The Sexorcism of Miriam Flack (The Reluctant Exorcist)

by Graves, Violet

She looked to the tower and then to me, her expression plaintive. I nodded and we began walking again. I felt the creature’s sphere of power press against me as we approached; the sensation was of walking into a strong wind that did not stir my clothes or hair.

  Lady Olofsdotter shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms against the chill of fear inspired by the electrical pulse but she did not slow her pace. Ghosts can feast on the energy generated by a human body experiencing extreme emotion. Even the most benign spirits come to realize that fear is, by far, the easiest state to inspire. I, on the other hand, had a different reaction; my skin flushed with arousal and my cock swelled. I brushed my hand over him like a gunslinger might finger the butt of his gun in its holster.

  Despite the tower’s height, there were only three levels within. The first stored pallets of canned goods and bottled water. Several empty boxes were crushed against the curved wall to make room. The second floor was outfitted as sparse living quarters and furnished with a lone cot, a shelf of books, and a single hot plate. A composting toilet and washbasin stood in relief against the far wall, separated from the room by a decorative silk screen that was folded back. Someone had been calling the place home for several days: clothes hung from hooks in the wall, a paperback was splayed on a low table next to a crusted plate, and the scent of a healthy but unwashed male body lingered in the air.

  “The prince has insisted on staying in the tower during these trials.” She whispered even though the room was empty. “He will not let anyone, save myself, enter.”

  I halted mid-stride. “Is he aware of my arrival?”

  She neatly circumvented my question. “He is aware that I have contacted your organization and that a representative would be sent.”

  “So he is not aware that I am actually here,” I determined. “Is he at least familiar with the methods of the Brotherhood?”

  She paused on the first step leading up to the third level. She didn’t speak for a long moment. A faint crimson colored the skin above her starched, white collar. Finally, she said, “Yes.”

  I took that to mean he might shoot me on sight.

  She watched my face for a reaction and her pale lips thinned to a white line of concern. “Mr. Grange, please. I am more than an official companion to her royal highness.” I was surprised to hear the thread of desperation in her tone. “Miriam- I mean, Her Highness- is my dear friend. The prince is bereft and not thinking clearly.”

  She glanced up the stairs. When she was assured that no one was coming down them, she continued in a softer voice. “The clergy have informed his royal highness that the princess is lost to him. If we are unable to end her affliction, they will be obligated to report the occurrence to the proper authorities. Because there is no law of euthanasia in Sweden, the princess will be placed in an institution for the rest of her unnatural life.”

  If the interloping spirit won, this unnatural life could be a very long time. Specters could bypass certain human weaknesses such as illness and aging, especially if their host is properly nourished within a caretaking facility.

  “Please, Mr. Grange,” she said. “You are our last hope.”

  Her words concerned me—last hope? What had become of the previous hopes?

  Chapter Four

  His Reluctant Highness

  I did not have an acquaintanceship with the young man but I immediately recognized the infamous white-blonde hair, despite the long locks being pulled back into a haphazard and greasy plait. I was in the presence of Prince Mikael, the ne’er-do-well playboy who had broken hearts around the globe until tamed by the attentions of an American actress ten years his junior. After a whirlwind romance, he and his new bride had slipped beneath the tide of paparazzi that swarmed the country when the fourth-in-line to the Swedish throne had succumbed to the charms of the brazen young ingénue with the failing career.

  Now, I am a handsome man by modern standards; I have an excellent shoulder-to-hip ratio, pale skin, dark hair and eyes, a strong jaw, and pleasant baritone voice, but the prince was my physical superior in many ways. I found myself a bit taken aback by His Highness’s striking masculine beauty. Like his brothers and sisters, he had a cleft chin, an aquiline profile, and high, sharp cheekbones. Unlike his siblings, his face was somewhat battered from a life of careless living that had broken the bridge of his nose at least twice, scarred his left cheek, and lined the tanned skin around his ice blue eyes. His beauty was a throwback to the ancient Norse—less the lean blonde of the ski slopes and more the Viking of old.

  But now he sat on a low bench carved in relief in the stone wall, his head hanging, broad shoulders slumped, forearms resting on his massive thighs, and hands limp between his knees; he was the profile of a defeated warrior contemplating a blood-soaked field.

  “Your Highness.” Lady Olofsdotter spoke in English. Her tone was tender and respectful.

  The man lifted his head and regarded those who would dare to intrude on his misery. His eyes narrowed when he saw me. His hands closed into loose fists but he did not rise. “Vem är det med dig?”

  I speak several languages but Swedish is not one of them.

  “Sir,” she answered for me. “This is Lieutenant Professor Grange from the Brotherhood of the Erotas Pneuma Exorciso.”

  His left fist tightened. He spoke in English so that I might benefit from more than the repressed rage in his voice. “I told you not to call on those bastards.”

  “Begging your forgiveness, Sir,” she replied without hesitation. “I did not call the Brotherhood on your behalf. As official companion to the princess, it is my duty to seek assistance.”

  He turned his gaze back to the floor and slowly shook his head. “She is my wife. You have no say in this matter. He is not welcome here.”

  “I beg your forgiveness, Sir. Her Majesty Queen Annabelle appointed me and as such, in matters of Her Royal Highness Princess Miriam, I am-” she paused to consider her words. “I am allowed some influence.”

  “This matter is closed,” he snarled. “What this God-forsaking bastard does is illegal in all but the most backwards of nations. His practice is barbaric.”

  I did not take this opinion personally; sexorcism can be considered barbaric, if one believes the practice of sexual alchemy to be a primitive medicine. However, like many of the ancient healing arts, the resulting benefits have been proven over the centuries. There are many levels of skill that take years to master. We don’t simply fuck the demons out of people. Combined with modern technology, our alchemy is one of the most progressive, effective, and affordable forms of exorcism available.

  Unlike the clergy, who seal the spirits in clay jars and drop them into the ocean, or the government, who blast unlicensed spirits into molecular dust, we house interlopers in modern high-tech cages until the proper rehabilitation and release methods can be determined. We seek to balance the unbalanced souls, not trap and destroy them for the sake of convenience.

  I waited for the Lady Olofsdotter to press our case while the three of us stood in the small antechamber at the top of the stairs. The only door in the room was a heavy ironclad affair that looked strong enough to withstand the rush of an armored bull elephant. Based on the tingling sensation of pressure I felt from that direction, I knew the afflicted princess was behind this door. The Lady did not press our case. The silence grew heavy.

  I had been introduced to the prince but he had not bothered to speak to me directly so protocol dictated that I not address him. However, if I did not get answers soon, protocol would be damned.

  I addressed my question to the Lady Olofsdotter. “Where is Her Royal Highness? I would like to make the determination of whether my services are required. If she has been possessed for as long as you say, even I might not be able to help.”

  The prince rose. I should say, he suddenly loomed. The man stood taller than me by a good four inches but I judged the soles and heels of his rugged boots to account for at least two.

  “You will not touch my wife
,” he growled as he approached.

  I did not step back from his imposing figure but I did calculate how many pounds per square inch his fist would inevitably inflict on my jaw. I determined that I could take one blow, perhaps two if there was a moment of rest between them. I have an abnormally high pain threshold but I am not immune to blunt force trauma.

  I bowed my head and then raised it to meet his eyes before I spoke. “Your Highness, I am under the impression that your wife is currently possessed. Therefore, I would be dealing with an invasive entity and not the princess herself.”

  This did nothing to ease the prince’s concern for her wellbeing. Rage against the entity turned to rage against the rumpled but well-dressed intruder. He cursed in his native tongue and slashed the air with large hands while he spoke. Neither the hofsdame nor I interrupted his tirade. Fortunately, he chose to turn and pummel a wall instead of my skull. Only when the blows began to leave blood on the stone did Lady Olofsdotter step forward. She spoke in a firm manner. The language tangled even further in my ears when their voices dropped to angry whispers.

  I turned my attention back to the closed door while they conversed. The construction was a solid piece of black wood, strapped and bolted with iron. There was a small observation window cut through the wood at eye-level, barred by short lengths of the metal as well. At the bottom was a flap through which a plate of food could be pushed. I could see nothing but shadow beyond the narrow opening. I could hear nothing from within.

  However, someone—some thing—other than the prince and the lady-in-waiting noticed my concentration on the blocked entrance. I felt tendrils of curious electricity trickle through my clothing and skim the surface of my skin. Every hair on my body lifted. The tingling sensation cupped my genitals like a hand. My power surged and the entity retreated, for a brief moment, possibly calculating my intent.

  Taste me, I thought. I closed my eyes. Taste what I have to offer. I kept my arms at my sides and turned my palms outwards, directing the flow of my energy towards the closed door. I have the power of ten men.

  A ragged feminine scream, tinged with hunger and lust, rent the air.

  Lady Olofsdotter clutched the sides of her head against the sound and staggered into the wall. The prince whirled and lunged at the door, hammering the wood with his fists. I stood my ground and watched the scene unfold. The prince screamed back at the creature, his English garbled with rage but I understood him this time around.

  “Leave her! Leave her alone! I will send you back to Hell if I have to cut off her head myself!"

  I moved quickly to the side of the lady-in-waiting and took her elbow to offer support. She leaned against me for only a moment before she straightened and shook me off. She gasped and clutched her head tighter. The creature was pushing the human vocal chords to the limit. I felt more than heard the thud of a blast of power against the other side of the door. The bolts rattled but the wood and iron held firm. The prince threw his shoulder into the frame as though trying to batter down the barrier but I believed his actions were more to inflict pain on his own body in an effort to offset his wife’s suffering by joining in her agony.

  I did not dare attract his attention with a touch—the obvious reaction would be a fist swung in my direction—but it was imperative to move forward. I needed to interact with the creature while I had its attention. I stepped away from the Lady and stood behind the prince, beyond his long arms’ length. I hoped my proximity would be enough to make him notice my presence once again.

  The wails ceased.

  The prince stopped battering the door and leaned heavily against it. I could hear his ragged breath. He turned and stared at me through red-rimmed eyes. I took only a moment to realize that he was going to lunge in my direction; when his fists knotted the front of my coat and lifted my body to its toes, I was prepared and my expression did not change. I felt the stones scrape beneath my shoes as I was carried backwards. The wall had my back in no time at all.

  “You will not touch my wife. Do you understand?” His breath was as bitter and hot as the rage that boiled his blood. “She would rather die.”

  “Then she will die,” I advised him.

  The breath was pushed from my lungs by the steel beams of his forearms. I exhaled with a soft gasp and wondered if the guards would bury me on the property or dump my body into the sea. Over his shoulder, I saw Lady Olofsdotter move towards the prince to intervene. I twitched my head; the movement was barely perceptible but she understood. She stopped in her tracks and met my eyes with apparent concern.

  His jaw worked hard, flexing the muscles and grinding the teeth behind lips pulled back into a snarl. I kept my eyes on his as he searched my face for the truth. He blinked. “You cannot save her,” he growled but I heard a softening in his tone. Hope, perhaps.

  “I can save her.” I determined that I could talk sense into the royal person. He was an intelligent man. I believed that he would come to understand my role with proper explanation and assurances. Given time, I would have his blessing.

  His wife did not have that sort of time.

  My right hand was within the pocket of my greatcoat. Within my pocket was a heavy ring. Within the ring was a small Lorentz-force actuator that delivered—without need of a needle—a delightful compound through the skin. The compound turned the most recalcitrant of persons into far more agreeable sorts.

  The prince wore boots, faded jeans, and a thin blue t-shirt damp with sweat despite the cool air. His forearms were bare and the veins snaked along the flexing muscles. I slipped the ring onto the middle finger of my hand and twisted the loop so the business end was palm-side. I winced as though in pain from his grip. I lifted my hands and clutched his forearms, squeezing hard to mask the stinging breath of the injection.

  He responded by pushing harder on my chest. I felt the small pops of synovial fluid between several of my vertebrae but no pain. His hostility was nearly as intoxicating to me as the drug would be to him. I kept my gaze firmly locked on his eyes and waited for the sedative to kick in. His pupils flared. A moment later, the strength left his arms. I dropped to the floor and maintained hold of his limbs.

  “Your Highness?” I filled my voice with genuine concern. I did not want him to collapse and, with care, he would not. I signaled to the Lady Olofsdotter and together we maneuvered him to the stone bench.

  “Has he eaten recently?” I asked as the prince sank between us. “Does he need food?”

  “Rest is what he needs,” she said. “He’s not slept more than two hours per night for the past week.” She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “He’s not feverish but he is too pale.”

  “Shock, perhaps.” I took the man’s hand in mine and crouched down in front of him. He looked like a large, confused child. Shimmering tears hovered on the brink of collapse.

  “Sir, do you understand the situation?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Yes.” Then he shook his head. “No. No, I don’t.” The tears lost their tenuous hold on his lashes. He wiped them from his cheeks with the back of one hand. “I am suddenly very tired.”

  “That is to be expected. You’ve not had enough food and rest.” This was the truth. I simply neglected to include the drug in my diagnosis. I looked to the lady-in-waiting. “I dislike discussing this situation when His Highness is so deeply fatigued but you do understand that time is of the essence, correct?”

  She had procured a handkerchief from her pocket and was tenderly blotting the area beneath his eyes.

  “Yes, I understand,” she said. “Perhaps it is best he be in this state.” She stroked his arm and lightly traced the faint red mark on his skin. She inhaled sharply and lifted her eyes to mine. I made no apology with them.

  After a moment, she nodded. “It is best.”

  I turned my attention back to the prince. He would remember everything I told him and I was beholden to tell the truth. Later, he might wonder why he had been so agreeable but the sedative would be washed from his system by
then.

  “Please understand that I have every intention of curing your wife of this affliction. If I do not win this battle then I will not leave that room alive. I am willing to give my life for your wife. Do you understand?”

  He looked so heartbroken on my behalf that I almost winced. He reached out and touched my face, tenderly stroking my cheek. “You love her, too,” he said.

  I placed my hand over his. “It is true that I am deeply concerned for her welfare.”

  His nod was slow and solemn. “Yes, as am I.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “But I am helpless.”

  “And I am not.” I moved his hand back to his knee and maneuvered the angle of my head so our eyes could meet again. “Sir, based on your reaction to my presence, I believe that you have an idea of what I am and what I do.”

  He didn’t growl or snarl. He said, in a drug-induced tone of geniality, “You are a rapist. She has known no other man but me and you would take that from us.”

  I rocked back on my heels and stood to create a greater space between us, in case he had some super-charged metabolism that would overpower the sedative sooner than I expected. I found it hard to believe that the wild child Miriam Flack had known no other man but it was not for me to dispute.

  “I am no rapist.” I crossed the small room to peer through the window in the door. I heard a faint hissing sound from the shadows within. “What I am is an exorcist who practices the tradition of the Erotas Pnuema Exorciso. This is a highly effective practice that uses sexual alchemy to remove interloping specters from an unwilling host and restore balance to the afflicted individual. Do you understand?”

  The prince nodded—deeply—and I thought he was letting me know that, yes, he did indeed understand, but then his chin dropped to his chest and his breath buzzed softly through his nose.

  Chapter Five

  Fuck, Fight, or Get Out of the Shot

  Lady Olofsdotter refreshed the torches ensconced in the walls around the second floor of the tower. The prince was snoring on his cot; a luxurious quilt was draped over his form and tucked under his jaw. He had roused enough to partake of some broth before true fatigue—in league with the sedative—put him down for the count. The lady-in-waiting was so tender in her ministrations that I could not accurately gauge their true relationship. Was she like a sister or a lover to the man?