael looked up, seeing that Yael's wardrobe had changed, her teddy replaced by a pair of silken panties and thigh-high stockings. Her wine-dark breasts, each the size of a grapefruit, swung proud and free, capped by fat black nipples.
"Worship me," Yael repeated, batting her eyelashes coyly. "Kneel, Michael. Kneel and pray."
He felt something in his gut twist, as if punched. He staggered forward to the front of the nave, then fell to his knees, not because he wanted to, but because his body was giving out.
"Pray," she said gravely. "Pray to ME." A wind blew through the church, extinguishing candles and casting shadows across the sanctuary. It brought with it a smell of roses, a perfume that tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
"Speak, Father Michael," she whispered, and he realized her voice was echoing inside his skull. As he turned his head, gagging and coughing, trying to reject her but betrayed by his tongue and his jaw, strange blue flames hovered down from out of nowhere, alighting in the shape of an inverted pentagram. They swirled about him like smoke, curling and coiling, swirling around his neck, then disappearing. He blinked several times, feeling woozy. His throat was tight and sore, as if he were coming down with a cold.
"Father Michael," she said sweetly, "you are going to do exactly as I say. This is taking me a lot of energy, you know? I can't do this every time we have to work together, but I thought I'd splurge on a freebie for our first time out! I'm really a nice boss like that, don'tcha know?"
Michael shook his head slowly, looking up at her as she continued to talk, as though addressing an lvoer, not a captive audience.
"You'll be a good little slave for me, won't you, Father? You'll be a good little priest-slave for your succubus mistress?" Her voice deepened, grew harsh. "NOW, tongue of my host. Pray to YAEL! Sing my worship!"
The words sounded like an obscenity in Michael's mind, like blasphemy, like a curse uttered by a demon. But when he tried to stop them from entering his lips, they did anyway, spilling from his mouth in an endless stream of profanity, curses, and blasphemies.
The blue flames flared brighter, more intense, wrapping themselves around him like chains, binding him tighter than any physical bonds could. The curses and slurs spilled from his lips, exalting the defilement of the holy house and of his own body. In the midst of his own involuntary stream of invective, he found himself literally singing Yael's praises, describing each part of her body like a poet would in a sonnet for a beautiful lover, a belle dame sans merci.
"Your lips so red and plush," he sang, "your tongue so moist and long, your pussy so hot and tight, your ass so round and juicy..." He paused for breath, gasping in air, his throat raw from the exertion. "My cock so hard and long and thick," he finished, his voice trembling, his eyes wide with fear. He had never been attracted to women before, but this situation was undeniably, horrifyingly erotic. His voice stammered and he continued, "Your... hooves so soft and smooth..."
Michael had been taught to believe in God since he had been a child, even to pray to Him daily, but now all he could think about was the succubus. He imagined that she was inside him, inhabiting him, possessing him. He knew it was not true, but he could feel it happening anyway. "Your tail, like a whip of fire, like a flame that burns away my purity," he chanted, unable to stop, despite knowing he should.
He felt himself getting aroused again, as he envisioned Yael's tail whipping across his back, burning his flesh, drawing blood, branding him as hers. "And your horns like sharp arrows of light piercing my heart, like a spear through my brain!" Yael clapped with mirth and sadistic exultation, spinning on the altar. "More, more daddy! Give me more, tell me about these tits!" And she cupped her breasts, letting them bounce.
Michael's voice broke, cracked into pieces of itself. "I love those tits, Yael!"
She laughed and began to chant: "This one's mine. Mine. Mine! All mine, mine, mine. I claim this one for my own, for MY pleasure, MY control, MY possession. Notice given to Beelzebub. Notice to Asmodeus: stay away, property of Yael. Notice given to Moloch: you are forbidden to possess this one. Stay away, stay away, stay away!" She held her breasts up high, thrusting her chest out.
"Mine! My! Mine!" Michael cried, the word becoming a chant with no meaning.
The blue flames flickered and danced above him, lighting the darkness. Then they extinguished. The whole church plunged into the pitch of post-midnight. Only the rushing of the wind remained. Michael panted on the floor, exhausted and wracked with terror. One last whisper came, as if Yael was leaning over him, hissing softly into his ear.
"It's OK, Michael. It's all right. Don't be afraid. We're together now. We'll always be together."
He shuddered in response, shaking uncontrollably, and began to cry, huddled on the floor alone. The sound of his crying echoed throughout the empty church, reverberating off the stone walls and wooden floors until the echoes died, and there was silence once more.