Incest/Taboo The Devil's Pact

My Mary.

I pictured her smiling at me. I remembered how beautiful she looked while painting. How happy she was the day we found out she was pregnant. The cute way she bites her lip while thinking. I clung to the memory of how radiant she looked on our wedding day, marching down the aisle to me in her white dress set aflame by the setting sun. Mary helped me survive the day by constantly sending me her love and encouragement.

She gave me hope. Just knowing she was out there kept me sane.

Mary Glassner - Toulouse, France

It was the middle of the night when we arrived in France, landing at Toulouse-Blagnac International Airport. Back home, it was Sunday afternoon. My bodyguards informed me of the day's news, giving me periodic updates as I fretted on the long flight. Since morning dawned back in Tacoma, the news had shown Mark being beaten for the second day, interspersed with clips of the President surrendering to Brandon. I kept sending Mark supportive thoughts, letting him know that I had a plan, that I was coming for him.

I wasn't going to let my husband down.

We've arrived in France, Mark. Be strong.

I am, he answered, but I could feel the pain afflicting him. Tears burned in my eyes.

The eighteen-hour flight to France had dragged on and on. I couldn't sleep. I could barely eat. All I could do was fret, stare dazedly out the window, or open the locket Mark gave me when I was still under his power. It was silver and heart-shaped, with a pink rose sculpted into the front. It was absolutely gaudy, not at all something that I would have chosen for myself.

It was my favorite piece of jewelry after my wedding ring.

Inside were pictures of Mark and me. It comforted me on the interminable flight to open it up and stare at my husband's face, stroking the tiny photo with a finger as I wept.

We barely made it out of the US. Air travel was suspended as we took off from LaGuardia--we had to stop for fuel in New York before crossing the Atlantic. We had just gotten airborne when the order was given to ground all flights. Luckily, shutting down the Nation's airspace took time, and we were able to slip out over the ocean without anyone stopping us.

The last five hours of the flight were the worst. That's when they started beating Mark again this morning. Every time my husband sent me a thought, I could feel the agony he experienced. I do not know how he was able to withstand it. Just the shadow of his pain was enough to make me cry. Somehow, despite the beatings, he told me about his dream and what he learned from Azrael. He could conjure magical weapons and armor, heal himself, and summon the dead.

We plotted. When I returned to the US tomorrow, we would be ready.

I clung to that delusion as the plane descended to land in Southern France. I clutched my locket, trying not to hyperventilate. I would save Mark. I just had to subdue the most dangerous Nun alive to do it. The woman who was a legend to the other Nuns.

The Mother Superior.

The plane touched down with a squeal of tires and roar of air brakes. We came to a hard stop then the pilots taxied us through the airport. I stared out the window. Lights flashed on the tarmac, police vehicles waiting for us.

I smiled.

I had made calls ahead of time to arrange for several vans and a police escort. The plane came to a stop. The French police, in their sky blue shirts and dark blue pants, stood at attention while the stair truck rolled up. Behind me, my bodyguards and the SWAT officers readied their weapons. They carried a mix of submachine guns and AR-16s, the SWAT officers in bulky body armor, the bodyguards looking sexy and deadly in short miniskirts and low-cut blouses.

I took a deep breath as Lydia, one of our pilots, opened the door. "Ma'am," she said, nodding, giving me support. "Good luck."

I nodded back and marched down the stairs. I couldn't afford to be a weeping, twenty-one-year-old girl. I was a Goddess. I had powers. I had to be regal and calm. I would rescue my husband and defeat Brandon. That fat bastard would pay for challenging our authority.

The September night air was cool on my naked body. I never had a chance to get dressed when we fled the house. Other things were just more important. I didn't let my nudity bother me. I had grown accustomed to being naked in public. The French cops leered at me, lusting after my beauty.

It was only fitting to desire their Goddess.

"My Goddess," an older cop in a dress uniform said with a sweeping bow. "Welcome to France."

I only nodded, afraid my voice would crack if I spoke, and marched to the awaiting police vehicle. My bodyguards and SWAT officers swarmed around me, rushing for the transports. The older French cop fell in beside me.

"We have units discreetly around the church," he said. "They report no one has left or entered the church or the convent since they arrived."

"Good," I nodded. "And none of them have heard my words?"

"Of course not," he answered without even questioning why that was important. But it was. If they were thralls, like the man I spoke to, and not bound to me by the Zimmah spell, the Mother Superior could turn them against us.

Just like Karen had turned our sluts against Mark and me months back.

The drive to Rennes-le-Château--a small, ancient village built atop a rocky hill that rose back out of the countryside--took maybe an hour. I sat stiffly the entire time, the older cop, whose name I didn't bother to learn, blathering on and on the entire time. The only way up the cliff was a winding, narrow lane.

We drove through the village, the streets so narrow I feared the bulkier transport vehicles would get stuck. But they managed. Lights flicked on in the windows, the sleeping town coming alive as we reached the Church of Mary Magdalene. And behind the Gothic church lay the Motherhouse of the Nuns who had twice attacked us. Both buildings were ancient, made of vine-covered stone pitted by centuries of rain. There were no lights on.

"Go," I ordered to 47, the second-in-command of the bodyguard.

"SWAT unit, execute," 47 said into her Nextel.

Silently, the SWAT officers slipped out of the vans in their black Nomex, MP5s in hand. In moments, they had the Motherhouse surrounded. Meanwhile, the bodyguards formed a wider perimeter around the church and convent, supported by the French police. I stepped out of the vehicle and leaned against it, trembling as I stared at the dark figures. The night was colder here than back in Toulouse, my naked flesh goose-pimpling.

47 stood beside me, holding her Nextel. "They're at the front door, Ma'am."

I glanced at the shadows before the Motherhouse's wooden doors. The five SWAT officers were stacked before it, barely visible in the surrounding gloom. They gave each other hand-signals, then opened the front door and darted inside.

I took a deep breath. Through the small, stained-glass windows, flashlights shone, dancing around as the men searched the building. 47 leaned against the van next to me and squeezed my hand, flashing a reassuring smile.

"They will seize her, Ma'am."

I nodded.

After what seemed like an hour of waiting in the cold, one of the SWAT reappeared and motioned to us. My heart beat faster. They had finished clearing the house. Please, let the Mother Superior be in their custody.

47 whispered into her Nextel. Out of the darkness, four of the bodyguard surged around me as I walked to the door, 47 at my side. The SWAT officer waiting for me was Duncan, their commanding officer.

"Report," I said, my voice choked with excitement.

"Ma'am, we have a woman in custody," he answered. "We found her in the basement. If you would follow me, please."

"She was hiding?" I asked as he led me inside.

"No, she was waiting for you," Duncan answered. "We found her just calmly sitting in this metal room, a pot of tea steaming on the table before her along with two cups. There was not a hint of fear in her eyes when we burst in. She just asked how you like your tea."

A shiver passed through me. Karen's ghost said the Mother Superior was waiting for me. But why?

We walked through the narrow corridors and then down a tight, narrow staircase into the basement. I shook with nerves. I could do this. She was only one woman, and I had fourteen armed men and women immune to her powers with me. And then there were all the French cops waiting outside.

In the basement, we walked past old cardboard boxes, reeking of mildew, stacked against one wall. At the far end was a black, metallic door carved with strange symbols. It lay open, and through the doorway, I could see a woman in a gray nun's habit, a simple, white veil covering her head. She sipped calmly from a cup of tea.

She looked up at me, and I froze. Her dark eyes were ancient, far beyond the youth of her face.

Who was this woman?

Mom said she was a legend, over a thousand years old. When I had Karen's spirit summoned yesterday, she said the Mother Superior had been waiting two thousand years for this moment. I steeled myself and entered the room. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, all of it was made of the same black metal carved with the same strange symbols as the door. I froze, licking my lips. This was wrong. I should be running out of here. How can she be so calm? She must know what I am, what my soldiers are. She should be terrified, or at the very least nervous.

So why was she so calm?

"Would you like some tea?" she asked pleasantly in a thick, French accent. Her face was dusky, a warm and friendly smile graced her red lips, and dark hair peeked out from beneath her gray veil. She looked Middle-eastern, a little like our former slut Thamina.

I wasn't sure what to do. I swallowed, glancing at 47. There was worry in her eyes. She sensed something was wrong, too. This woman was unnaturally calm. I glanced at the men guarding her. Tension tightened their faces, their guns readied in their hands. How were we all intimidated by this one unarmed woman?

"Well, child, are you going to come in and sit down?" the woman continued, a hint of impatience to her tone. "I would like to talk with you. It is very important."

"Fine," I said and sat down on the hard, wooden chair. She grabbed the porcelain teapot and poured me a glass of spicy-smelling tea. Then she stirred in a spoonful of sugar before sliding it to me on its saucer.

I took it, sipping, then froze. What if she put something in it?

An amused smile flitted across the woman's lips. "It is not poisoned or drugged, I assure you. Can you close the door so we may speak privately?"

I frowned. "No, my guards stay in here."

"They are not the prying ears I care about," the woman answered. "Please, I have much to tell you."

I wanted to say no. I wasn't here to talk. I was here to steal her Gift. Mark was getting beaten right now. There wasn't time to waste on talking. And yet her eyes were so ancient, so wise. I swallowed and found myself nodding my head.

I did need something else from her besides her Gift.

"I will close the door if you hand over your copy of the Magicks of the Witch of Endor," I told her. This entire mess was caused by Brandon getting a hold of that damned book. If we survived this mess, we needed to get our hands on the two copies we didn't have. No one else could learn about it and use that knowledge against us.

"Alas, I do not have it," she answered.

"Don't lie to me!" I snapped, hiding my fear with anger. "I know it is here."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Wikipedia," I answered. I felt foolish when I said that out loud.

She shrugged. "Feel free to search the place once we are finished. But it is gone. I could not let you get your hands on it."

I frowned. "I already have a copy of the book."

"Copies are not the original. I have no idea where it is hidden now."

What did that mean? The original must have something unique in it. Something dangerous. "Fine, humor her and close the door. Let's hear what she says to try and stop me."

"I cannot stop you from stealing my Gift," she answered matter-of-factly.

She knew why I was here and didn't care? Who was this woman?

The door closed with a metallic clang.

"Who are you?" I asked. She was a Nun, I could see the golden aura about her. "Are you the Mother Superior?"

"I am Maryām," she answered. "Once of the town of Magdala."

My family was Irish. My dad was a lapsed Catholic, but I had been to a few masses. My heart skipped a beat. "That's impossible."

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "For two thousand years, I have fought ha-Satan, the Adversary. I have learned much and more. I have this one warning for you, Mary. You and Mark are his pawns. Everything you do brings about his freedom from the Abyss. Him and all those bound with him."

"You mean the Devil?" I asked and she nodded. "He is trying to escape Hell?"

"It is inevitable at this stage," Maryām sighed. "The supernatural has been revealed to the world. False Gods are once more being worshiped. The evil of the days of Noah walks the world. It doesn't matter if it's you and Mark, or Brandon, or another pawn. Every day, more and more people are deceived. The prison is so weak... Only one last event is necessary to bring it crumbling down."

"Why are you telling me this? If it's inevitable..."

"The Adversary can be contained. The damage done to the world can be mitigated," Maryām answered. "You and Mark are lesser evils compared to the Adversary. I have read the future. I have seen the subtlety of his plan. If you and Mark defeat Brandon, Lilith will confront you. To survive, you will have to kill her. And her death will be the final blow that springs the lock, and the Adversary will be freed." She took a sip. "If you are ready when Lilith dies, you may trap him."

I swallowed. Mark and I had wondered what the Devil's plan was. Why he had given Mark Lilith's gem. So this was it. To escape Hell. And what would happen once he was freed? Lilith clearly hated humans, but what about the Devil? And all those other demons trapped in Hell. Do they hate us just as much? A chill ran down my spine.

What have we done?

"How can we trap him?" I asked, shaken by her words.

"I do not know. Search the old writings."

"Old writings?"

"The Creator, in his infinite Wisdom, saw that many ancient works were preserved at Qumran." She took one last sip of her tea. "This room... Study it carefully. It is a Matmown. A Hidden Place. No spiritual being can pierce through its walls. The Adversary cannot spy on you here or accurately predict your future. What you plan in here will forever be hidden from him. It is the only advantage you will have. Your Vizier, Samnag Soun, should have no trouble re-creating the room. Never speak of your plans outside of this room, not even telepathically through the Siyach spell. Those thoughts pass through the spiritual realms and can easily be plucked out of the Ether. Only in a room like this are your plans truly safe from the Adversary."

I nodded my head, my heart tight with fear. This was all so much. She expected Mark and me to stop the Devil? But what choice would we have? How terrible would it be with the demons of Hell free upon the Earth? Mark and I wanted to make Utopia.

Not to destroy the world.

Maryām stood up suddenly. All my guards aimed their guns at her.

"Don't move!" barked Damien, metal rattling.

She laughed and, to my surprise, stripped off her clothes. Her veil came off first, revealing her luxurious, dark hair. Then she untied the belt cinching her gray habit, and pulled the robe over her head. She was naked underneath. Her breasts were large with dark nipples and her stomach flat, leading down to a thick, dark bush. She had curvy hips and long, lithe legs.

"So, you are the whore after all," I laughed, drinking in her beauty.

Maryām grimaced, "I was never a whore. A sinner, yes, but never a whore. That was Pope Gregory I's mistake. Men ever love salacious rumors, and that one has dogged my reputation ever since."

"Then why are you getting naked?" I asked.

"You plan on stealing my Gift. I know what that entails."

The Ganubath ritual was the opposite of the Nun's exorcism. I needed to bring Maryām to an orgasm, and when she climaxed, I would steal her Gift for myself.

With grace, accepting her fate, Maryām laid down on the cold metal floor and spread her legs. Her bush was thick and dark, hiding the lips of her pussy. Her skin had such a dusky beauty about it, so soft and perfect. It was hard to imagine this girl was two thousand years old.

I licked my lips as I knelt before her, a hot twinge racing from my pussy. I blinked in realization that I hadn't had sex in over twenty-four hours. Not since yesterday morning, with my mom in bed, before this nightmare began. Since I met Mark, the only long stretches without sex were when I slept.

Seeing her lying naked and willing, her hands stroking her stomach, her breasts jiggling, grew the itch in me. A shiver ran through me, my pussy clenching, my clit aching, and my nipples hardening. Her hot, dark eyes fell on my tits, a smile growing.

"You plan on enjoying this?" I asked.

"Yes," she breathed. "I accept my fate. Two thousand years has been long enough fighting the Adversary. I yearn for my reward."

"Cumming on my lips."

She shook her head, her eyes lifting skyward, her hands cupping her breasts. Her fingers squeezed her tits. She moaned as my hands touched her thighs, sliding towards her thick, dark bush. I leaned down, my desires growing, my pussy itching hotter and hotter.

Her pubic hair grew matted with her juices. I breathed in as I lowered my face, smelling her honey. I rubbed my face through her silky pubic hair, enjoying the way it tickled against my cheeks. I breathed deeply, then licked at her slit, feeling her hot, silky depths.

I closed my eyes, savoring the taste of her pussy, the sweet honey and the feel of her hot, wet slit. For a moment, I could forget about everything and relax. My plan would work. I would save my husband from that bastard.

"Oui," Maryām moaned in pleasure, her hips moving, grinding her hot pussy against my lips.

"You like that," I purred, my fingers spreading open her slit, exposing the wet, pink flesh. "Of course you do. You Nuns are all such sluts. Karen, my mom..."

"We transgress for the greater good," she moaned, her breasts jiggling, her voice throaty.

I smiled at that, then buried my face into her folds, my tongue licking. I ate her quickly, devouring her tasty juices. I wanted to get her off as fast as I could. To make her explode on my tongue. She groaned with every swipe, muttering in French as I pleasured her.

My pussy clenched as my excitement built. I shoved my free hand between my thighs, rubbing my own pussy lips. I caressed my shaved folds, so juicy and hot. My bodyguards and SWAT officers watched. I felt their eyes on me.

I loved it.

I ran my tongue up her labia as my fingers massaged her clit. She quivered as I worked my magic. Then I shoved my tongue as deep into her silky hole as I could. Her muscles clenched, her body shuddering as her passion grew.

"Yes," I moaned. "Oh, you're getting so hot. You're going to cum, you naughty Nun. Going to cum all over my lips."

Maryām's moans grew louder, her language shifting, the musical French vanishing, replaced by something else, something foreign. Hebrew, maybe. Or probably Aramaic. Her hips writhed, her passion swelling.

I drank her thick juices, sweet as honey, then slid my lips up to suck on her hard clit. My tongue circled her pearl as I slipped two fingers inside her pussy. She was tight and hot as I quested for her G-spot, eager to make her cum.

My own fingers made the same search as they plunged inside of me. I shuddered, stroking along the top of my pussy wall. I found that wonderful bundle of nerves, attacking it. My toes curled as excitement shot through me.

And through her.

Her moans in Aramaic grew faster, louder. I had found the right spot. Her breasts heaved as she thrashed. Her moans echoed through the metal room. I sucked so hard on her clit, my orgasm building, swelling inside of me, shooting bliss through me.

"Yes, yes, yes, cum, whore!" I snarled, lifting my dripping lips from her clit. My body trembling. "I know you want to! You want to give me your power. Just explode and it's over!"

She bucked hard, screaming out as her orgasm crashed through her.

Pussy juices flooded around my fingers. I trembled, shuddering, on the verge of cumming myself as I screamed out: "Ganubath!"

Scarlet energy burst across my skin and rushed into her body. Golden light flared about her as she thrashed. It tried to fight the red as it invaded her flesh through her spasming pussy. But her orgasm weakened her. She had surrendered to lust.

And sinned.

The crimson light seized the golden, changing it and ripping it from her. My head snapped up as the purity rushed into my body. Her Gift filled me. My pussy exploded about my fingers as the golden radiance filled me.

It sank into every single inch of my body, into my soul. It filled me with something so pure, so beautiful. My orgasm burned so hot through me as the power changed me. Its purity consumed me. I shuddered, collapsing on the floor, trembling in pure delight as I stole her Gift.

And made it mine.

"Ma'am?" 47 asked, her voice concerned.

"I'm fine," I shuddered. I felt more than fine. I felt like I had the greatest orgasm ever and was still buzzing on the aftereffects.

I picked myself up, looking down at the panting Maryām. She no longer had a golden aura wreathing her body. It was silver. She was just a regular woman now. Her eyes stared up at me, lidded with lust. When I made my Pact, I wished that every woman who saw me would desire me, and it was clearly working on Maryām now that the protection of her Gift was gone.

Exultation flooded me. I did it! I could stop Brandon. All I had to do was fuck him, and this would be over.

The Tyrants' propaganda claim she went to Southern France to be tested and discover new power. But she is a thief. She stole the Gift of the Creator and sullied a Saint. The Mother Superior of the Sisters of Mary Magdalene was consigned to darkness, lost to the world forever.

--excerpt from The History of the Tyrants' Theocracy, by Tina Allard

Mark Glassner - Tacoma, WA

As Sunday dragged on, the beatings grew more and more savage, the pain worse and worse. There were times when I lost myself. When I floated in a sea of agony, unaware of anything around me. And then I would crash back into my battered body.

I clung to Mary's words whispering through my mind, updates on her progress as she headed for the Nuns' Motherhouse. And then, sometime during the afternoon, Mary sent: I did it! The Gift is mine! Just hold out a little longer!

Hope. I had hope. I would endure all the torment. All the pain. Because my Mary was coming to save me. And I had to be ready. I couldn't surrender to the agony. I had to hold onto my faculties. I had to endure Brandon's savagery.

After an eternity of suffering, the soldiers dragged me to the prison shower. They hosed the filth off me and then threw me back into my cell. I landed with an agonized, wordless moan on the hard, concrete floor. The cell locked behind me. Then the soldiers watched with uncaring eyes through the bars.

I struggled to rise, but all my muscles protested the action, and I collapsed back onto the concrete floor. I didn't have the strength to move. I just laid there, letting the cold seep into my burning muscles. Mary was on her way back, on her way to save me. My wife was coming. She would exorcise Brandon, and this nightmare would be over. I stopped fighting my exhaustion and let unconsciousness take me.

I thought of Azrael as I descended into blissful darkness, free of my pain.

Last night, after teaching me the spells, she taught me how to fight. "The Gift gives you reflexes and strength, but your body needs to learn how to move, how to stand and balance, and that takes practice."

I nodded my head. "Make sense."

The darkness wavered and, like a mirage dancing on the horizon, the air distorted. Color appeared, beige walls, blue floor. And then I was in a training dojo or a gym, standing on tumbling mats, the angel facing me.

"Let's begin with footwork."

Footwork, it turned out, was the most important part of fighting. If you couldn't stand properly, you'd be off-balance and get tripped up, either falling down or leaving yourself open to your enemy's attack. After that, I spent hours learning just how to hold the blade, then more hours swinging it in deadly arcs: cross-slashes, thrusts, overhand swings. Finally, we sparred, holding matching Celestial Gold swords.

She was amazing. I was not.

Every time her blade struck my body, the pain taught me to pay more attention, to learn to be faster, to fight better. We fought and fought, never tiring, and I learned. My muscles absorbed the knowledge. I started moving with grace and purpose, not flailing about without any thought or care. Every movement of my body was deliberate, full of purpose--to defeat my opponent.

After training for hours, for maybe even a full day, I finally asked Azrael when I would wake up. "Time passes more slowly in the dream," she answered. "What seems like minutes in your mind is only seconds in the waking world."

"Like Inception?"

The angel gave me a puzzled look, her scarlet eyebrows furrowing.

"It's a movie. All about dreams."

She just stared at me.

"Never mind," I muttered, and we continued our sparring.

We moved on to hand-to-hand fighting. She taught me a brutal mix of grappling, kicks, and punches. It wasn't like kung-fu in movies. There were no flourishes, no dramatic arm waves or kicks. Every single attack was intended to hurt my opponent. She taught me to go for the body's weak points: knees, groin, elbows, sides, kidneys, throat, eyes. Break bones, dislocate joints, rupture vital organs, and to do it as quickly as possible to end the fight before my enemy could defeat me.

The dream seemed to last for days before I woke up this morning. So when Azrael appeared again to me this night, I asked her, "More sparring?"

"Yes," she answered, her voice ringing bells. "But first, there are other Prayers to teach you."

"Will they help me to escape?"

"No, but you may find them useful one day," she answered. A look of disgust flitted across her face. "You've bound your Thralls with the Zimmah ritual, yes?"

I nodded, her gaze making me feel defensive. Why did I have to justify my actions? I was special. "And? Most of them agreed to it willingly."

"I'm sure," she said with distaste. "The Ragily prayer is similar. It allows you to link a group of willing fighters to you. There is a limit on how many persons you can bond, unlike the Zimmah ritual. However, those you bind in this way gain certain advantages when fighting the supernatural."

"Like what?"

"The ability to hurt them. Their weapons will be capable of harming spiritual flesh. Their reflexes will be sharper. They can take wounds that would fell lesser men. It also doesn't have such a... distasteful way of being cast."

"You mean I wouldn't have to fuck my mother to bind them?" I asked with a laugh and then quickly swallowed it beneath her withering gaze.

"Yes. It merely requires their pledge of fidelity and obedience."

"How many could I have?"

"That is a more complex answer," Azrael answered, tapping her chin in thought. "A normal Priest could handle, say, thirty to fifty. Maybe a hundred with an exceptional Priest, such as King David and his Mighty Men. But you, well, you have bound the life force of what, fifty or sixty humans to you? Plus, there are all those that worship you. That is a lot of power, if you can harness it."

I nodded. "What other prayers are there?"

Mary Glassner - Southern France

I kept looking in the mirror on the passenger sun visor on the drive back to Toulouse. I barely looked different. Mark's transformation had been dramatic when my mother gave him her Gift. Of course, he had been in his mid-twenties when he received the Gift and was more than a little overweight. Now he looked eighteen and had the body of a Greek sculpture. I was twenty-one and already had a trim body. The Gift didn't seem to change me at all. It didn't even take a few pounds off my ass. Mark liked the plumpness, but I could stand to lose a pound or two off of it.

I sighed, flipping up the visor, my thoughts swirling. The Devil was using us, not a big surprise. But what he was using us for--to escape his prison--was surprising. And terrifying. The Mother Superior's words were really hitting me.

Mark and I might be responsible for dooming the world.

Sure, we were unwitting pawns in the Devil's plans, but that didn't change the fact that we made our choices. Learning the consequences of our selfish decisions left a bitter taste in my mouth. However, Maryām said we could stop him, trap him. Somehow, we could beat the Devil. I chewed on my lip, thinking about that as we drove to Toulouse.

I had no idea how to do it.

I pushed that particular worry to the side. Brandon was the immediate problem. I had the Gift. I could exorcise him now. I just needed to learn how to do it. Freed of her protection, Maryām was more than willing to answer my questions as she gazed up at me with lust. "Only an angel can teach you how to use the Prayers. They come in your dreams."

She couldn't lie, not when I ordered her to answer, not without her Gift to shield her from my powers.

In the end, I left her behind. I debated taking the former Nun with me, forcing her to be my slave and grovel before me. Part of me ached to see that beautiful, ancient woman degrade herself for my pleasure, to watch her dark eyes peer up from between my thighs as she worshiped my pussy. The way she would howl in pleasure as I fucked her from behind with a strap-on cock--or a real cock.

I remembered the intense pleasure I experienced the afternoon Lilith transformed my clit into a dick. Shifting in my seat, I flushed and pushed that fantasy down.

In the end, I let Maryām go. It just felt wrong to keep her after hearing Mom's story about the abuses she suffered at the hands of the Warlock who stole her from my family. I just couldn't bring myself to force anyone to act like that. Well, not permanently, anyway. So I forbade Maryām from ever speaking about our meeting, and told her to live her life.

Just because I made a deal with the Devil didn't make me evil.

After an hour, we reached the airport at Toulouse and boarded my plane. I sent everyone to coach because I needed to sleep, to dream. I desperately needed to learn how to exorcise a Warlock. From what my mom has told me, it was quite the pleasant experience when an angel communicated. The Ecstasy, she called it. As the 747 leveled off at its cruising altitude, heading west for North America, I struggled to sleep in the plush, first-class seat.

I had been up for over twenty-four hours, but I just couldn't sleep.

"Fuck," I muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

The harder I tried, the harder sleep eluded me. I leaned the first-class chair back as far as possible, had all the lights in the cabin turned off, and wore earplugs to try to drown out the engines. But nothing would work. I was too damned stressed to relax. And trying to sleep only made it worse. I grew irritable, snapping at my guards, screaming wordlessly at the ceiling, and sobbing my frustration into a small airline pillow.

"Please!" I begged. "Just let me sleep!"

After trying for hours, I felt defeated. I slumped in my chair, cheek pressed against the small, round window, staring listlessly out at the Atlantic ocean below, an endless sheet of midnight obscured by the occasional cloud. I let my mind drift.

And started pondering Karen's half-heard message from the summoning yesterday. "Brandon has..." Karen had said before Sam's scream had drowned her out. All I caught was the last part. "...other."

Brandon has... other. What could be in that missing gap? It was only a word or two. Something that rhymed with other? Mother, another, brother. Brandon has...other. What did it mean? What was Karen trying to warn me about? What did it matter if Brandon has a brother? His brother was dead. The man murdered him. And so what if he had a mother? He didn't need her to bind people with the Zimmah bond. Besides, she was also dead.

I started rhyming 'other' in my head: aother, bother, cother, dother, eother. I frowned at eother. Most of those weren't even words. Fother? Gother? Maybe it was smother? Brandon has smother? No, that didn't make any sense.

Brandon has...other. Brandon has brother?

I frowned. Brother. Was there something to that? Was there a spell that required a brother? And why had Brandon killed his brother last week? It was getting harder to think. I wished Sam was here so I could ask her. I was too exhausted. My mind felt like mush, battered by stress and fear until my brain was runny porridge.

I felt like there was a spell that required a brother. What was it?

I yawned, struggling to force my brain to work. Brother...brother...rother...er...

The next thing I knew I was standing in a vast emptiness, a black darker than night. I saw Mark, a golden sword in his hand and gold armor girding his body. He was fighting a woman with scarlet hair and bronze skin. The woman also had a golden sword that flashed with rubies as she swung it at my husband.

I blinked. This couldn't be happening. I was on a plane, right? Flying over the Atlantic.

No, I was dreaming. Relief swept through me. I had finally fallen asleep.

Something teased at my thoughts, a single word--Brother. Why was brother so important? I bit my lip, straining to remember. It had something to do with a spell.

"Mary?" Dream-Mark asked. There was a look of surprise on his face. His words derailed my train of thought.

The woman turned, mirroring his look of surprise. "Two Shamans," she whispered, her voice soft chimes. "Interesting."

Dream-Mark ran to me, swept me up in his arms, and kissed me. Everything--all the stress and the fear and the guilt--melted away. There was only Mark, his lips, and his love overwhelming me. I poured my heart and soul into the kiss. I didn't care that it was only a dream. It felt so real. So wonderful.

I was breathless and giggling with joy when Dream-Mark broke our kiss. I pressed my face into his muscular chest. His armor had vanished sometime during our kiss. Well, it was a dream, and strange things were bound to happen.

"You're actually in my dreams," Dream-Mark whispered in awe.

"No, you're in my dreams," I giggled. "I mean, I'm the one dreaming."

Dream-Mark laughed, turning to the bronze woman. "It is her, right, Azrael?"

"Yes," the angel said. "This is... surprising." I glanced at the angel as she studied us, eyeing me, then peering intently at Mark. "Yes, I see it now. You two are soulmates. Many Pacts and spells have bound the pair of you so tight, nothing can ever part you. It is how you came here without being summoned, Mary. Your desire to be trained was so strong that you were drawn to Mark's soul, pulled along by the chains that bind you together."

I smiled. I knew we were soulmates, and it was always lovely to hear. But hearing nice things wasn't why I was here. "Yes, I need to be trained. I need to learn how to perform the exorcism."

Azrael cocked her head as she considered me. "You have received the Gift from Maryām." Her red eyes turned flinty, a low, angry clang filled her ringing voice. "No, you stole her Gift."

"I needed it," I replied, lifting my chin. Who was this woman to judge my actions? I returned her flinty stare. "It's the only way to stop Brandon. We can't kill him; all the people under his control are bound to him. They'll die. Exorcising him is the only way, and I can't wait for a Nun to take her sweet time doing it! So stop the condescending lecture and train me!"

The angel stared at me for what felt like an eternity. I didn't flinch. I did what I had to. I would not apologize. Finally, her flinty face broke into resignation. "I will train you. It is my Providence."

She reached out, taking my hand. Pleasure coursed through me, just like when Lilith would touch me, and I gasped as an orgasm rippled pleasantly through my body. I moaned and spasmed in Mark's arms, rapture flooding through my body, stars bursting across my vision.

"Yes!" I moaned, juices gushing out of my pussy and flooding hot down my thighs. "Teach me!"

"I must lie with you," Azrael continued. "Only while we delight in each other's pleasure can I teach you."

"Wait, why do you two get to fuck?" Mark asked. "You just swung swords at me?"

"Her powers involve sex; yours involves force. I trained you with force. Mary must be trained in more pleasant ways."

"And the first time you appeared in my dreams and fucked me?" Mark demanded.

"That was for my pleasure," Azrael answered. "Why else would I bother with you humans?" She turned to me. "Lie down."

I broke away from Mark, flashing him a taunting smile. He shook his head in disgust as I eagerly lay down on the gym mats. And then they became something more comfortable than any bed. Azrael floated over me, and her tunic vanished into gold smoke, revealing her lush body. Her hanging breasts silkily brushed down my body as she floated closer and closer to me. Her hips lowered, and I spread my legs.

"Oh, my god," I gasped as her pussy rubbed against my cunt, a powerful orgasm exploding through me.

"Do not blaspheme," the angel moaned and then kissed me.

My entire body became pleasure as her flesh pressed against mine. Orgasms burst through me as she ground her hips slowly, tribbing our drenched pussies together. When our clits kissed, rapture crashed through me.

It was such bliss I had never felt before. It was like the pleasure reached into my soul. I gasped and squirmed against her, bucking, holding her, crying out my passion as it rippled over and over through her.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck!" I gasped, breaking the kiss. "Oh, that feels amazing!"

"Most of the basic Priestess prayers require the Mark of Qayin to anchor the prayer," the angel explained, continuing her slow, delicious trib, our clits rubbing together, pleasure speaking through me in explosions of bliss. "It is drawn with the fluids of your womanhood on the forehead of the person you wish to affect."

"Okay!" I moaned, writhing beneath Azrael as her pussy ground against mine. Her nipples were diamonds rubbing against my breasts, leaving trails of ecstasy. The pleasure worked through my soul. I didn't so much as hear her explanation as understand them, my body reacting to her instruction.

"The Mark is drawn like this." Her finger traced a circle with a diagonal line slashing through it on my forehead, leaving burning bliss in its wake, a sign I would forever remember. "Once you've drawn the Mark, a variety of Prayers can be used, including the Shalak prayer. The exorcism." Azrael kissed my lips.

She tasted of ambrosia, and I was lost to the pleasure of her body pressing against mine. Our tongues dueled as we writhed, my body absorbing the knowledge of how the exorcism worked, of using my body to pleasure the Warlock, to make them cum, to put their soul at the most vulnerable moment of weakness and take away their powers.

Like I had done with the Mother Superior.

"Mmm, you taste delicious," Azrael purred when she broke the kiss. She ground her clit through my pussy slit, moving it up to bump sweetly against my hard pearl, sending more rapture flooding through me.​