The Sexorcism of Miriam Flack (The Reluctant Exorcist)

by Graves, Violet

  I tried to imagine what—besides the desire for power—might make the Belle so desperate to get me off. I placed my hand over hers to stop her fingers. “Belle, you hired me for the evening to hunt you down and ‘exorcise’ you at this costumed ball while your husband gambled a portion of your profit for charity on the tables.”

  I pressed my thigh between her legs and her knees parted in reflex. “You slipped a heating gel into your body prior to our liaison in what I believe was an effort to induce my orgasm. This despite the oral contract you agreed to when we first started doing business—in particular, the stipulation that all toys, aids, and stimulants must be approved by both parties before interaction occurs.”

  I inched my leg closer and pressed the many layers of her skirts against her buried mound. “For the first time in our acquaintanceship, you advise me that my pleasure is as important as your own.”

  “Well, of course it-“

  “I sense you stand to lose something, hence your desperation to make me come.” The only thing that might be as important to the Belle as power would be money. “Did you make a bet?”

  She reacted with a jolt that pushed me back a few inches.

  “What? What- a bet?” she stammered. She blinked at me through bejeweled lashes. “What are you talking about- a bet?” She was flustered by my question. Her hands fluttered over my rapidly softening cock while she sputtered. “That makes no sense. No sense at all. Why would I make a bet?”

  It seemed the both of us had more insight than we had realized when we made our accusations. I pushed to my advantage. “How much do you stand to lose?”

  She gave up all pretenses without even blinking. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  I whistled, long and low. “That is a significant amount of money.”

  “Petty cash,” she shrugged. “Irene—you know her as the Belle of Lexington—threw in an extra five if you cried.”

  “Oh, for the Love of Kathryn, why on earth did you bet that I would cry?” I covered my slip of the tongue—invoking the name of my patron saint in front of a civilian—with a hearty laugh. The Belle of Lexington was now soon to be a former client, as well.

  Her relieved laughter joined mine. “The Beau of Covington said that such an unexpected release would positively break you. I told him he was full of salt at the time but... perhaps he was right. You’re so proper and respectful and you never satisfy your own desires.”

  Her fingers searched for my erection as though she had misplaced it. She was as yet unaware that it was missing entirely. “You’re willing to bend over backwards, to become what you know we want—what you know we need—an animal, a man, a monster, or a god. A vampire slayer, if so directed.” She winked. “I thought, maybe, that if I could inspire you to give in to your own needs, I might find a clue as to your incredible self-control. I am trying to determine if it is a weakness or a strength.”

  I frowned. The Beau of Covington was in on the bet. Yet another client I would have to transfer to someone else—someone with one fewer secrets. My frown deepened.

  “Oh, don’t be like that. I don’t mean to insult you,” she lied. “I find your compulsions fascinating. I’d love it if you worked for me. You’d be the perfect corporate spy. You have an understanding of the machinations of sex that far surpasses any lover I have ever known. Imagine the secrets you could uncover.”

  “I am happy in my current vocation.”

  “How could you be happy doing what you do? For nothin’ but money!” She spat out the word as though it were vinegar on her tongue. “With your talents, you could have more than money. You could have power.” Her eyes glittered and I glimpsed the depths of her hunger. “I know of what I speak. I can help you with that. I can give you that power.”

  By taking it from someone else, I reckoned. “I am not worthy of such attention, Belle.” I glanced at my watch to speed up the inevitable end of our professional relationship but she ignored the dismissive gesture.

  “Yes, power. I could give you power. It’s intoxicating.” The Belle continued as though I hadn’t spoken. She leaned in and whispered, her voice nearly a hiss. “It’s better than sex.”

  “Then clearly, Belle, I have failed you.”

  She frowned at the tone of finality in my voice. “It doesn’t take an expert to know that a man who can morph so easily has one or two secrets of his own.” Her fingers found the soft length of me through my pants. She considered my lack of interest. “I must say, I don’t like working with a man who has secrets.”

  “The distance between secrets and the things you simply don’t need to know is vast.”

  Her hand stilled. “Don’t be like that, Verily. I’m only curious, that’s all.”

  She was lying. She’d had me investigated above and beyond normal curiosity. She’d hoped to find information that would allow her to gain more control over me. While I might be obedient and prompt, there was a gap between us, and this void—this unknown quantity—disturbed her. I was wrong about power and money being her motivation in this situation. It was the thought of losing that drove her this time around: losing money to the Belle of Lexington, losing face with the Beau of Covington, losing control of an employee, and surely there was something else in her life—something to which I was not privy—that she was losing as well. I was no longer a simple distraction or source of release, I was something to be dominated in lieu of that which she could not. Her next step would be to offer to buy my contract but, as a Freeman, I did not have one.

  My cheeks grew as cold as the stone beneath my hands. I kept my expression impassive.

  She spoke softly, tenderly. “After all we’ve shared, Verily, I would think-”

  “Sex is what we’ve shared,” I said. “Financially beneficial fornication, on my part.”

  She blinked. Her eyes widened and her pupils shrank to hostile pinpoints. “How dare you speak to me in that manner, Verily.”

  “Do not say my name again, Belle. It means nothing to you.”

  Her intake of breath was audible.

  I felt the vibration of the Smartphone in my pocket. The tempered bursts indicated an emergency page. I stepped back, pulled out my phone, and slipped off one sodden glove.

  The Belle’s mouth gaped open. “You are not seriously checking your messages during our session.”

  “Our session is effectively over,” I assured her.

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, it is not. You chased me around for an hour and then fucked me for—what—two minutes?” She made the last bit sound like an insult. “No, I paid for the night. You belong to me for the night.”

  I swiped the screen and accessed my business account. “I am reversing a percentage of the evening’s charge.”

  “You can’t do that, V-“ she smashed her lips together to stop my name from slipping out completely. I was surprised by the submission.

  My thumb hovered over the glowing icons. “Would you prefer that I don’t?”

  “If you go, this arrangement is over.” Her jeweled lashes glittered in the torchlight and intensified her wicked glare. “I don’t mean just tonight. I mean the entire arrangement.”

  “I agree that would be best.”

  “What? You don’t- you can’t-" Her eyes blackened into shadow. She now understood that she had crossed a line and was furious that I had dared to point it out. “I want a full refund. One hundred percent.”

  “I can offer forty percent.”

  “You are fucking kidding me.”

  “You came. Thrice, I might add. Make that thirty-five.” I spoke to the Belle like the bastard she needed me to be. Yes, a full refund was in order—I had guaranteed both physical and emotional satisfaction—but I was done with her patronage; her accusations had sliced too close to the truth.

  I did consort with demons.

  While my intentions were far from perverted, my actions weren’t legal and I couldn’t have the curious Belle nosing about my life anymore. A firm hand was needed to sever my ties with the
woman, for her sake and mine.

  “You- you-” she stammered. Her cheeks flushed and tears pinked her eyes.

  I steeled myself against the first true, uncontrolled emotion I had ever witnessed in the Belle of Westmoreland. I disliked being a bastard, in reality and in behavior, but any softening of my stance would only drag out the already unpleasant situation.

  She put her fists on her hips. “If you do not do as I request, you will never work with any man or woman in my circle ever again. And my circle is huge.”

  “I have a waiting list as long as my dick and my-” I was interrupted by light, laughter, and the sound of spinning roulette wheels. Long shadows crossed the stones as two slender figures stepped onto the terrace through the previously unopened doors.

  “Demon fucker,” she hissed under her breath. And then, like magic, her expression transformed from demonic scowl to angelic smile. She spun on one slender, titanium heel and called out to the approaching couple. “Irene! Edgar! Where have you been all night?”

  She looked back at me over her shoulder, the smile now carved into the flesh of her face. She spoke through clenched teeth. “By all means, honor your other obligation. I had forgotten that you were nothing but a common whore.”

  “An uncommon whore,” I amended.

  Chapter Two

  A Sleek Black Wasp

  Within ten minutes of my response to the emergency page, a sleek, black wasp of a craft landed on the colonial estate’s helipad. A hatch marked with the azure and gold seal of the Royal House of Sweden opened in the flank of the helicopter and a blue clad guardsman stepped out. With the muzzle of her assault rifle, she indicated that I was to climb in without hesitation. As the craft began to lift, the guardsman advised me that our journey would consist of three stages: a helicopter to the airport in Atlanta, a private plane to Stockholm, and then another helicopter to an undisclosed location.

  When I questioned her, the guard advised me that—for reasons of national security—undisclosed meant that I did not need to know. I assumed my own high-level clearance in the U.S. Military would be as impressive as a Boy Scout merit badge to the armed Swede so I did not bother to mention it. I leaned back in my seat and settled in for several quiet rides.

  Chapter Three

  The Lady Olofsdotter

  We landed on the island of Ven for, despite secrecy, I recognized the small church. The helicopter settled on top of a hill just outside the gate of the pristine cemetery. The lush grass at our feet was washed to grey in the moonlight. Beyond the church was a tower that stood a good five stories above the hilltop. The stout keep was capped with a gold-plated dome that looked—without apology—like the head of a penis.

  The lights from the helicopter added faint color to the scene but, save the moon, there was no other source of illumination. Based on my observations from above, and now on the ground, the entire island was in the midst of a blackout. A feminine figure stepped from the deep shadows of an archway in the wall of the church. Her shapely silhouette was stark against the whitewashed stone. As I approached, I determined the woman was lovely and extraordinarily young.

  “Brother Grange,” she said, acknowledging my vocation with a nod of respect. She stepped forward and offered her hand. “My name is Agatha Olofsdotter.”

  The husky depth of her voice added five years to her age and I recalculated that she was, perhaps, twenty-three. Her hair was white in the moonlight and neatly coiled beneath her sharp, dark cap. Her suit was tailored and the modest skirt covered her knees.

  “Ms. Olofsdotter.” I accepted her hand and bowed over it. “Please call me Mr. Grange.”

  Her grip was firm and the shake perfunctory. I did not hesitate to release her hand upon completion of the greeting, as the Swedes can be quite adamant about their personal space.

  “Mr. Grange,” she said. “I am hofdame to Her Highness Princess Miriam Flack-Alfinson.”

  I found myself taken aback by the mention of the infamous Miriam Flack, now Duchess of Västergötland, princess to Prince Mikael. After her marriage to the prince, the young actress had been dubbed The Ironic Princess—a play on the television series she had starred in as a child. Her outrageous behavior as a teenager, after the cancellation of The Accidental Princess when she was thirteen, had made her a tabloid favorite and the stuff of studio executive nightmares. Despite my obvious knowledge of the situation, I had not followed her story with any real interest. I had simply been unable to avoid the information that streamed from every media device during the build-up to the royal wedding.

  I did not allow my surprise to show. I concentrated instead on the woman in front of me. She was a genuine lady-in-waiting, I realized. This meant the young woman was perhaps titled but had refrained from providing me with the information; thus her intent was to keep our acquaintanceship informal but brief. The brusqueness of her tone inspired me to forego the usual pleasantries. “Tell me how I am to be of assistance, your grace.”

  She did not correct the honorific so I understood my assumption to be accurate. She signaled to one of the guardsmen. He stepped forward and handed the lady-in-waiting a dark stick. I smelled tar and took one step back as the far end of the torch burst into flame. The warm light brought color to the woman’s face but did not soften her gaze.

  “Please follow me, Mr. Grange. His Highness is expecting us in the tower. We will talk along the way.” She began walking, her angle leading us toward the stone phallus beyond the small cathedral.

  “We must use natural light.” She spoke perfect English in a crisp accent that made me painfully aware of my faint drawl. “The creature has been feeding on the electromagnetic properties of battery-powered torches.” She indicated the surrounding darkness. “We have also shut down the island’s access to the mainland power-grid in an effort to reduce the available electricity.”

  I was impressed by the safety-measures in place. More often than not, I performed exorcisms in less than desirable circumstances since the poor and uninsured are more susceptible to dispossession than the more sheltered members of society. To have an actual fortress far from electro-magnetic interference was an unusual blessing.

  “Her Royal Highness is currently experiencing possession by a spectral entity and has, until this recent quarantine, been under the care of the Royal clergy with no measurable success.” She kept her eyes on the tower ahead and strode forward without looking at the ground, despite the darkness at our feet. “The prince has taken my advice to sequester Her Highness on the island until such time a determination of her recovery can be assessed. I am the one who contacted your organization for assistance.”

  “How long has she been displaying symptoms of possession?” While the time frame varied from case to case, once a specter has fused with the victim on a cellular level, the condition was most likely permanent. There are several stages of infiltration and I hoped the princess was within the first two as the lower the number, the more the opportunity for success. Another factor was the experience level of the interfering specter; fresh spirits are confused and simply seeking the familiarity of physical form. These young ones can often be convinced—through conversation and/or intimidation—to release their captive. They are usually under the impression they are dreaming and, once their circumstances have been explained, are eager to move on.

  “We determined that it has been about four months,” she said.

  Ouch. My sigh was deep but quiet. An experienced entity—who has been in the body for more than a few weeks and become familiar with the victim’s strengths and weaknesses—is a far more dangerous type.

  Per usual, my organization had been contacted as a last resort but I admit this was because awareness of our public existence was relegated to erotic tales and the occasional amateur porn. The violent persecution of our founding members had required the Brothers and Sisters to go underground centuries ago and modern enlightenment has not yet fully incorporated us into society.

  “What is her current status?” I asked. I
expected to be advised that she was malnourished and perhaps speaking in tongues but the Lady surprised me.

  “On the Watson CODA Scale, the princess may be a five point nine, possibly six.”

  I would have taken a moment to appreciate the hofdame’s knowledge of medical terminology had I had not heard what I’d just heard. I stopped walking. “Did you say possibly six?”

  She continued for two steps and then stopped as well. “Yes,” she admitted as she turned to face me. My expression inspired the Lady to speak in earnest. “Mr. Grange, I myself am not an expert phasmologist like you. My assessment is amateur at best. I have studied the subject as a layman for… personal reasons.”

  I determined that the Lady Olofsdotter had either been possessed or witnessed the possession of a loved one in her youth. If one of the Brothers or Sisters had intervened, this would explain her knowledge of the Erotas Pneuma Exorciso and her willingness to seek assistance from our organization. I bowed my head in respect for both her possible experience and the current situation. A six on the scale was dangerous but not hopeless. A six meant the victim was subjugated but still within the body. The victim would be dangerously malnourished and dehydrated but there was a chance for a full recovery once the specter had been removed and contained.

  Seven bordered on vampirism. I did not have the skill set to tangle with a vampire. “Has she been seen by anyone other than the Royal Clergy?”

  Lady Olofsdotter shook her head. “This is a delicate situation, Professor. Royal protocol demands church exorcists attend an afflicted royal. These rules have been in place for thousands of years. Since there has been no case of affliction within the Royal Family in nearly a century, the traditions have not yet been updated to reflect modern technological advances. For reasons of security—and privacy—secular physicians have not attended the princess. The royal family does not wish her suffering to be made public.”