A glimpse into the Order of Saint Cecil.

THE FLESH IS WILLING, BUT THE SPIRIT IS WEAK
by Chad Underkoffler

Operator: “This is the English-language Response Line. How may we help you?”

Caller: “Hello? Ah, this is Father Joseph Laskowski, um, Pastor of St. Christopher’s Church in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Chancellor of the Archdiocese gave me this number. We, ah, have a problem…”

Operator: (clicking of keys) “I have your information on my screen. What’s the nature of the problem?”

Caller: “Well, um, this is, ah, going to sound a little weird…”

Operator: “Let me make it simple for you, Father. You want an exorcist.”

Caller: “Um, I’m afraid so. It’s a young girl, former parishioner. She’s–”

Operator: “You’re assured this is a true paranormal case?”

Caller: “Yes. The ah, walls of the room she’s in– they’re bleeding! And her voice–”

Operator: “Where is she? In the Rectory, a hospital, a sanitarium, or a private home?”

Caller: “She broke into the church a week ago. We’ve held her since then in the Rectory, ah, basement.”

Operator: (clicking of keys) “Keep her there, by any means necessary. Give her food and water. Do not speak with her. Do not attempt the Rite of Exorcism yourself. Our team of specialists will be there in twelve hours. Now, I need more information…”

* * *

The dream was a jumble of images: the smell of brewing tea, end-tables sprouting dusty knick-knacks, picture of Jesus with burning eyes, plastic-covered old lady furniture. The broken old lady, bleeding out her life on the love seat. The old lady wasn’t her grandma, but in the dream, she was.

“Why, Cynthia?” the old woman asked, using her old name. “I tried so hard–” The words ended in a bubbling cough.

Sister Mary Cecilia looked down. The woman’s steaming kidney was in her hand; a bite was taken out of it. Blood pulsed from the cut on her wrist, but the warmth was dying from both. Her lips were sticky and wet. “I need this. I need it to understand.” But her words, like her heart, was hollow– the jumping energy that lived there was cold, fugitive, and draining away.

She woke with a start, the dream melting away like snowflakes on her palm. The Learjet– one of the small fleet belonging to the Order of Saint Cecil– rumbled through some mild turbulence. Then someone spoke her name, and she strained to hear the other passengers’ conversation.

“…medical file is bizarre. Plenty of odd anomalies. La Tour Noir also put her through her paces. The lass can bench press over 400 pounds and run a four-minute mile. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“That petite fille? Je ne credo pas.” Sipping coffee. “I don’t like it, Sean. She’s no longer calling directly on outside forces, but where is that strength coming from? And don’t get me started on her little magiques tattoos.”

“That’s one o’ the reasons she’s with us. Evaluation. The other reason is that she’s the first magician in a decade to come in from the cold.” He drained his mug. “The Old Man approved all this. He’s got a Plan. You have a problem, boyo, you take it up with him. We watch, we judge, we expedite if necessary.” The older priest got up and started walking back towards her. “I’ll wake her.”

No pressure there. Please God, help me prove to them that I can do this. When she felt his hand on her shoulder, she opened her eyes to look on the round face of Father Sean O’Brien. He smiled gently, a flash of white in a dense red-gold beard. “We’re landing in Pittsburgh in a few ticks. Best get aware.” He reached for the coffeepot.

“Thank you, Father.” She sat up and smoothed her wimple, her fingers pausing on the lamp medal– the sign of the Order– around her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the hulking form of the other priest scowling at her. She turned and matched his stare. “Something wrong, Father Destiné?”

The French priest snorted, muttering “venefica” under his breath. Witch.

“None of that, lad,” Father O’Brien said with anger.

Destiné swore liquidly en Francaise. He wore a black shirt with a Roman collar, black denim jeans, and combat boots. A coffee mug sat in front of him on the conference table. Next to it was an ashtray filled to overflowing with the black butts of his clove cigarettes.

“Anytime you want your frog-ass kicked, Destiné, just ask.” Sister Mary Cecilia sneered.

“Mary! Etienne! Stop this. Now.” O’Brien’s voice whipcracked into the tension. “Sister Mary Cecilia is one of us now, a Cecilite. Remember it, both of you. We entrust each other with our lives on these missions.”

“Just get him off my case, Sean.” Destiné had been riding her ass since they met in New Orleans. What an asshole. Let’s just get on with it. “We’ve got work to do.”

“And that segues nicely with the wee speech I had prepared.” O’Brien took a flask from his cassock and poured Jameson’s whisky into his coffee. “Sister, this is your first field mission. Did you ever run into demons in your former life?”

“A handful of times, in Des Moines. The crowd I ran with tended to look down on such things. The body is a temple, and we never understood why you’d invite someone in to take over your temple.”

“It’s beyond me why anyone would tattoo their temple,” said Destiné, a mean sneer on his lips.

Sister Mary Cecilia almost went over the table right there, but stopped herself by balling her fists under the table. She gritted her teeth, and prayed, Please God grant me the serenity to accept this idiot as a brother and a colleague before he pisses me off enough to break his neck.

“That’s enough, boyo.” O’Brien scowled. “As I was saying, the Order deals a lot with demonic possession. Exorcism is our stock-in-trade. Demons are parasites, and we’re the physicians that purge them from the body of humanity. Then we find the sorcerers–”

“–Or sorceresses–” interjected Destiné.

O’Brien continued, glaring at Destiné. “– Sorcerers responsible, if any, and deal with them as need be. Relatively simple and straightforward, one would think. But we’ve been coming across odder and weirder things recently, things we have little ken of. That’s your role here. With your knowledge, experience, and well, let’s say ‘talents,’ you have the potential to do great good. Through the grace of God, you’ve been rescued from this dark underworld, and you can help direct the Light of Christ to illuminate the nooks and crannies hidden from us. Maybe we can save others. Lord grant it so.”

“Or, you’ll help spotlight the satanic bâtards to give us a clear shot.” Destiné grinned. “Either way, the Order of Saint Cecil protects the world from dark forces, ne c’est-pas?”

“Right.” Bloodthirsty much, Destiné?

O’Brien handed printouts to his associates. “This is what we have. The mission request happened yesterday around two pm. Seven days ago at ten pm, a young female former parishioner– name Veronica Luisi– broke into St. Christopher’s Church, and made for the tabernacle, and the Host. Probably either to steal and sell it on the Black Mass black market or just for simple desecration. The local pastor, a Joseph Laskowski, came in and tried to scare her off. Apparently, the girl began levitating, speaking in a man’s voice with a pronounced accent, and did something to Fr. Laskowski to spark some sort of vision of Hell. At this point, a police officer– Michael Johnson, Catholic, parishioner at the Church– entered and engaged the girl. They mixed it up, and Officer Johnson finally subdued her. They’ve been keeping her in the Rectory since. Johnson will be available for questioning”

“The cop hasn’t said anything?” asked Destiné.

“No. He saw her floating in mid-air and heard the demon speak. He’s accepted the Church’s authority in this. He signed the nondisclosure agreement.”

“More likely he was afraid to tell his cop buddies about the weirdness.” Mary played with her lamp medallion. “Few people would believe it.”

O’Brien frowned. “I believe it. And the audacity of this beastie disturbs me. To flagrantly break into a church and use sorcery to assault a priest and a police officer. I have a hunch there’s more to this than a typical exorcism.”

The jet began its descent.

* * *

“We’ve read your testimony already, but is there anything else that can you tell us, Father Laskowski?” asked Father O’Brien. Five people around the Rectory’s Formica kitchen table. More coffee and cigarettes. Laskowski was a small, balding man who looked like a squirrel in a collar. Next to him sat a compact but muscular man in green polo shirt and jeans.

Laskowski cupped his mug in both hands, head bent, pale. He looked shaken. “This is Sergeant Michael Johnson. He responded during the break-in.”

“What can you tell us, Sergeant Johnson?”

The cop leaned forward. He looked tired. He wore a bandage on one cheek, and one eye was discolored. His voice was carefully neutral, rapping out the facts like Jack Webb.

“It was about midnight. I saw the church door standing open, so I got out of my cruiser and walked inside. I didn’t call for backup. I walked inside, and the perp was standing in front of the tabernacle, holding the pastor up and shaking him like a rag doll. I tried to break it up.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette. “She dropped Father Laskowski and came after me. Her eyes were glowing red. She knocked me into the pews. I drew my weapon. All the candles in the church flared up. It was like Hell.”

Laskowski nodded. “Very much like.”

“From across the room, she took my gun away from me. It flew right out of my hand and into hers. She laughed with that’s man’s voice, and started swearing at me in Spanish. I got out my nightstick and charged her. She pulled the trigger, laughing.”

The policeman was grim. “She forgot to take the safety off. She would have killed me; at that range, she couldn’t miss. I knocked the gun out of her hand. The crucifix fell off of the wall. She decked me.”

Johnson looked down at the table, rubbing his chin. Father Laskowski put his hand on the cop’s shoulder. “I got back up, and hit her with my nightstick. Hard. A bunch of times. She went down, but not easily. Popped me a good one or two. Then I started crying blood.”

Father Laskowski said, “So did the statue of the Virgin. And a cold wind shrieked through the place, but the candles kept burning.”

Johnson nodded, then continued. “Then I finally hit her hard enough to stay down, and cuffed her. Then we took her downstairs.”

“Did you report any of this to your superiors?” Father O’Brien crossed his arms.

“What do you think? No, I didn’t. They’d have me in for a psych evaluation in no time flat. I mean, that William Peter Blatty stuff is all just Hollywood, right? At least, that’s what I thought before the other day. Plus, Father Laskowski doesn’t want to press charges.”

Laskowski sighed. “What good would it do? The walls in the room she’s in started bleeding when she woke up. The furniture is levitating, and chases whoever enters the room around. She claims to be a Mexican man named Velasco, back from the dead. They never dealt with any of this at Seminary. So I got your number from the archbishop’s office, and called.”

“You said she was a former parishioner here?” asked Father Destiné.

“Yes. I recognized her face. She started coming here about three years ago; I believe she was a student at Pitt. Then, I stopped seeing her. She hasn’t been here in eight months.” He rubbed his forehead. “What do we do now?”

“We try to save Veronica’s immortal soul.” Father O’Brien stood, and his associates stood with him. “Show us what she had on her when you brought her in.”

Johnson picked up a grocery bag from the linoleum floor. “This is it.” He dumped the contents out on the table.

A ratty green flannel shirt. A Stetson hat with a black feather in the band. Sugar packets. Cigarettes. A small bottle of tequila. A larger bottle of rum. A handful of pieces of cheap jewelry. A striped blue bandanna. Some whitish-beige powder.

Sister Mary Cecilia looked at the debris. She looked at Father O’Brien. The priest nodded. She picked up and handled each of the objects. Her tats didn’t react. No mojo on the stuff. But sugar, rum, and cornmeal spells “voodoo.” Opening her mouth to speak, she looked at O’Brien. The priest shook his head negatively. She held back her comments.

“Let’s see her.” Destiné cracked his neck sidewise.

* * *

The basement walls indeed oozed blood from its cracks. The slim girl– younger but taller than Mary, attractive in that tall willowy blonde sort of way– was cuffed to a high-backed wooden chair. She wore a bloody tank top, cutoff blue jeans, and cowboy boots. She smiled crazily at the quintet descending the stairs. A deep bass voice with a thick accent came from her lips. “Brought reinforcements, padre? Good, you goin’ to need them when my posse finds where I am. Or when I decide to bust out. You think these bracelets can hold Velasco, man? I escaped death; handcuffs ain’t mierda. Velasco knows secrets, all kindsa secrets for getting’ outta places and other stuff.

“Why haven’t you left, then?” Father Destiné asked as he examined the oozing walls.

“Just let me catch my breath, and vaya con Diablo.” The demon laughed.

Father O’Brien stepped up and crossed his hands behind his back. “Listen, lad, get out of the girl or there’ll be trouble.”

“Find some altar boy to molest, padre. This body belongs to me now.” The demon’s voice rang with determination. A multicolored tattoo (a red cartoon devil on a black horse) peeked out from under her tank top, over her heart.

“So be it. Father, take Sergeant Johnson upstairs and lock the door. As far as the two of you are concerned, the last week never happened.”

After Laskowski did so, Sister Mary Cecilia and Father Destiné began arranging for the Rite of Exorcism.

* * *

Velasco’s laughter was making Sister Mary Cecilia angry. “That’s three attempts, Father!”

“You fools are wasting your time: I told you, I ate her soul, and it was muy bien. This body is mine now and forever. Can’t kick out the propietario.” The demon cackled, and the laughter sounded from all corners of the room, a deafening chorus of hilarity. “The Riders are gonna come and bust me out of this hoosegow, an’ then y’all gonna be kickin’ at the end of a rope.”

“Shut up!” she cried. The arrogance! She longed to reach down the girl’s throat and rip the invader out.

“Don’t listen, Sister.” O’Brien’s blue eyes were steely, his lips compressed.

“Oh, I’ll make you listen!” chortled Velasco. The girl’s eyes flashed red. “I got plenty to say. Plenty to say about alla you. How many men you killed this year, Frenchy? Been hitting the bottle hard lately, you dumb mick? Velasco knows your secrets. Like–” The girl’s eyes swiveled to rest on Sister Mary Cecilia. “Oooh, the mother lode.”

“Stop it!” She felt Destiné’s meaty hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

“N’écoutez pas.” Don’t listen.

“Secrets galore, for the whore! Sinful Cindy, puta sold her body for ten dollars and a rock!”

“That’s behind me!” Sister Mary Cecilia’s hands opened and closed, and she felt something stir within her.

“Cynthia Cyclegang, big bad fleshworker brujera bitch, beating up on others like she beat up on herself!”

“I’ve confessed my sins! I’ve been absolved!” Exhaustion, stress, and frustration boiled in her. O’Brien’s voice was distant, angry. Destiné’s arm snaked around her chest, holding her back with difficulty. She barely noticed– her attention was on the demon.

“Cannibal Cindy, ate a man’s heart in El Paso to steal his mojo. Hey, Hermana Maria Cecilia, you moved up in the world, eh? Instead of chowin’ down on dukes, you’re eatin’ God every da–”

With a roar, Sister Mary Cecilia threw the massive French priest off of her and blurred forward. She felt rage surge though her. Grabbing a fistful of the possessed girl’s shirt, the nun lifted her– chair and all– off of the ground one-handed. The sleeve of her habit slid away to show arms intricately ornamented with tattoos. Without thought, she bit her lip, and hot blood spilled down her chin. Music sang in her hindmind (rip and tear and warp and pull and break and shred and hurt), she felt the power rising, and she saw the delicious fear in the demon’s eyes. She stretched back her hand and started to will the power to make her hand into a claw–

–when the juice slipped away from her. She couldn’t hold onto the threads of magick. Magick is a sin. She had just sinned. Again. Guilt filled her like hot water. She was weak. The lingering aroma of magick wreathed her like sickening perfume.

“Sister!” O’Brien was furious. “Come here. Now!”

She unceremoniously dropped the possessed girl, and obediently walked over to O’Brien, head hung in shame. Destiné looked pissed-off, yet puzzled. “Father, I’m–”

O’Brien produced a small pair of scissors from his cassock. “Let me cut your hair.”

She removed her wimple without a word, and let the Irishman snip off one of her short blue-black locks. The remnants of juice coursing around her faded away. “Get upstairs and get ready for Confession.”

“Yes, Father.” She walked past Destiné, who was slowly getting to his feet. He didn’t look at her. She went upstairs, a failure.

* * *

“You all right, Etienne?”

“Oui, Sean.” The priest dusted off his black jeans. “We need to talk about her.”

“Not now. We have another net to untangle.”

“Oh, everybody’s amigos again!” The demon drooled. “One down, two to go! Yee-hah!”

“Did you hear what the wee beastie said? About Veronica Luisi’s soul?”

“Yes.”

“Ate it up, yum yum yum! Eat yours too, you whiskey-soaked cerdo! The Riders will kill you filthy!”

“Call for a Code Black. Report that we have a serious infestation and set the computer jockeys searching.”
“And Sister Mary?”

“No. I’ll deal with it.”

“But–?”

“That’s an order.”

Destiné frowned, nodded, and took his cellphone from its belt-holster. He pushed a few buttons and let the phone autodial. It picked up, and the woman’s voice on the other end said, “Go.”

“Father Etienne Destiné, Knight Commander. Onsite in Pittsburgh, Case 333. We have a possible Type Six multiple infestation. Request backup team Young Young Zebra. Search request on name ‘Velasco,’ image of a red devil on a black horse, name Riders, cross-match with Black Mass DB.”

The tapping of keys. The beep of a computer. “Logged and sent. Anything else?”

“Request Code Black.”

“The king fears the devil…” Sign.

“And the devil fears the Cross.” Countersign.

“Mierda! The Devil don’t fear you boys,” Velasco sniggered. “The Devil’s my trailboss.”

A long silence, then: “Father Destiné, you have clearance for one question. Make it a good one. Transferring to Sister Carmen now.”

Three clicks, three rings, and an old nun in Louisiana answered. “Hello?”

“Sister Carmen. Code Black. What’s your certitude?”

“I’ve only answered one question today for the Old Man. You have a good chance.”

“Has Veronica Luisi’s soul been destroyed?”

“Please God, let me know the truth. Amen.” A pause. “Oh, sweet Jesus. The answer is yes.”

“Thank you, Sister Carmen.” He looked at O’Brien, and shook his head no. The other priest’s face fell.

“Should I pray for her?” The nun’s reedy voice carried tears and pain.

“Pray for her memory.” Destiné hung up and returned the phone to his belt.

The demon laughed wildly. “I told you; I got no reason to lie. This body is mine! You figure out a way to smoke me out, and this shell falls dead. I’m alive again, to ride the range and raise Hell!”

“Wrong. You’re going back to Hell. Maintenant.” Destiné had his 9mm in his hand. He gestured with the barrel, making the Sign of the Cross. “In nómine Patris, et Fíllii, et Spirítus Sancti. Amen.”

Bang.

* * *

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession. In that time, I have been very angry with my brother in arms, Father Destiné. I have used the Lord’s name in vain. I have used hidden forces ordinarily reserved to God. Forgive me.”

“Te absolvo. You will do seventeen rosaries, after we burn out the nest. Together, that is your Act of Contrition.”

“Yes, Father. I– I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I saw, Mary. Even Father Destiné noticed, even if he won’t admit it. You held back.”

I held back only because I couldn’t keep the blood-power, she thought. “Yes,” she said, staining her freshly-cleaned soul with a lie.

“That counts for something. We all sin. Destiné just killed a girl’s body to send a demon back to Perdition.”

“What about the cop?”

“Destiné is talking to him. He and Laskowski signed the NDA, and we’ll be watching that they both keep to it. It’ll be hard, but the Church– and the Order– will console him and smooth over any issues. We’ve done it before.”

“By the way, I think Velasco’s friends are using some sort of voodoo. But something isn’t right. That thing was a heck of a lot more powerful than demons I’ve heard of before.”

“Lass, how do you know that they’re using voodoo?” O’Brien’s voice was carefully neutral.

“The stuff in her pockets. Sugar, rum, the cornmeal. The cornmeal is the big clue.”

O’Brien seemed to sigh in relief. “What about the tequila, the feather, and the gang colors?”

“They’re important, but not for voodoo. How do we find the nest?”

“Old-fashioned detective work. But it’s rare. Normally there are only single entity incursions. And they’re usually much weaker. This is the problem we’re facing– stronger paranormal effects across the board.”

Sister Mary considered. “I’m convinced that the cowboy references and the tattoo are the keys to tracking this cult down. I used to know a fleshworker– um, Epideromancer– in the scene with a tattoo place over in Carrick. He dealt with occult wannabes all the time. Unfortunately, someone killed him last year. Still, there’s a chance I can shake something loose by cruising the tat parlors.”

“Good idea. I’d recommend that you go in civilian garb. I’ll send Etienne around to all the western bars in the area to follow up on the cowboy aspect. Meanwhile, I’ll pick at Laskowski and Johnson’s brains and see if they know anything else. Then I have to write up the casefile, encrypt it, and send it to La Tour Noir. Then I set custodies over Laskowski and Johnson, and see if our researchers have turned up any connections to these Riders.”

“I see.” The nun stood up and started to leave the sanctuary. “I’ll get to it, then.”

O’Brien’s quiet voice stopped her before she reached the door. “I’m choosing to believe in you, Sister. Anyone can slip. It takes a strong soul to get back up from a fall. Don’t slip again while you’re off the leash.”

“I won’t, Father.” Her heart swelled with the chubby priest’s trust. A thought struck her. “Father, why didn’t the rest of the cult come for Velasco?”

“Why should they risk their newfound power for another? They have no loyalty. They’re disorganized. Selfish. Weak. Blinded. Like all of their ilk. Like you were, even with all your physical strength.”

“I never thought of it that way. You’re right.” She left.

O’Brien pulled out his PDA, and tapped it with the stylus. The hidden mike and tracker in Sister Mary Cecilia’s St. Cecil medal activated at his silent command. “Forgive me, Lord, for my lie,” he muttered, and got to work.

* * *

“That’s it.” Country and western music leaked across the street from the house’s open windows. “That’s the address I was able to get out of the last tat parlor.”

Destiné watched her with something like respect in his hawk-like gray eyes. “Très bon, Soeur.” He remarked quietly, “You’re very strong, Soeur. I hadn’t believed it.” He unholstered his gun and worked the slide.

She eyed the gun. “Believe it,” she said. “I can take a few bullets too, even from that nine before I go down.”

He shook his head negatively, and said, “It’s not enough to be strong in the body. We must be strong in the soul, too. We have a responsibility that no one else will bear, and it can be a crushing weight. I pray that you will hold up under it.”

Was that mild concern in his voice, or another veiled threat? Before she could say anything, O’Brien turned the corner, his cassock bulging from the Kevlar vest he wore underneath; tucked into his waistband was a snub revolver. “What’s the good word?” He handed an automatic pistol to Sister Mary.

Sliding his 9mm into the back of his jeans, Destiné jabbed his finger at the house. “There.”

Sister Mary Cecilia nodded in agreement. The Glock was heavy and cold in her hands.

“I received some tentative information back from the preliminary searches. These ‘Riders’ are dealing in black market communion wafers. Three weeks ago, a team grabbed one of their customers. They’ve participated in a full Black Mass. Both of you know what that means.”

Infant sacrifice, thought Sister Mary, and shuddered more from memory than from the image.

“Now, this is important. Both of you listen. If any of these sorcerers ask for mercy or for help, you are to give it to them. Those are the rules of the Order.”

Destiné snarled, but said nothing as he pulled the headset on and plugged it into his cellphone.

“Right.” O’Brien took the .38 Special from his belt and snapped out the cylinder, gave it a quick spin, then snapped it back in. “I suggest we expunge them before they put us into any such pretty moral quandaries. Questions?” He arranged his own headset, then looked at his brother priest and his sister nun. “Etienne, you take the back door. Mary, you and I take the front door. Go.”

Like low-flying crows, the black figures swooped across the street and took up their perches.

On the front porch, she rested lightly on the balls of her feet. Burned into the wood over the doorjamb were the words El Rancho Diablo. She could hear the chanting (“Ride us, Wyatt; ride us, Doc! Bring vengeance, Billy!”), the music (Garth Brook’s “Wild Horses”), smell the incense (sandalwood) from within, and feel the faintest tingle at the ends of her hair, like static electricity. O’Brien crouched by the door, his revolver ready.

“Now.”

She kicked open the door, her unnatural strength shattering the locks and bolts like so much glass. She stepped in and raised her pistol. Five Voodoo Cowboys, four men and two women, stopped dead in their candlelit two-step around the bloody body in the center of the cornmeal vevers traced on the floor. They were naked save for Stetsons and cowboy boots. The lights went out.

Garth sang mournfully. Gun thunder and muzzle-flash lightning. A rain of glass. The stench of cordite and blood. Screams. Howls. Fire. Rage. Silence.

Two minutes later, it was over. O’Brien stepped through the gore, wheezing and rubbing his chest where a bullet hole blossomed on his cassock. His face was red with burns. Sister Mary bled from numerous lacerations on her face, and she held one hand clamped over a deep stab wound to her bicep. Destiné was untouched.

The chubby priest said, “Secure the perimeter.” The lights came back up. It was over.

* * *

Destiné reholstered his cellphone and turned to the two of them. “D’accord. Emergency services have been sent off-track. When the research team is finished, we’ll call again, and the police will come and see the aftermath of a gang conflict.”

“Good. Let us try to prep the area for the research team. They’ll sift through the wrack, extract anything that looks suspect, and clean the paranormal patina from this hole.” O’Brien leaned back against a wall. “However, Sister Mary thinks there’s something big here. I’m inclined to agree. This could have been worse than that Lopez bastard last year, if these demons hadn’t been as thick as clotted cream.”

“I think I can find the really dangerous stuff,” said Mary. “One of my tattoos is attuned to objects of power.”

Destiné frowned. “I don’t like it.” Pause. “But if we must…”

O’Brien scrubbed his face with his hand. “These sorcerers had something infernally powerful and dangerous. If we can dispose of it before the research team gets here, all the better.” He turned to the nun. “Pray to God first, Sister. Ask him that if He wills it, it will work.”

“I will, Father.”

The Irish priest sighed heavily. “You know, your little decorations are causing a lot of arguments in the higher echelons. More than anything that’s passed through the Order’s hands in my time.” He paused meaningfully, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Etienne and I are taking a great risk– greater than you even know– at allowing you to even make the attempt. Fifty years ago, you’d be lying in a ditch with a bullet through your face. When you came to us, some of our brethren in the Order wanted you disposed of out of hand. As it is, you’re lucky that progressive types like us are around.”

“I thank God for it, Sean.” Destiné is a progressive? Dear Lord.

“If your attributes and tattoos can aid our quest to eradicate dark forces from the world, all the better. If they can’t be used in a Godly fashion, they’ll have to be removed. One way or another.”

The priest’s meaning was clear. Mary nodded. “I understand. And I agree.”

As Mary prayed, O’Brien had Destiné bring a garbage can in from the back yard. The Irish priest produced a flask of lighter fluid, which he set down on the shattered half of a coffee table.

Mary nodded. “Please God, help me find the canker in this place.” She rolled up the right sleeve of her habit. On the back of her right forearm bloomed a red rose. She began passing her hands low over the debris on the ground. The rose gleamed as she touched an old Ouija board, stained with blood and God knew what else, greasy under her fingers. Into the oil drum it went, doused with lighter fluid. Destiné lit a cigarette and threw he match into the barrel.

Mary scowled. “That’s not it. There’s something else here. I can feel it, like a word on the tip of my tongue.”

The other Cecilites brought likely objects to her, and she touched them lightly. Minutes passed with no reaction. This just frustrated her more, so she started sorting through the junk faster and faster. Then her fingers closed on the empty black shell of a videotape.

The rose burst into sudden ruddy daylight, slamming her to her knees in burning pain.

“Sister! Mary!”

It burned– it hurt!– worse that the welts across her hand, worse that the laceration across her forehead, worse than the seeping knife wound through her arm. Pinwheels flared behind her eyelids. She couldn’t catch her breath. She forced her eyes open to look at what she held: an empty black plastic shell with a computer-printed label reading “Sorority Sexpose (3rd).”

“Mary, are you all right?” O’Brien knelt next to her.

Like ice breaking in a spring thaw, she finally drew in a ragged breath, and immediately let it back out in a scream of delight. “Holy shit! Do you know what this is, Sean? Etienne? It’s the case to a copy of the Naked Goddess tape! I can feel it! It’s here!” She clumsily got to her feet, and began pawing through the debris.

Destiné stared at the nun, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Je ne comprends pas.” I don’t understand.

“It’s a pornographic videotape that contains a tremendous amount of mystical knowledge encoded into it. There are only maybe a dozen or so of them. It’s a legend in occult circles. This explains how a bunch of idiot rednecks became mega-powerful dukes without anyone ever hearing about them. This could give the Order the insight into magick you’ve– we’ve– been searching for for centuries!” She prowled the house like a hunting cat, pouncing on likely hiding places for the videotape, and ripping them apart.

“Calm down, Mary,” said O’Brien, “if what you say is true–”

But she paid him no heed, continuing to dig through the wreckage of the Rancho Diablo.

“I don’t like this,” Destiné’s face was stony. “She’s backsliding.”

“No, she’s drunk.” O’Brien stood slowly. “We have to help her before something goes wrong.”

“It’s her temptation, Sean, you’ve been saying that we have to let her–”

“No.” O’Brien growled. “She’s not being tempted, Etienne. She’s out of control. Like a drunk on a bender. Like you were in Lima, remember?”

Destiné blinked, startled.

O’Brien continued, his voice dripping pain. “She’s not thinking, she’s reacting. The magic is like whiskey to her. Like blood in the water to a shark. She’s too weak to resist it on her own. We have to help. We have to stop this, before she imperils her soul, and ours too.” He turned to Destiné, and stared coldly up into the Frenchman’s eyes. “She needs our help. Are you a minister of souls, or just a killer with a collar, Father?”

Destiné clenched his jaw in anger, but lowered his eyes in shame.

A crow of victory, and Mary danced back into the living room. The rose on her forearm burned like a red star. “It was right there! Right there in the rewinder. Somebody shot out the TV, but I know if we just sit down and watch it when we get to St. Christopher’s we’ll understand it all.” I’ve helped, finally! They would have never known to look for the tape. They’ve never heard of what it is. I can contribute!

O’Brien held out his hand. “May I see it?” His voice was cold.

Carried away in joy, Sister Mary Cecilia handed it to her friend. “This will help us on our mission tremendously! Look what it did for these morons– think what it could do for us!” She rocked from side to side, her eyes never leaving the tape

“Sister. Can you compose yourself?”

“I’m just happy, Sean. This is wonderful!” The tape held her eyes as a snake’s gaze holds a bird mesmerized.

O’Brien moved the tape in a circle, slowly. Mary’s head tracked its movements. “It’s dangerous, Sister. You can’t even control yourself in its presence, can you?”

“W-What are you saying?”

“Think, lass! These poor sinners went from petty dabblers to sorcerers capable of summoning demons of a high magnitude in weeks, and you yourself claim that this tape helped them there. Now look at them. Look at them!” He gestured wildly at the carnage.

She tore her eyes away, and saw the bullet-pocked walls, the shattered wreckage of the furniture, and blood-splattered corpses. In the cold light of this, her enthusiasm waned enough, leavening her blindness. She saw Destiné looking around too, his face very pale all of a sudden. “But, Sean, you don’t understand–”

He held the tape in both hands. “I do understand, Mary girl. And I know what I have to do.” The Irishman lifted the tape up and with a rapid movement broke it across his knee.

“No!” cried Sister Mary Cecilia, and lunged forward, only to be stopped by the powerful frame of Father Destiné. “Don’t.”

He leaned into her, his muscles bulging and he tried to hold her slim frame back. “Non, ma Soeur.” He hugged her tightly as she struggled. “Let it go.” His voice was strangely mild.

O’Brien dropped the broken tape and casing into the burning oil-drum, the doused the mess with more lighter fluid. The flames flashed deep crimson, then black, then a low throaty laugh like honey and cinnamon rilled through the room.

Then the fire returned to normal; the tape burning as any other thrown into a fire would. Destiné let the nun go.

Mary was in shock. “You just threw away… the answers.”

“I believe you think that. I even believe that you might be right. But these are the choices we make, Sister Mary Cecilia. These are the sacrifices we bear. This is our responsibility and our mission. The only power we permit ourselves mustn’t produce disorder or discord. When you were holding that tape, you were out of control, as these poor dead fools were. And thus we consign this thing of dark power to the fire. As we have before in ages past, and as we will in ages hence. When you believe that, you’ll be a true Cecilite.”

She slumped to the ground, ashamed, tears running down her face. “The flesh is willing, Father, but the spirit is weak.”

Destiné touched her hair. “Te absolvo, ma Soeur.”

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