NOVEL SIMPLE v2 CHAPTER FIFTY: (18+) In which a sequence of forms, wrought in stone and glass, plays host to a reflective conflict.
The creature reflected in the mirror before Una had a face like a mass of roughly carved planes, with a pair of deep-set, empty pits for eyes. Its mouth was a lipless slit, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. It stalked forward on its knuckles, its movements slow but deliberate. Una whirled to face it, fists raised, but the gargoyle was nowhere to be seen.
“Fuck this, seriously!” she shouted. In the mirror, the gargoyle paced closer. In the world where she stood, the creature was curiously absent. Invisible? Or is it an illusion?
The mirror creature lunged forward, and Una leaped aside, dodging out of its way. There was nothing next to her, but in the mirror the gargoyle turned to follow her movement, its mouth opening in a snarl that sent a spray of spittle flying from its fangs. Una screamed and drove her fist into the surface of the image; the mirror rippled beneath her knuckles like liquid, but neither it nor the gargoyle broke, although the creature retreated with a lumbering sidle.
Una’s heart raced, and she spun around, searching for the creature that pursued her. Wherever it was, in reality or reflection, she could not see it. She backed away, towards the mirror, keeping her eyes fixed on the space where she expected her enemy to materialize.
“This is my headspace…” Una’s words came out as a panicky mutter. What good was that assurance against a creature that attacked her through reflection—who she couldn’t strike at in her world?
A searing pain tore through her calf, and the jagged marks of claws appeared in the skin as though torn by invisible blades. Blood welled up, staining her leg, and Una stumbled backwards with a cry of pain.
In the mirror, the beast crouched, its lips peeled back in a grin of triumph, blood dripping from its hand as its tongue darted out to lick its claws. The wounds in Una’s flesh ached and pulsed in time with the beating of blood in her ears.
The gargoyle leaped again, and this time Una kept her eyes on the mirror. She lashed out with one hoof to her side, kicking high and catching the creature’s jaw with a crack that echoed through the valley. In the mirror, the gargoyle’s head twisted sideways, and it fell back with a howl, clutching at its face; in the world where she stood, there was no trace of the beast.
If only I had… her thought began. The reflected gargoyle picked itself up, loping sideways as though dazed. Velisatra. With the name in her mind, Una felt a great distance closing again, like a rubber band snapping shut. Her body tensed, a rush of arousal heated her, and once again she felt the unmistakable and singular sensation of a long, hard shaft filling her pussy—a presence both alien and intimately part of her.
The gargoyle made another swipe, this time aiming for Una’s face. She glimpsed its trajectory in the mirror, ducked, and the creature narrowly missed its mark, sailing over her horns and slamming face first into the ground behind her.
Una squatted, reached between her legs, and slid three fingers and a thumb into her pussy. Her slickness and heat enveloped her digits, but she also found something solid: the familiar hilt of Velisatra, with its blade buried in her depths. The weapon responded as though it were a living being, writing and pulsing within her and sending shockwaves through her core. Una gripped it and pulled while bearing down with her pelvic floor.
“Come on,” she moaned as the blade shifted painfully within her. The craggy form of the gargoyle rose again in the mirror, circling her. Velisatra was slippery with Una’s fluids, and she struggled to find a better grip. She pushed again, tensing every muscle in her abdomen as she tried to expel the weapon from her body.
Velisatra wriggled in response to her need, and with a lance of pain through her core, the blade slipped free. Una cried out in pain and ecstasy as she pushed it out, falling on all fours in the snow. Her own juices soaked her legs, and as her core spasmed, another gush of fluid spilled from her sex. Panicking, she gripped the sword in both hands, and rose to swing it like a baseball bat at where the gargoyle ought to be.
The strange blade had grown with her, and she now wielded a weapon as large as a greatsword, but curved and with a single edge. Una’s balance felt off-kilter, but the blade sang through the air as she struck the creature’s stone flesh. She felt rather than saw the impact and heard a roar of anger.
As Una’s momentum spun her to face the mirror, she saw the blow had connected squarely with the gargoyle’s midsection, cleaving it from shoulder to groin. A shower of gore splattered the mirror’s surface from the far side; in the reflection, Una saw the gargoyle fall apart like a shattered statue, its body disintegrating in fragments of rock.
Where she stood in the snow, no blood or body lay in sight, and no sound came save the howling of the wind. Una stood panting, gripping her sword for support, then dropped to her knees. Her insides twisted with discomfort, still aching from the sword’s passage through her body.
“Damn everything,” she said. Slowly, her breathing slowed, and she felt the pain fade as her injuries knit themselves back together. “Why can’t I keep a sword in a scabbard like anyone else?”
Una stood, looked skyward, and realized with shock that the looming forms of Yael and Michael had changed. Each still held its position, but now faced each other instead of the sky. Yael extended a hand in a beckoning gesture, her face twisted in a familiar leer—a look Una had long associated with Yael’s mischievous, sexual taunts. Michael’s left hand was now flung up defensively; in the other, he brandished a crucifix, as if it could protect him from possession by the succubus. Una recalled just how futile that defense had been, all those months ago.
“What now?” Una asked—and then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her reflection had changed as well. In the mirror, she was no longer the tall and proud scarlet demoness, but the petite, freckled form of Michaela Belmont, aka Mona Caprioni: the girl who might have been but never was, all grown up.
She looked down at her real hand—er, as real as anything here can be, she reminded herself. Her hand was still blood-red, elegant fingers ending in pointed black nails. The sword in her right hand was unchanged, but in the mirror Velisatra was smaller, just as it had been when first she’d drawn it. Una moved experimentally, swinging the weapon, and watched her paler reflection copy the motion.
Puzzled, Una almost failed to notice when another gargoyle landed on the rocks behind and above her, folding its ungainly wings against its sides. She whirled around, raising her sword, and of course the same rocks were empty. Again? I’m really not a fan of fighting with reflections.
The gargoyle threw its weight downwards, dropping off the outcrop to land in the snow near Una with a puff and spray of white powder. The reflected beast charged towards Una’s reflection, jaws wide. Una swung her blade in the air, and the reflection did the same, but the reach of her smaller self was much less than that of her demonic form, and she missed the target.
The gargoyle’s jaws closed on her shoulder, tearing at her flesh; Una screamed as she saw the mirror image of blood spurt forth and brought Velisatra’s pommel down as hard as she was able on her attacker’s head.
The creature’s grip slackened, and Una wrenched free, turning to keep the reflection in view: Michaela’s smaller body, panting and gripping her blade in a defensive stance. The gargoyle, wheeling to attack again. Judge, calculate, strike. The words of some long-ago instructor echoed in the back of her mind.
Una’s arm shot forward, her sword’s point aimed for the creature’s neck, just below the jaw. The thing had already flung itself forward at her. She saw the reflection of the blade slide home, and the gargoyle reared up in shock and pain as a geyser of blood gushed from its throat. Its body crashed to the earth, and Una saw her reflection, small but determined, stand over its fallen form, blood dripping from her blade and her clothes.
She looked up again, breathing with exertion. Now the two enormous statues had leaned towards each other, forming a massive, peaked archway over the river. The succubus had her arm around the priest’s right shoulder, leaning in to whisper something in his ear, her eyes half-lidded and a smile upon her lips. Her other hand plucked at his robes, seeking entrance. The priest looked terrified, and yet his body betrayed him, his erection obvious through his clerical attire as the demoness’ tail curled around his thigh.
In the mirror, Una saw herself in a familiar form, much like the one she now occupied. The red demoness who’d burst free from captivity, challenged Nezz, then returned to New York, stared back at her. Her eyes glowed golden in the darkness. Not as fully majestic as I am now, she thought. But damn sexy.
When the third gargoyle clambered into view from the side of the promontory, Una didn’t hesitate. She kept her gaze fixed on the mirror even as she adjusted her stance for the coming assault. A single stroke, she thought. I know how to do this. Here, at least, I have all the centuries of knowledge poured into Yael’s mind, if I can only draw it forth.
Una watched the reflection of her opponent as it crept forward, and she matched the creature’s steps, moving her feet in a slow, careful dance across the icy rock. As it approached, the gargoyle’s reflection opened its mouth in a silent roar. Una stepped back, watching the mirror as she raised her sword. The creature sprang, jaws wide.
Velisatra flashed in the moonlight. Una felt the resistance of rough flesh, the give of sinew, the crunch of bone. She saw in the mirror the spray of gore from the gargoyle’s severed neck, and the reflection of the beast’s head tumbling from its shoulders. In the world where Una stood, the only sign of her success was the sudden absence of the creature in the mirror.
In the massive stone carvings above, Yael now danced, her leg lifted above her head to expose her vulva, with the lines of her sex etched in massive lines of stone. Her face wore an expression of ecstasy and bliss, her mouth open and her tongue extended in a lewd pantomime of oral sex. Michael’s robes had vanished, and his body bore signs of thorough change: pert, round breasts, wide hips, and a shaven pussy. His hands lifted in supplication towards Yael, and his expression seemed a mix of horror and longing.
Una turned back towards herself in the mirror and saw her reflected body grow and change. She grew larger, taller; her features became bestial and her curves exaggerated. Now she remembered this form, from the mountaintop tryst with Nezz, an encounter the archdemon had somehow caused her to forget. Una stared in mute fascination at the wolf-like visage of the other self, its pendulous breasts capped with nipples thick as human thumbs, its claws curling and uncurling.
The fourth gargoyle appeared from behind Una’s bestial doppelgänger, but Una simply lifted one massive hoof and stomped down hard. One half of the monster protruded from beneath the hoof, thrashing feebly. Una reached down and grasped a leg in one massive paw, then tore the beast in two as effortlessly as a dog shredding a rag. She tossed one part aside, and the second crumbled shortly thereafter.
The succubus gazed up at her two halves. Now they were arguing, staring at each other with undisguised contempt, and the priest was a priest no more. Micki Belmont, the demi-succubus embracing her new identity, towered over one side of the river, wearing a sleek dress with her arms crossed beneath her breasts. On the other side, Yael raged and spat, her hands raised into fists and ready to pound against her foe.
Una knew what she might find in the mirror, but was unprepared for the experience of seeing herself as a young man. Handsome, with a chiseled physique, and clad in a tracksuit, the lad who’d called himself Mick Belmont looked back at her with a smug expression.
Una squeezed her eyes closed. This was the worst; the form Spencer had forced upon her, ripping away her hard-won sense of self and molding her into a pawn. Nothing Yael had done to Michael Belmont’s wavering psyche could compare to the damage Thomas Spencer had wreaked upon Micki.
That happened, she thought. But I overcame it. I became myself, and I will not be ashamed any longer. She opened her eyes, almost too late.
The fifth and sixth gargoyles arrived simultaneously, attacking Una from left and right. Una felt the pain of their claws raking her sides, and the hot trickle of blood from the resulting wounds. In the mirror, the form of Mick Belmont was gone. The young man had been replaced by Micki, in the phase of her full demonic emergence: red-skinned and curvaceous, shorter than Mick but sporting powerful muscles.
Una locked eyes with herself and spun, whirling Velisatra through a deadly arc. The reflected demoness moved with her. The gargoyles pressed their attack, but Una knew their patterns, saw when they would lunge, and struck at them as though she were a machine. Her blade carved through one creature, severing its spine neatly. Una kicked the other gargoyle hard in the chest, and it flew backwards, smashing into the stone arch.
The demoness pressed her attack, sensing where the gargoyle stood to the left of the mirror, and her weapon found the mark with ease, impaling it through the gut and pinning it to the pillar behind it. Her misshapen enemy thrashed, its mouth gaping, until Una withdrew her sword and lopped off its head with a clean swipe. The body tumbled to the ground, twitching and oozing black ichor into the snow.
Now the statues embraced, two demonic women locked together by mouth and arms. One had horns that curled back like a ram’s, while the others arced to delicate points over her sleek, straight hair. Yael wore flowing robes and a veil, pushed back over the top of her head; her companion wore the uniform of a French maid, complete with apron and cap. Their mouths explored each other in a ravenous kiss, while the maid’s hands explored the folds of the demon’s robes; Yael’s tail extended from beneath those robes to slip under the frilly skirt of the maid’s dress. Their eyes, however—their huge, goat-like eyes—both fixed upon Una.
Una looked back at the mirror and saw something unexpected: an unfamiliar face and body she’d never inhabited. A girl of scarcely a dozen years looked back at her, wide-eyed in surprise. Her hair was cut in a familiar bob, with wings of sleek black locks framing her cheeks. Her small body, slender and childlike, wore a simple lavender nightgown that hung loosely over her pale-skinned frame. The girl’s eyes, however, gleamed a lambent yellow.
The demoness blinked and shook her head in surprise. Who is this? She doesn’t look like me, or my dream of Michaela, and I don’t recall her in any memory I have access to. In the mirror, the girl only looked back at her, her lips parted in confusion to match Una’s own.
Then the image faded entirely, and the arch stood empty. Only Una remained, standing alone in the cold beneath the two embracing statues. Before her, the ice-locked river flowed into the space between two mountain cliffs, but now the rising sun illuminated its path, shining directly down the canyon to create a natural corridor of light. The water sparkled, and the snowy banks shone like a blanket of diamonds.
Una took a few steps forward, feeling the crunch of the snow beneath her hooves. The sun’s warmth bathed her, and the air seemed to hum with a change in energy. She turned to look up at the figures. The statues once more looked like a priest and a succubus—but portrayed as she’d met them in this mental landscape. Yael, armored and wielding a spear, gazed confidently down at her; Michael, his robes billowing around him and his face filled with compassion, watched the canyon like a serene guardian.
The succubus turned her view earthwards, gazing down the canyon as it opened before her. “Well, this seems clear enough,” she said aloud, and began walking, following the river as it flowed beneath its hardened surface towards the light.
***
Una woke gradually. Her head lay on a pillow; she could tell by the softness beneath her skull and the scent of fabric softener. She shifted and grew aware of sheets and blankets tucked around her. The bed felt warm and comfortable, and she was muzzy with sleep, but beneath those feelings lay a sensation or wrongness about her joints. The proportions of her limbs felt off.
The succubus opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling above, which offered no clues beyond recessed ceiling lights. This wasn’t Jay’s loft or Susan’s apartment. She turned her head to see the dim outlines of furniture, barely illuminated by natural light that could have arrived before dawn or after dusk.
A dresser, nightstand and chair stood within view; the last bore a pile of clothes in a familiar gray fabric. The walls were a bland cream; the furniture all looked very modern and very expensive.
Una tried to sit up and realized that her arms and legs were restrained; she felt the pressure and texture of leather against her skin and heard the rattle of metal. Her heart began pounding, sending a wave of adrenaline through the body that she now examined with growing alarm. When she managed to shift the covers, her limbs seemed smaller and thinner than she expected, and she felt both horrified and unsurprised to see what she wore: a simple nightgown in lavender silk.
Her eyes widened. Oh, hell no, she thought. I’m someone else again—a little girl? This can’t possibly be happening.
A flood of horrified memories washed into Una’s mind: the black-site prison, her terrifying journey there in a hood and straitjacket, Spencer’s mind-games, the beatings she’d suffered at the hands of the elderly nun.
“Never again,” Una snarled. Her voice was thin and childlike, but the rage and determination were all hers. Her muscles tensed against the straps; to her surprise, the restraints snapped easily.
She pushed back the covers and looked at her body in the dim light, seeing the lines of the girl’s body—the adolescent form she remembered from her mental world. Una’s hands clenched into fists, her knuckles turning white and her fingers trembling with fury. “No,” she insisted, in a quiet, angry whisper—but there was no one to hear her.
