Succubated!

Micki was sitting at Susan’s vanity table, wearing a satin chemise. Her hair had grown longer; she was trying to decide how to style it—swept back or up? A ponytail or bun, with or without ribbons? Her hair kept getting curlier for reasons she had no explanation for. Should she iron it straight? Cut it with short bangs, or long ones? All the options seemed wrong; none of them really suited her.

Micki wondered if she might try a wig. No, that wouldn’t work either. Her hair had grown in thick, but it was already too curly to stuff easily into a wig cap. Maybe she should straighten it, go to a proper hairstylist. But what kind of cut would best frame her features? She inspected her face, taking stock: artfully arched eyebrows, long lashes, deep brown eyes, a cute, upturned nose, high cheekbones, a firm chin, and angular jawline.

As she considered the possibilities, Micki noticed something; the air was changing, moving. There was a presence nearby. She noticed the softest breath against the back of her neck and spun to look.

There was nobody behind her. A faint breeze moved the curtains in the corner near the window.

Micki stood and walked over to the drifting curtain. As soon as she touched it, the wind stopped.

Micki pulled the curtain aside. Outside the window, standing on a fire escape she hadn’t realized was there, stood a girl. She wore a black dress and carried a parasol; her hair curled and blew in the breeze, which had picked up again and shifted direction.

“Who are you?”

“You don’t remember me, Michael? Or Micki, I guess it is now? Growing your own way. Looking... good.” The girl seemed strangely mature for her young age and looked familiar—a little like Micki herself, when she’d been a young demon.

Micki frowned. What was going on here? Who was this girl, and how did she get inside? Micki was a succubus, and a powerful one at that, but perhaps her wards were—

“Wait a second,” she said. “I realize, this time around... We’re in a dream.”

The girl smiled. “Of course. I’ll see you soon, little sister.” She vanished, and the dream faded with her.

***

The next morning, Susan and Michael went together to the West Village homeless shelter where Father Michael had been holding services and doing other community work. He was trying to maintain the practices of the parish in whatever way possible.

Michael, determined to offer mass and deliver a homily like he would have on any other week of the year, had done his best to look the part of a familiar, kindly pastor. He wore his bulkiest, most shapeless cassock over a padded girdle, attempting to disguise the curves of his waist and hips. His latest compression bra was underneath, of course, and he’d forced his unruly tail into relative submission by strapping it to his leg with a brace.

 “I bought that brace a week ago, just in case!” Susan chimed cheerily, typically prepared. “Tails occur surprisingly often in demonic possession cases.” A woolen hat and sunglasses completed the picture, to hide his horns and strange eyes.

I look like the Unabomber, he thought. Or someone with a horrible skin disease. It’s all... stifling, compared to what I wore with Susan at that party. His thoughts kept drifting back to the corset, stockings, garters, and heels. He could hardly offer mass in any of those.

At the shelter, Father John met them and escorted them to a meeting hall, which turned out to be a former school gymnasium converted into a temporary church.

“It’s a little cramped compared to the nave,” John warned Michael as they walked down a hallway, “with metal folding chairs in place of pews.”

“Given the storms we’ve weathered,” he replied, “this humble port is a blessing.”

During the procession, John led Michael up onto a stage and they took their places, facing a congregation of some thirty or forty people. Some were familiar faces who’d attended at St. Andrew’s for years. Others were new to Michael, many of them likely residents of the neighboring shelter.

The strangeness of it struck Michael: these were his parishioners, his neighbors, and yet it felt like being among strangers. Or rather—he was the stranger. They didn’t seem to know him; it was like being a guest speaker, with no idea whether anyone would listen or understand.

He cleared his throat and spoke. “We welcome each of you to St. Andrew’s Church. Thank you for coming to celebrate Mass with us, especially those of you. I’m grateful to be here, especially as illness and recent incidents have kept me away from home in recent days.” Maybe Michael was imagining it, but it seemed to him as if the parishioners were staring. How much had they heard about his troubles?

“Before beginning our liturgy, let’s take a moment to reflect upon God’s love and mercy. Let’s ask Him to guide us through this difficult time, to heal us and comfort us. Then, in gratitude for that healing, let’s sing together.” He led them in a prayer, then sang an old hymn he’d transcribed from memory that morning, and copied for the hymnal:

O Lord, hear my voice,

As it rises like steam from the waters.

Let my cry come to You,

Do not turn Your face from me.

You do not despise a broken and contrite heart.

You receive the desire of those who follow Your name:

With glad hearts, they trust in You.

Those hearts shall rejoice with joyful shouting.

Our souls follow after You.

Where had that hymn come from? thought Michael. Strange but beautiful, he had recalled it as if from his childhood, or from some long distant time. Perhaps what he remembered drew from Yael’s memories; was that possible? He turned to the safe familiarity of the Bible and read from Philippians 3:12.

“Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.” he read, a strangely appropriate passage. He had planned to talk about how each human had their own role to play in God’s plan. But suddenly, he felt a spark of inspiration. He knew the message he had to impart to the community.

“Brothers and sisters, siblings all... we don’t need to seek perfection to change. We can begin by simply doing good things, like praying and helping others, and asking ourselves why we’re alive. Why should we live?”

As Michael’s eyes swept the room, most of the congregants looked puzzled or confused. Some even scowled.

“Why shouldn’t we just give up on life, you mean?” one woman whispered. She was one of the shelter residents.

“Yes, why not?” Michael said, louder than intended. “If life is purely a matter of chance, there’s no reason to struggle with it, right? If it’s all pointless anyway, why not just stop trying—and accept death instead of waiting around for it to come to you?”

A murmur ran through the crowd, disturbed.

Michael continued, a little flustered. That had come out harsher than intended. “But! But... the fact is: life is much more. Every single one of us is special. A loving creator created each one of us. This is true of everyone. No one is a mistake.” He turned his head, gazing around the room.

“God meant each of us to exist and contribute. That’s why you are alive. To find the truth of why you’re here, no matter who you are. To become that unique creation, realizing the potential that God has planted within you.” Michael clenched the lectern tightly, feeling a strange energy suffuse him.

“To that end, brothers and sisters—and I use the word ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ to include both men and women and everyone else. Brothers and sisters and siblings: take a minute to consider your own lives. What makes you happy? What brings you satisfaction?”

Michael extended a finger to point around the room. “How can you serve the world and yourself by living a meaningful life? How can you fulfill your own desires and inclinations in the cause of helping the world? How can you transform yourself, in body or mind, to make those desires a reality? There is truth in pleasure and pain alike, and the truth is that we desire both...”

Some parishioners looked disturbed at the talk of pleasure and pain, but they all kept listening, curious.

“...like so many things in the universe, we must balance the two: the pain of struggle and the pleasure of self-fulfillment. If we recognize the purpose of our existence—whether that’s helping others, to create happiness, to learn, grow, and discover new truths—then we can feel fulfilled. The trick is to always remember the larger goals we share.”

“These things might sound familiar, even cliché...” Michael lifted both hands. “But I believe there’s a communal spirit to create a better future for the next generation, to explore and build new possibilities, and for each of us to become who we’re truly meant to be. Both faith and science aid us in that end. Even the supernatural...” he trailed off. What was he about to say? “Even the supernatural helps us to achieve the divine will to help the world and improve it.”

“All this is what I mean by transforming. By changing,” Michael continued. “What do you want to be? What do you wish to accomplish? Who do you long to be? What do you dream of becoming? A business owner? A scientist? An author? A man, a woman, or something in between?”

The crowd was murmuring and talking amongst themselves. “Whatever you choose—the key is to remain open to the possibility. Remember that you were born to succeed; to realize the potential granted to you. Now, like the great heroes and heroines throughout history, you must dare to step forward, to face challenges, overcome obstacles, and strive to be the best person you might be.”

His voice grew louder, cracked slightly. “Manifest your will first in yourself; do not let any doctrine or scripture chain you. Love yourself and become that love. This is the way to fulfillment. To becoming your true self. To your destiny and to our shared future.”

Michael stopped talking. There was a moment of silence. Michael paused, gathering himself.

Then he asked, “Are there questions?”

They met his words with a few scattered whispers. A few people clapped. John stepped up beside him. “All right, thank you so much, Father Michael. We’d better move on to the Eucharist, hadn’t we?”

Michael blinked and nodded. “Yes... yes, of course.” He took a deep breath and proceeded with the ceremony.

***

After services had ended, John followed him into an anteroom. “Father... that was the strangest homily I’ve ever heard you give. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Michael shook his head. “No. Not really. But it’s all for a greater good. Don’t worry, John. Everything’s going to turn out... well, if not fine, then the way it’s meant to be.” He explained the plan that he and Susan had decided on: to control his own transformation into a succubus to maintain his own will and identity.

Father John sat down heavily, looking devastated. “You’re just going to... give in? Let yourself transform all the way into... a demon? Not just any demon, but a succubus? Are you serious?”

Michael’s face contorted in anxiety. Then his expression softened, and he looked calm again.

“Of course it’s serious, John. We’re talking about my whole life. My identity. Who am I? Who are any of us? Without our familiar bodies, this face, these eyes, this voice, these memories I have, this soul and its sins, every part of me? John, all these parts are changing. I must hold on to something or find myself swept away. My will, at least, can be my own.”

John stared, his jaw working silently in consternation.

Michael said softly: “I need to ask you to change too. I can’t be here like this... it’s your turn to become something else. Something bigger than the strong pillar of support you’ve always been. We both know you’ve been by my side, working for the church and propping me up every day for years. You’re a leader of these people.”

“As for my purpose...” Michael sighed and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I want to believe that God still has a plan for me. He created Lucifer and all his fallen angels, after all. Even Yael is His creation. But my purpose is not here any longer. I will have to leave the church to you for now, and I know it’s in worthy hands.”

John looked up. There were tears in the big man’s eyes.

“Don’t cry, John. Please. If it means anything to you—I will always be nearby. Always. For as long as you need me. I must do this for myself, but you and everyone here are part of me, my history and life. That’s why I also have to do this for you, John, and for all the others. It’s not that I relish treading this path—it scares the shit out of me. But there’s something I must become; it might be a new calling. Maybe even a new way of helping people.”

John frowned. “How? By seducing and fornicating? Transforming people’s bodies? I just don’t—I don’t understand how that can be holy work!”

Michael stood. “I don’t either, John. I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. Sometimes, though, we must go against what seems logical; we can only trust in God’s invisible guidance. Just as I trust you to lead the flock at St. Andrew’s. I know I can count on you.” Michael took off his sunglasses.

“Look at me, John. Look into these new eyes of mine.” John hesitated, but met Michael’s gaze. “You told me recently that you believed I was still the same person at the core. I know my homily today was... unconventional, so concerned with freedom and transformation. But do you still believe that? Can you still trust me?”

John swallowed hard. Michael was strangely good-looking, the skin of his face completely smooth, pale and even. Taking Michael’s features in, John was struck by how much Michael had transformed. The brows, the lips, the voice—some of it was still masculine, but the overall effect was more sensuous, more feminine. Michael looked younger, and certainly more womanly.

Most of all, it was Michael’s eyes that held him. The strange, yellow-white eyes with their rectangular pupils.

John whispered, “Of course. Of course, Michael. I... I just wish it didn’t feel so wrong to look at you now. So unnatural. How did it come to this? What’s happening to us?”

Michael kneeled before him and gazed up at him with those eyes. A sudden desire washed over John: to kiss those lips, despite how wrong the situation felt. He couldn’t tell whether those feelings came from inside of him, or from somewhere else, from some unholy compulsion.

“We’ll find our way,” Michael promised. “As long as we remember who we are—what we mean to each other. My journey is not over yet. But before it’s done... you and I have a connection. I may need your help.”

John nodded and shivered. He had always been there to help whenever his family and friends needed him. “You can rely on me. Whatever happens. We’re brothers in this. Brothers... or something like it.”

Then Michael rose and reached to put his hand on John’s shoulder. John flinched; but Michael just patted him gently.

“That’s right, John. I will never forget that. Never. Take care.”

***

Susan had slipped out some time after the Eucharist, leaving a message for Michael that she was meeting Maria to go clothes shopping. With the stressful part of his morning completed, Michael visited the quarantined grounds of St. Andrew’s church.

It was a quiet, empty place now. The church was closed to visitors; the building itself locked up and surrounded by yellow police tape. After Michael unlocked the chains and stepped inside, he saw that few signs of the siege remained. The most indelible signs were deep, ragged etchings in the marble floor where John had spilled the hydrofluoric acid to dissolve Mastema’s golem.

It was here, over a month ago, that Yael had first revealed herself to him. Yael, who wanted a body to call home, a place where she wouldn’t erode like a dune in the winds. As he fiddled with the padlock on the gate to the crypt, Michael realized his most important motive in visiting his closed church: he felt the need to check on Yael. She was his enemy, undeniably so; they warred for control of a single body, his body. And yet she had helped him during the violent confrontations with Mastema—perhaps simply to protect her investment, but also at risk to herself, if her unresponsive state was any sign.

How should he feel about the demon who had haunted him? Michael could not feel grateful, but he felt guilty about turning his back. Pondering his emotional dilemma, he descended into the small crypt at the back of the choir. There, lying on a stone slab, he found nothing at all. Yael’s manifested form, that partially tangible version of her incorporeal image, was nowhere to be found.

The succubus was loose, somewhere in the city, or in his mind.

“Yael?” he called, softly. No sound returned but the settling of old stone. For now, at least, Michael had to move alone through his changing life.