Succubated!

Monsignor Ludovic Albert paid a great deal of attention to shoes. Not his own shoes; he invariably wore modestly expensive loafers. Other people telegraphed all sorts of information through their footwear: socioeconomic background or aspirations, but also status anxiety, attitudes about fashion and culture. From a pair of shoes, he’d accurately divined opinions of technology and magical forces, work habits, even sexual proclivities. Albert considered himself a student of human behavior, and he had trained himself to spot these subtleties quickly. It helped him determine how to manipulate the ignorant.

The Monsignor peered through the doorway of his office antechamber into the hallway beyond. He could see his visitor’s footwear, and he was nearly certain she was wearing limited-edition Balenciaga pumps. They were matte black and festooned with bows cunningly fashioned to look like butterflies. The wings of the butterflies moved, faint and slow; he could see them fluttering from here, if he squinted.
Yes, he had little doubt: expensive shoes with a minor magical enhancement, released about four years ago. Above the four-inch stiletto heels, Albert noted slender legs in black hose and a black skirt with lace details.

Albert quietly closed the door and glared at his secretary, Sister Giselle. She was a perfectly competent administrator, and tight-lipped about Albert’s unorthodox dealings. Still, she lacked imagination, and he found her too anxious to assist him with anything serious.

“What did you say her name was again? Are you sure she’s a widow?”

Giselle nodded, her expression placid as always. “Mona Caprioni. She certainly looks like she’s in mourning; she has a veil and everything. Although…” She frowned and seemed to stare off into the distance.

Albert looked at her with impatience. “Although what? Out with it.”

His secretary shifted in her seat and adjusted her glasses. “Well, Monsignor, she’s quite young for a widow. Beautiful too, although perhaps I shouldn’t say that. Her husband Louis passed away last month, but they apparently married abroad, and we don’t have any record of the marriage.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He waved it away with a brusque motion. “Well, she wants to talk about a bequest, so I had better see her. Show her in, and… tea, I think.” The Monsignor retreated towards the door to his inner office, removing a ledger from a bookshelf. “No interruptions, of course.”

Sister Giselle suppressed a smile and glided to the door, opening it without a sound. “Ms. Caprioni, he’ll see you now. Can I bring you some refreshment? We have some nice Darjeeling.”

The woman rose, and Albert observed a few key details as she entered. In her stocking feet, the widow Caprioni would have been taller than the average woman; in heels, she approached six feet, but Albert could tell her gait wasn’t entirely steady. Fond of power, but not used to wielding it, he noted.

Her outfit was a tailored Dolce & Gabbana ensemble, all black organza and lace with silver trim, but a little tight, and too risqué for a lady in mourning. She swept into the room, the hem of her dress tracing the curves of her thighs. Her sun hat was also black, but enormous, with a black veil trailing behind her; she wasn’t bothering to conceal her face. Tinted sunglasses completed the chic, insouciant ensemble.

And, as he expected, her shoes were worth more than Sister Giselle’s monthly salary. The velvet butterflies shifted as she walked, and Albert had a momentary vision of Father Garnier bursting in. The officious Vatican bureaucrat would burst a blood vessel over such a blatant display of supernatural power.

“I’ll have that Darjeeling, if you please,” Mrs. Caprioni said. “With a spot of honey, if you have any.” She turned to face Albert as the secretary departed, then swept past him into his office, her tiny, stylish purse swinging from her wrist. Albert stepped around his desk towards his armchair; the widow perched herself on the edge of the visitor’s couch, her legs crossed and pointing towards him, her dress sliding up her thighs.

The Monsignor settled into his chair and looked over at his guest. He allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, the kind he intended to express: I know you’re up to something, and I’m very curious about what.

Mona Caprioni adjusted her sunglasses, but did not remove them. The tint of her glasses made her eyes appear yellow, and her striking appearance momentarily disconcerted him. Features a trifle more angular than a classical beauty’s, framed by a sleek wave of bobbed hair, but with a certain sensual air to her pursed lips. The monsignor felt an unfamiliar sensation. Was it excitement? Perhaps it was only nerves.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Monsignor. I’m sorry to impose on you; I know you’re a busy man.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, giving Albert a glimpse of creamy skin beneath the edge of her skirt.

“It’s true, I’m afraid. I’m rather tied up at the moment. But perhaps you can tell me briefly about your husband’s estate and what you or he had intended to leave to the Church? I could connect you with one of the archdiocese’s administrative officers. Unless you have questions?” He folded his hands, prepared to listen.

She laughed, a high, bright sound. “I’m happy to talk about the bequest. But I do have a few questions, thank you. I had the… pleasure… of meeting Father Thomas Spencer recently.”

Albert controlled his expression carefully. “Did you, now? I can’t say we’re terribly impressed with Monsignor Spencer. Was there some reason you’re coming to me about him?”

Mrs. Caprioni nodded, the corner of her mouth raising in a sardonic smirk. “He made quite an impression. And I understand you and he were once quite close? Collaborators on his personal projects?”

Now Albert’s mouth tightened. This conversation had already strayed far beyond polite chatter about estates and legacies. “At one time, Thomas and I had a good working relationship. We shared a similar viewpoint on certain subjects, but... suffice it to say, we parted ways. I suppose I’m hardly alone in that sort of falling out.”

“You certainly aren’t, Monsignor. Many people seem to leave Thomas Spencer’s presence without thinking of him fondly.” She leaned forward again, pressing her hands together.

The door opened and Sister Giselle bustled in with a tray laden with teaware. As she set it down and began pouring, Mrs. Caprioni turned towards the secretary and flashed a winning grin. “Ah, thank you so much. I’m dying for a cup. Just a touch of honey, if you would.”

The young nun returned the smile as she filled two cups, setting one in front of Mrs. Caprioni and placing the second on a coaster near the edge of Albert’s desk. She took a honey dipper from its pot and let a thin line of amber liquid fall into the widow’s teacup. “How’s that?”

Mrs. Caprioni held the cup to her lips. “Perfect, thanks. Now, Monsignor, you were saying?”

The monsignor studied the young woman sitting opposite his desk. He knew exactly who she was now, but not what she was playing at. He sipped at his own tea, hoping to calm his nerves, then shot a look at Sister Giselle. The secretary nodded and left the room.

“Perhaps we should start again, Mrs. Caprioni.”

The woman across the table chuckled, but it was a dry laugh, full of sharp edges. “But where to begin?” She tapped her nails against the arm of her chair, loud and wine-red.

“Mrs. Caprioni… may I call you Mona?” She gave a thin smile, so Albert forged ahead. “If you have some grievance against Monsignor Spencer, you’re not the only one, and I can assure you we are dealing with him and the situation at the facility. Our concerns are the same, I’m sure: the protection and safeguarding of the Church, and its influence.”

The woman let out a derisive snort. “Do you think I care about that? About safeguarding the Church’s influence, or the Vatican’s? Please.” She lifted her chin slightly, and fixed him with a stare that pierced the shaded lenses of her glasses. “Do you know what Thomas Spencer did to me, Monsignor? He…” She took a deep breath.

Albert saw the opportunity and took it. Raising a finger to make a point, he began.

“Let’s see. He abducted you, bound and gagged, right out of a city hospital, yes? I also suspect he was indirectly responsible for that hospitalization, or at least for putting you in harm’s way.”

The monsignor steepled his fingers. “After that, I believe he or his staff imprisoned and abused you. They violated your mind in ways that I’m sure violated at least two of the Kingston accords on supernatural coercion. Though I doubt those would apply to your case. Finally, he attempted to use you as… hmm, I think the term I heard was ‘sexual plaything?’ Not only heinous, but inadvisable, given the results. Did I miss anything?”

The widow Caprioni glared at Albert, but a trace of amusement curled her lip. “No, that about sums it up. You’re well-informed. What gave me away, Ludovic?”

Albert raised an eyebrow. Father Michael Belmont had never addressed him by his given name, but this woman clearly had no qualms. He cleared his throat.

“I had my suspicions. Even looking as… human as you do now, you don’t make a convincing widow. Well, not unless you intend to audition for a melodrama.”

She nodded. “A borrowed outfit. I figured this was the easiest way to get an appointment.”

Monsignor Albert winced. She wasn’t wrong; the archdiocese reliably prioritized the rich and generous, and the estates of the recently departed were a cash cow. The Church had many failings, but neglecting the giving of alms was not one of them.

“How clever,” he continued, picking up his cup. “The tea clinched it. You’ve taken it the same way every time we met, a dollop of honey and not a drop of milk. Then my suspicions about your name clicked. Mona, really? The Greek prefix for ‘one,’ in place of the Latin ‘una,’ your new moniker? And Caprioni, which means ‘goat’ in Italian, just as Yael does in Hebrew. Why create a puzzle like this if you didn’t want me to solve it, hm?”

Una crossed her legs again, leaning back in her chair. The butterfly wings on her shoes fluttered, their slow motion mesmerizing. “I suppose I wanted to see how much attention you’d pay me, Monsignor. And I’m enjoying a newfound ability to blend in; I thought to demonstrate for you.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Pardon my self-indulgence.”

Albert swirled his tea. “So why come to me at all? What can I do for you, Belmont? Or have you simply come to taunt me over Thomas Spencer’s idiocy?”

Una removed her sunglasses, revealing a pair of startlingly yellow irises. The tint of the lenses had disguised their unnatural shade, but Albert noted that they otherwise appeared human. She could pass as someone with a rare genetic disorder, perhaps.

“I’d like some answers, Ludovic. You owe me that much.” Another agitated gesture knocked her purse to the floor; she didn’t bother picking it up.

Monsignor Albert’s eyes flashed. “I owe you, do I? You do not know how much time and effort I’ve put into shielding Father Michael Belmont, and whoever he’s become, whoever you are. Do you really think Spencer is the only power in the Church’s hierarchy looking for demons? He wanted to use you in deplorable, grotesque ways. The others would simply incinerate you and scatter the ashes. Or given that Father Michael was an ordained priest, lock you in the most obscure monastery in the most remote location they can find.”

The demoness swallowed the rest of her tea, set the cup down on the saucer, and placed both on Albert’s desk. “Stop treating me like a child, Monsignor. I know you wanted me, my whole situation, kept out of view. I benefitted from that, but that’s not the same as doing it for my benefit, is it?”

Albert grimaced. “If it’s an accounting you want, I insist on knowing who I’m speaking to.”

Una stared at him. “What on earth do you mean? You divined my identity, didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Who are you now? Michael Belmont was an idealistic fool, Yael was an ancient plague on humanity. For a while, you were calling yourself Micki Belmont, like some transgender millennial.”

Albert took another sip of tea. “Let’s see. After razing a swath of Vatican property upstate, you returned looking entirely demonic and calling yourself Una. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with now? A succubus of Biblical times? Or my wayward cleric?”

The yellow-eyed woman bristled. “You know I wasn’t the one who broke the buildings at your black site, don’t you? There are far worse demons abroad in the land than I.”

The monsignor hardly moved. “You know it’s not my black site, don’t you? There are far worse people in power than I.”

Una sighed. “I am neither Yael nor Micki, Monsignor. I’m someone else now. But I remember having a life as Father Belmont, and our work together. I remember her memories too, Yael’s—but they’re distant and strange, like an old home movie that happened to someone else.” She stared at the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. “John still calls me Micki, but you can call me Una Belmont.”

Albert laced his fingers. “As you wish… Miss Belmont. I’m interested to hear that you’ve kept Father Belmont’s memories. How remarkable. May I ask, do you still consider yourself a priest?”

Una laughed bitterly. “Is that a joke, Monsignor? A succubus priest? I assumed you would laicize me at some point, and I haven’t tried to wear the collar since my suspension from active duty. I’ve broken my vows, and I don’t intend to stop.”

“And yet, if you remember everything Michael knew and did, you’ll recall that ordination is a permanent sacrament. Unless you have an entirely new soul now? Has your transformation erased the mark of the Church on your soul?” Ludovic Albert stared at the succubus with a level gaze, and Una looked away for a moment.

“I don’t know. I would have to… reflect on that.” She closed her eyes. At Michael Belmont’s ordination, he had made the seven promises common to all new priests, Albert recalled. He’d been in attendance. The vow of celibacy went out of the window some time ago, thanks to her… unusual condition. But what of the promises? Serving the work of the church, obeying the bishop, celebrating the liturgy reverently. Ut’s been months since I suspended her, since she’s shown her face. Following Christ’s example? Praying the hours?

Una shook her head, but her eyes showed she knew the answer. “No, Monsignor. I know in my heart that I still bear the stamp of ordination. I could give the sacraments if I chose, act in the person of Christ. And I would, for extreme unction—if I was the only one who could for the dying. But I won’t say Mass, I could not take confession, baptize or marry anyone. I’ve broken my vows. I can’t obey the promises.” Something moist touched the side of her nose. With shock, she realized it was a tear.

“Do you still pray, Una?” Albert’s voice was soft.

The succubus let out a shuddering breath, half chuckle and half sigh. “Yes. I suppose I can tell you the truth, although I’ve felt embarrassed to admit it to my friends. I say matins and lauds in the morning, vespers, and often compline. Out of habit, Monsignor. I can’t break the habit of prayer even now, but I’m sure God doesn’t hear me.”

Ludovic Albert refilled Una’s cup and passed it to her. He felt a great tenderness towards her at this moment, but also pity. If only she knew the depth of God’s love for us all, he thought. We are His children, and He cares for us deeply. Even when we stray, we cannot escape His care and guidance.

“I know you have not taken communion recently, although I suppose you could. A wealthy widow wouldn’t raise eyebrows. And I should ask… do you still profess the creed?”

Una nodded. “I could recite it for you if you like. I know my relationship with the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church is rather fraught, but I’m not denying it, if that’s what you’re asking. And I believe in the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, the Son consubstantial through whom all things are made, and the Holy Spirit, giver of life who spoke through the prophets.”

She accepted a handkerchief from Monsignor Albert and dabbed at her eyes. “I suppose… I suppose you could say my understanding of these things has evolved. Or devolved, I’m sure some would say.” A faint chuckle escaped her lips. “You know, if Sister Giselle peeked in here, she’d think you were comforting me about the death of my beloved Louis, my late and imaginary husband.”

Albert put a hand on his chin, regarding the woman before him. “I don’t want to distress you further, given everything… you’ve been through lately. But I’m curious, and perhaps there’s a truth to uncover here. How do you feel about the dogma of infallibility, Sister Belmont?”

The faith-ridden succubus quirked her brows in confusion. “The pope? I… I suppose my opinion hasn’t changed. You were there when we discussed it at Father Bonaventure’s supper club, weren’t you? Infallibility is overestimated, to be sure. But the ability to speak ex cathedra for our tradition, for the community of belief, is part of what unifies the Church. It has a head, not just thousands of independent arms. It’s more practical than anything else, a dogma and not some kind of eternal truth. You know, I agree with what Richard Gaillardetz had to say on the topic—”

Albert held his hand up. “Yes, thank you, Fath—I mean, Sister. You clearly are, in some respects, the same long-winded priest who spent years pestering me about theological quibbles. You always had an excellent grasp of ecclesiastical history and theology.”

“Is that why you asked?” Una frowned. “Still checking if I am who I say I am? I’d also be happy to discuss my recent rereading of Maximus the Confessor on Dyothelitism. I have thoughts from my personal experience of having two wills in one person.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not comparing demonic possession to the dual nature of Christ.”

“Not exactly, of course,” the succubus continued, unphased. “But I’m not exactly possessed now, either. We merged, spiritual entity and human flesh. In some ways, don’t we all have warring wills? Have you read Jürgen Moltmann’s Crucified God?”

“Sister Belmont, please! You can’t convince me you’re not a demon by citing Calvinists, no matter how ecumenical. Good heavens.” Albert shook his head. “Now, I’d love to count angels on a pinhead with you all day. But I’m responsible for the mess that Spencer made of the Curia for Supernatural Warfare. I’m terribly busy.”

Una nodded. “I understand, Monsignor. But if I may ask, why do you keep calling me Sister? I may not be a man any more, but my vows were not those of a nun.”

“Would you prefer I veer towards the archaic and call you Presbyter?” The older priest shrugged. “Using Father seemed rather rude. And ‘sister’ could as easily refer to a lay member like Mona Caprioni. Now… you said I owed you answers. To which questions do these answers belong?”

With another sigh, the priest-turned-succubus ran a hand through her sleek black hair. For a moment, Albert saw a hint of horn, the color of bone, before she ruffled the locks back into place. “All right. Mostly I’d like to know this: how could you let this happen to me?”

Mortal or not, he thought, this woman is a welter of emotions. At the start of our conversation, it’s likely she would have accompanied that question with a pound of her fist on the table, or a fierce glare. Now she speaks with a quaver in her voice.

Albert regarded Una for another long moment, then got up and sat next to her on the visitor’s couch. “At first, Una… I failed to grasp his intentions. He kept arranging for transfers of priests into dioceses where I could monitor them, saying he had identified priests who might be at risk. I should have realized something was strange about that. But I never imagined that Spencer himself was the danger, seeking prey for potential experiments in possession.”

Una put a hand to the side of her head. “You’re saying that… Thomas Spencer is the whole reason they assigned me to St. Andrew’s? He shaped my entire career?”

“Not exactly. Bishop Jansen and I still placed you. Michael Belmont was a good fit for that parish. For a long time, I thought Spencer’s ‘precautions’ were a foible. As far as I know, I was the only one who finally realized he wanted to… reproduce himself, I suppose. Compel demons to possess clergy, hoping to seal them inside like a kind of battery.”

Una scoffed. “Yes, that worked out terribly well. Poor Father Boudreau wasn’t much more than a husk when Mastema burned his way to the surface.” She shook her head. “You’re going to tell me that nobody listened to you?”

Monsignor Albert inhaled, looked as if he was about to speak, then stopped. “I almost said ‘you can’t imagine what it’s like dealing with Thomas Spencer,’ but of course that’s wrong. You can imagine far better than most. He’s a powerful manipulator. With our superiors, he used infinite subtlety, nudging slightly here and there to avoid notice. I still worry he may have affected me without my noticing.”
The older man’s gaze seemed to wander inward, remembering. “We all knew what he could do, and we still didn’t notice. I was there to act as an intermediary for cardinals who feared him, and I have my own safeguards against his power. But… I found myself hesitant, uncertain, and faced with superiors who were unwilling to listen. He forced me out of the Curia.”

The face of the Monsignor now looked even older than his years, etched with the memory of frustration and fear. Una tilted her head, trying to reconcile the stern, secretive man she had known as Monsignor Albert with this softer, anguished creature beside her. Her hatred of Father Spencer, her resentment of the Church who’d enabled him, had somehow lost its focus; it seemed to hang in the air in front of her like a cloud.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “Surely, by the time he started using Father Boudreau, you knew Spencer’s plan. If you had told me, I would have fought against him more strongly. I could have warned other priests. Couldn’t you?”

The older priest squeezed his eyes shut. “Una—Miss Belmont… I thought you’d be safer not knowing. And… I don’t think any warning would have made much difference in the end. I tried to maneuver against him in the halls of power, but he was already setting his plan in motion. I suspected the worst when you reported supernatural activity in your church. Then I realized what must be behind Father Boudreau’s disappearance. It all came crashing down.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t understand why you asked Susan and I to investigate Father Boudreau. You knew, or strongly suspected, that we’d both been possessed, so you set us against each other? Obviously, that situation escalated out of control. My Church is still closed as a hazardous site!” Una gripped the arm of the couch, and Monsignor Albert could see her knuckles go pale.

“I never imagined it would turn violent, to be honest. But my knowledge of Mastema was flawed.” The monsignor’s eyes slid away from Una. “You weren’t a stranger to the occult, and your lay assistant Susan was skilled in researching paranormal phenomena. I also wanted to test you, to see if I could learn something about your condition. And… there was the exorcism baton.”

Una blinked. “The weapon I used to drive Mastema out? What happened to that, anyway?”

Albert shook his head. “One of Spencer’s people snatched it up in the aftermath. I gave it to you in the hopes it might help… resolve the situation. Cut off from the Curia, Susan Miller was the only personnel I had access to who might have understood how to use it. I still don’t understand why she didn’t use it to exorcise Yael from you.”

Una looked as if she’d tasted a flavor she couldn’t identify, unsure whether to gag or savor the sensation. “We were unsure what would happen if I was exorcised. And I… we were both perplexed by the whole situation. And… by that point, we’d already bargained with Yael to help us against Mastema. He was the enemy; she was… well, my problem.” She shook her head. “Why didn’t you just tell me all of this back then?”

Monsignor Albert stood up and walked around his desk. He looked over at the succubus, his face grave. “This is the Catholic Church, Miss Belmont. Plausible deniability is everything, especially in the 21st century. We keep secrets, compartmentalize decisions, and receive strict orders not to discuss or interfere in certain matters. All I can do in the aftermath is… apologize to you. And I am sorry.”

For the third time in this conversation, Una felt tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with a quick motion. “So you let Thomas Spencer do this to me, to your former colleague and protégé? By the time you saw fit to deliver that baton to me… well, it was too late by that point. An inexorable change had begun, and Yael had her talons deep. You can’t understand what it’s like—this is who I am, maybe who I was meant to be. But I didn’t want it to happen that way.”

“Do any of us have a choice in how we’re transformed by time, by circumstances, by those we care for? By the hand of God?” Albert leaned forward, hands resting on the desktop. “We must live with our choices and our regrets. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you, to save you. Especially when Spencer made his move to capture you... I demanded that he return to New York forthwith and undo what he’d done. When he eventually agreed, I should have seen it for a ruse, known he had no intention of loosing his grip.”

Una gazed at the floor. “And so… my destiny played itself out.” Her voice was so soft Albert could barely hear her words. “Thomas Spencer pushed too far. He became obsessed with controlling my mind, my form, my thoughts and actions. His chains only made Yael and Micki struggle harder—thrash until we had the power to shatter those bonds together.”

A weak chuckle escaped Albert’s throat. “In doing so, you freed several high-ranking members of this Church from subtle demonic control. They don’t realize it yet, but I do. We owe you a debt of gratitude, as much as those others you saved from Camp Ignatius. So, let us discuss recompense.”

Una looked up. “Recompense? What sort of recompense can there be for transforming me into… whatever I am now?”

Albert steepled his fingers again. “Very little. But first, I will continue to do my best to prevent the Vatican from investigating and prosecuting any kind of case against you. As far as I’m concerned, you are on indefinite suspension, but unless you request it, you will not be defrocked. Officially, Father Michael Belmont remains a priest.”

Now Una looked surprised. “You would allow a succubus to keep the collar? Even if I’m not administering the sacraments, it’s quite an unusual situation.”

Albert smiled. “Sister Belmont, I can think of many more demons in this organization who should be excommunicated. And I’m not speaking of supernatural demons, either. Let us say I have a certain flexibility of conscience. Besides, your status is not without precedent. Are you familiar with the Reverend Nancy Ledins?”

Una shook her head, then blinked. “She’s the priest who underwent gender reassignment surgery in the 1970s? Is she still…”

Albert nodded. “She’s quite aged now… in her nineties, I believe. Suspected of using a magical life extension. Although if nobody’s ever bothered to excommunicate her for being a transgender priest, I don’t imagine that will tip the scales. Did you know they never bothered to defrock her? Like you, she had no desire to perform sacraments, say Mass or preach heresy, so she they simply let continue in her ministry.” Albert made a face. “With Protestants, of course. But she’s still a Catholic priest.”

Una let her face relax into a slight smile. “Quite a role model, although I don’t suppose she has horns or a tail.”

“Quite. Now, if you are to remain on payroll, I may have need of your services. Exercising discretion, of course. Is your appearance… stable? Mostly human, as it seems?”

Una nodded absently, but raised her hand, two slender fingers pointed. “You want me to work for your Curia? Now, after everything that’s happened? Monsignor Albert, you have some nerve.”

The Monsignor gave the succubus a measured look. “I recognize that your anger is justified. But someone has to run the Church’s operations related to supernatural threats. Spencer’s atrocities have made a mess, and the Curia you’d be serving is not his Curia, of course. And I should note one other thing. Although the Church may turn a blind eye to your broken vows, because of your… unwholesome condition, the same cannot be said of Father John Hayes.”

Now Una looked angry, her sharp features taut and her jaw clenched. “What do you mean by that, Monsignor?”

He clasped his hands. “Sister Belmont, the Church has dealt you a grave injustice. As a result, you have a constitutional inability to keep your promises to us. It would be monstrous to hold you to them. Father John, as I understand it, has broken his vow of celibacy willingly. Unless you would like to claim responsibility and tell me you compelled him?”

Una stood up. “Of course I didn’t compel John! We… fell in love. That’s all. No one forced him.”

“All right, but that makes him responsible. A demon might not be subject to the Church’s moral codes, but a human man is. The Church has turned a blind eye to many forbidden relationships, but only when it is convenient to do so. You would do well to remind John Hayes of that, before he becomes the target of Church discipline and disgrace.”

She raised one hand as if to strike the Monsignor, but lowered her fingers instead. “You… you utter bastard.” She sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled.

“Una, please understand. I’m not threatening John’s collar, but others could. It’s just the reality of your situation. Now, I would like to give you something of actual value… information.” He rummaged in a desk drawer as Una fumed, surfacing with a large file folder. The label on the side read ‘Belmont, Michael’ in capitals.

“Your file. Everything about your past as Michael Belmont, including records of your background investigation, your psychological profile, your fitness reports. All my own notes, including my personal records of what I just told you. From what Father Hayes has disclosed to me, I suspect you already have Spencer’s equivalent files. It’s no more than you deserve, and it contains nothing about your… current activities. Read it if you wish, burn it if you wish. It’s the Church’s most significant dossier on you, and now it belongs to you alone.”

Albert handed Una the folder, and she clutched it with both hands. She glared at Albert with undisguised loathing. “Monsignor Albert, I will accept your apology because it seems to be genuine. But I’m leaving now, and I hope you’ll respect my privacy before you call me asking for favors.”

The Monsignor nodded once. His curt mask of calm fell back into place, and his demeanor became one of businesslike politeness. “Very well, Sister… I suppose I should call you Sister Caprioni, for now? Please leave your number and bank account information with Sister Giselle. We’ll arrange for your base salary to continue somehow, minus stipends and grants attached to the parish. Please don’t spend it on expensive magical shoes.”

“I told you I borrowed them,” she hissed, and swept out of the room.

As she exited, Monsignor Albert reflected on his exchange with Una Belmont. She was more emotional, more aggressive, less idealistic than Michael Belmont had been. He wondered if that was only the result of possession, or if she’d always been like that, somewhere underneath. Either way, she was a woman in conflict, caught between two identities and two sets of memories. Perhaps two loves? And a striking, beautiful woman, but that’s to be expected of a succubus. Albert shifted in his chair, adjusting his slacks. Spencer, you idiot, he thought. What have you unleashed?