A Tool to His End

World of Darkness: Guardian House
GM
Karen
Game Time
1st Weekend of the month
Characters
Dr. John Evans Julia Valentine Thomas Daly Kirk Ryder Richard Berkinson IV Ben's Changeling Kimura Tristain Hiroyuki Matt's Keyboarder Norman Rockfellow Jim Tanaka

Thankful for the coolness of the stones and the moisture hanging in the air, Julia closed her eyes as a wave of nausea came over her. Usually the steps weren't so bad, but today was different. Perhaps it was because she knew she would be going inside. Julia felt the kiss of fog on her cheeks and inhaled the wet San Francisco air. The night was blessedly cool, and she pulled her trench tighter. Not that it made much of a difference, but it gave her something to do besides tracing cracks in the steps with her fingernails.

Julia glanced over at a cup coffee from Maxfield's House of Caffeine sitting next to her. It had been sitting there, untouched, for a good ten minutes. She had walked down Dolores to get it right after Thomas had left her outside. She knew it was going to take a while, but she was annoyed. She wasn't annoyed at the wait, but more that she should have just drank the coffee before coming back. Or gotten something to eat.

Not that the food would have helped her nausea, but she had missed dinner and it was nearly nine. Perhaps wine would have been better. She could have got them to put it in a coffee cup and then she could be sipping wine out here like a little lush, playing into stereotypes. Or even share a PBR with the hipster at the front table and mess with him over things even he hadn't heard of yet. She glared at the coffee cup, upset at what it represented.

The heavy wooden door behind her opened on well oiled hinges. Julia turned to see Thomas slide out, but there were others behind him. He looked down at the coffee cup next to her and smiled. "Oh, good! I'm sorry it took so long. I'm glad you got something to eat."

Julia glared, but Thomas din't notice. He was already turned around to hold the door open for her. She picked up the cup, rose, straightened her skirt and trench, and gave him a smile. He shouldn't feel bad for her mistakes in beverage drinking. She entered the mission and the door closed behind her.

The door did not echo like one might expect, with that thud of finality and drama, but Julia felt briefly that it should have. Entering the mission was like stepping through a barrier three feet thick, viscous as oil and molasses. The nausea came again and formed a knot deep inside her. She felt torn internally. One half of her wanted to use that knot and laugh in the face of it, to go spit on the floor and dance on the altar, or, on second thought, just be silent and good and see when people notice and then go dance on the altar. The other half was repulsed by those thoughts. Julia had found that it is easier to pass through these membranes when she had clear intent, either for good or evil. Today her job was decidedly neutral, and the resistance of the membrane was furious.

Thomas was introducing Julia to three other men in black suits with those nifty white collars, but she wasn't listening too hard. She was focusing on how to hold in her lunch. She managed a curt smile and tried to listen for their names. One name she recognized, Woodberry, Thomas' mentor, whom she had the strong suspicion was actually a prelate. Thomas always addressed him as Monsignor. The two others were Reverend Albano, pastor at Dolores, and a Swain, an older man whom she recognized. Julia tried to pull herself together to focus. She steadied herself, thinking she must look like she was drunk. Maybe it was a good idea she didn't get the wine, which certainly would confirm that as fact. She tried to focus on Swain. Where did she know him from?

The lights were mostly off in the mission. The quartet's collars were like lighthouses on a dark coast. Still, candlelight shone at the far end of the nave. Candles surrounded a table with texts and objects that would have shocked the parishioners if they could see what went on here after hours. The men walked forward, and Thomas gently nudged Julia to walk as well. She missed anyone saying that was where they were going, and she stumbled over her heels. Thankfully, it seemed that only Thomas could see her falter.

As they walked, the air felt sour and thicker. Julia felt transported to another place, as though she had just gotten off an airplane in Florida after a perfect climate controlled flight. She felt the knot inside her tighter and her stomach lurched, spiritual nausea turning into the real thing. She felt the bile in her throat and gagged. She turned on her heel and ran back to the entry, and dove for the one thing that every ill person can always miraculously find: the trash can. Not that all ill people make it, but the beloved trashcan and it's brother in arms the mighty toilet are magnetic forces in the world of the ill. Julia found herself on the floor, loosing what was left of her lunch from hours ago, all onto of the still full Maxfield's House of Caffeine coffee cup. She inwardly cursed bodies made of flesh.

She vaguely heard footsteps and felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asked, heavy concern and uncertainty in his voice.

"Yeah, it's just the… the hallowed.. the aura… the…" Julia struggled for words and wiped her mouth. She looked up to Thomas, who was taking a knee next to her.

"We'll do this in another room," he said, with a firm reassurance. He produced a tissue box, which she wondered where came from, and left her to tidy up. She pulled a few tissues to dab at her eyes and mouth. Through the cloud of white tissue mites hanging in the air she saw Thomas confer with the others. Woodberry seemed to be taking his side, Albano seemed concerned, and Swain was somewhat antagonistic. Julia wondered if this was how their conversation went before she entered.

Julia threw the used tissues into the trashcan and used the bin as a crutch to help her stand. She came up in front of a basin of holy water that looked too precarious for words. She had lost a heel and came up lopsided. She toed around feeling for her other shoe while watching the men talk. As she slipped it back, the conversation was stalling. Albano raised a hand and pointed off to the side. He was offering a solution.

Thomas waived Julia over and she approached casually. Or, at least as casually as she could given the circumstances. Monsignor Woodberry smiled gently, and said, "Reverend Albano has graciously allowed us the use of the rectory. That should be more amenable. Shall we?"

Julia followed them out a side door and to the back. A red patio separated Dolores from Mission San Francisco and the three story rectory building with offices and other rooms. The path led behind the mission's bema to the the rectory while a little green hedge separated it from the school yard. It had a compact, private feel and the foggy air clopped with Julia's heels.

Julia was thankful for the fresh air, and the pressure wasn't so bad outside, nor in the rectory, which smelled faintly of baked cookies. Julia's stomach growled and she cursed flesh again. Still, it put her on better footing. She should have been on better footing meeting the trio in front of her, laden with tomes and candles. She should have been smooth and suave, not wrenching into a trash bin next to the basin of holy water. Not even her own charms could work past that, or so she thought.

The priests led her upstairs to what looked like a conference room with a large table and a rolling white board. Out the window she could see the painted lines on the school playground below through the fog filtered streetlights. Albano hit the light switch and the outside world disappeared, focusing all attention on the texts on the table. Woodberry opened the largest book and searched for a page while the others took seats around the table; Swain opposite Julia, Woodberry at the head, Albano was next to Swain, and Thomas sat at her side, across from Albano. Woodberry rocked on his heels, and, making a satisfied noise, sat.

It was Albano however who spoke. "Father Daly suggested that you could read this. Our next closest linguist with any knowledge of the tongue is on business in Sacramento, and is, as such, indisposed. Although there were some misgivings-" Swain snorted - "we are in a pinch."

Woodberry spoke up. "If it's relevant, we may need that translation tonight. We can't take the chance of waiting."

"Can I see it? What language is it?" Julia's voice dripped like honey. It was actually the first words she had spoken other than the hacking words to Thomas. Woodberry smiled and passed her the tome.

"A form of Aramaic," he said with the voice of avuncular conspiracy.

Julia reached for it then thought again. She untied her trench and pushed it off her shoulders onto the back of her chair to keep the cloth from hitting the book. She straightened up to handle the book carefully, with a testing touch. When nothing happened, she bent over the book. While practical, her actions had a slightly bigger effect, and she saw Albano's mouth go just slack enough to reassure her that all was right in the world.

Julia turned back to the text and ran her fingers over the embellished script. The inking was lively, even if the illuminations left the reader wanting. She felt the pattern of smooth and rough under her skin; parchment, and old, and scraped away with erasures over the years. "It's been edited," she said.

"It was passed down through the years," said Swain, as though it didn't matter, "edited so forth like a family cookbook."

"Or the margin commentary on old bibles," Julia teased back, and Woodberry looked amused. Thomas inhaled strongly. Right, let's not cause him to face palm in front of his superiors, she thought briefly.

Julia read the passage and frowned. She turned the page to continue, and backtracked, looking at what came before. She read the passage aloud, as though it might help, but stopped halfway through, where the lettering changed from rounded blocky script to a sharper cut with sensuous cuves.

"Well, what does it say?"Julia looked up at Swain, and his too familiar face. She was starting to suspect that his gruff exterior was an act, though it was true to his beliefs. He wouldn't have her here if it could be helped.

Julia stretched. "It is a form of Aramaic, but it's Mandaic, but they used the Aramaic script rather than the Mandaean alphabet, like as a translation." Thomas drew a blank, so she added, "The Mandaens are pre-Arab Semetic gnostics, highly dualistic, but there's no encompassing systemic theology."

Albano sat back, contemplative. Woodberry seemed impressed. "They're a dwindling population today… and heavy on the mysteries."

"So what mystery is this tome entailing?" Swain said, interest finally flashing in his eyes.

Julia turned back to the tome, reading pieces and then translating a few phrases as she went, if only so that they'd believe her summary. Well, Woodberry seemed familiar with the Mandeans, so there was a chance. "It's about the Ruha d-Qudsha, what they call the Judeo-Christian Holy Spirit. It's a vile thing according to them, an evil female entity in league with God, poisoning the minds of men. They treat it like a demon, and speak of how it must be stopped lest the… I suppose we could call it master of darkness, or the demiurge, or even the devil, takes control. But of course, it's assuming the Holy Spirit is an evil thing. Then there's the part that was edited. It's… weird."

Swain looked over at it, "Yes, the handwriting there is a little weird, but it is the same language. Can you read that?"

"Well, yes, but it's not the handwriting that's weird. It's perfect, clear, and even has good grammar." Julia stared at it, knowing that flipping the page wouldn't work. The text wasn't going to move anywhere or change. It would remain there, on the page, until she said the words.

Thomas was puzzled. "What's weird about having good grammar?"

Julia turned to face him. "It's weird when it's in the language spoken in Hell being written in a text by people who don't believe in it."

For a moment, all Julia heard was the cars outside, and the voice of a potentially delusional passerby. There wasn't even a sharp intake of breath, just the ambient noises of the City. And here she was thinking that this was going to be easy. Thomas had asked if she would translate a text. He didn't know what it was going to be and neither did the other three priests who surrounded her like crows.

Especially Swain. "But it reads in Aramaic. What of the context?" he asked. "Is there a clue as to why the tongue switches?"

Julia bit her lip. She paused to explain what had troubled her when she first started reading. "I can't read this aloud," she said. "It's a summoning ritual. For this Ruha d-Qudsha. It's to call it, bind it, and make it do the summoner's bidding. It's like a demon summons, but the language is so precise… Sure you could pronounce the text in Aramaic, but that's just the letters that are used. It's the Dragon's Speech, and this was written by someone who knows the language, and knows that the Ruha d-Qudsha is decidedly not a demon. Where on earth did you get this?"

This time it was an uncomfortable hush that settled over the room. The quartet of crows shifted in their seats. Swain looked uncomfortable in his collar. "We shouldn't be telling you this," he said, "but we, Monsignor Woodberry and myself, found the lot on the desk of a man who had been clearly working magic. This was the page that was open."

Julia puzzled over the large tome in front of her. It was crisp and musty and inviting like any good book, but it had been tampered with and whatever gnostic wisdom once was on the page was replaced by glossolalia. She felt saddened, betrayed almost, by whatever human decided that her tongue should be used to work something beyond the scope of Heaven and Hell. A shiver ran through her, and she leaned away from the tome as though some instinct was slowly kicking to life.

Thomas put his hand on hers and Julia snapped out of her dark reverie. "How do you know that this Ruha thing is not another demon?"

"Or is this text written by one?" Added Albano, deeply concerned.

Julia looked at Albano's thoughtful eyes, framed by steel glasses. A lot of weight must be on his shoulders, she thought to herself, a guardian of many in the light of day, but one that knows full well what lurks in the dark. She briefly wondered how many of San Francisco's spiritual leaders, just as a cross-section of human society, knew about the existence of things like this, or who ever had direct confirmation that anything out of the ordinary actually existed. Albano looked like an ecumenical sort of man. He couldn't be the only one.

Yet her mind was filled with lies. She looked at Albano and realized that he - and Thomas - would believe anything she said next. Swain was the naysayer, and Woodberry likely more experienced. But she could convince two out of four men of just about anything she wanted. She could make this out to be something false, and lead them on a goose chase. She could underplay it as well, and send them to their dooms. She could use their voices to convince one of the others of her words, and she honestly had no reason to lie.

Manipulations flowed over her, but they were not her forte, her purpose. She was a tempter, and she was not strong enough, not old enough, not wise or experienced enough, to come up with anything more than pipe dreams of how to properly lead astray a handful of priests in a rectory that at least one of them lived in, next to what amounted to an ever-flowing fountain of energy for at least one of them, who was a mage and knew her inside and out. Woodberry also might have something going on. At least she was smart enough to know she was out-classed, out-gunned, and just plain out of her league. For now. And yet she had nothing against them. No reason or inclination existed, no gut pulling, no inner demonic magnetic compass that pointed towards any of them as a Target with a capital T. What lusts did they have? She took a moment to reflect, using a variation of a common Christian theme to consider the answer to the age old question What Would Lucifer Do?

So Julia listened to her instinct, which told her there was really nothing here going on, instead of the voice in her head that came up with petty manipulations of her own abilities, and spoke the truth.

"Just because we can speak a language doesn't mean we can read or write it. We have to learn our alphabets, too. So demonic writing is full of errors, like any of yours might be. A worn comma here, a misspelling there, bad handwriting. Only the older, more powerful, more precise, more literate among us can pull of an elegant script like this. Like the fallen. But humans can write our tongue in their own script to perfection. Those that powerful beings interact with are the more literate out of you all, and often linguists, to read texts like this, or at least knowledgeable in passing Greek or Latin, which would teach grammar and diction. This was written by a pro."

Woodberry squinted. "So in your professional opinion, this was either written by a very powerful demon or by a learned mortal man?"

Julia nodded. Swain swore. Thomas leaned forward with concern and Albano stood. Woodberry just shook his head. "This entity is probably using him as a host, then. The text was either transcribed or composed by another mage, for devious purposes, so that when some unknowing Mandaean soul read it with the previous context, it would appear a good ritual, one of their mysteries to be kept and practiced." He pushed the books away from him. "We need to find it."

When the table had finished their collective intake of breath, shooting furtive glances at each other, silently imploring someone else to state The Plan, Julia reached behind herself for her trench. "Well, looks like you don't need me, anymore, boys."

"No, you should stay," Thomas blurted the words with honesty. His blue eyes coruscated in the harsh lamp light of the room. Julia wondered how he always managed to pull off ways to make her heart melt, whatever the circumstances. Still, she had done what was asked as a favor, and her stomach still was empty.

"What else can I do? I read the text. Is there something else you need translated?" Julia asked, looking at the other untouched books on the table."

Swain shook his head. "No, those were support materials in case we needed them. But what you read is extraordinarily clear. It rings true to what we witnessed."

"Then you don't need me?"

"No."

Woodberry cleared his throat. "Well, actually, I think we do."

If she were to judge from appearances, Julia thought Swain's red strained face looked as though he had something caught in his throat, but the words tumbled out of his mouth anyway. "Monsignor! Seriously! We can't. For crying out loud, she's-"

"I know what she is, Henry. I am considering the obstacles in our path, and we could certainly make use of her skills in this. Would you not agree?"

Albano nodded, clearly deferring to his superior, though not without a good measure of regard. "He has a good perspective on these matters, Henry."

Swain slumped back somewhat, his eyes fixed on Julia. She met his gaze. She was still trying to place him. But his first name was Henry. Henry Swain. He looked somewhat defeated. That wasn't the look he should wear, she thought to herself. He should wear a look of triumph to match his ego. And there it was. She remembered him finally, and smiled a delicious and playfully sinister smile. He shrunk back so subtly, she doubted anyone else noticed it was because of something new. She felt a malicious desire to toy with him, then filed that away as something to consider later, depending on how the night went.

Swain didn't shrink back for long. He popped right back up like bread from a toaster. "Okay, but I must note my professional disagreement officially. I don't like it, but there it is. You are right that her particular talents may be more efficient than the methods we may have chosen on our own. She's a tool to this end, nothing more."

"Only a tool? I feel so used."

Julia heard Woodberry suppress a laugh. Albano gave a shrug as he gathered up the books on the table. "We could certainly use you," he said, closing the heavy tome, "but I understand if you don't."

Julia sighed. "The question is how, boys."

Albano continued. "We had feared that something had taken the man who worked this spell. He's gifted like Thomas, a mage out of the college here in San Francisco. When he was little, he belonged to this parish. We grew up together, and stayed in contact, though he moved out of the Mission District long ago. He made a call to me out of the blue, and there was something strange in his voice, in his eyes. I called Monsignor Woodberry for, well, backup would be the best way to put it. I can't always fathom the blessings and dangers of the magical realm, so he and Swain came with me and we found my friend with that book."

Julia frowned in thought. And Swain had tried to protect Albano from her, saying that it was only he and Woodberry who were involved. This was not good. Other than knowing the mage, Albano was innocent in this. And he could be collateral. Swain clearly knew something about the supernatural to be following Woodberry around, or have some sort of useful skill. He looked like too much of a hard-ass to actually use Church Magic himself. She could feel the jealousy and lust for power of some sort. He was surrounded by it, and oh how impotent that made him feel. He made sense now, especially knowing a secret about him. She somewhat pitied him. Oh was that more reason to tell them all a truth or two about Swain? For the meantime, Julia focused on Albano's tale.

"He was different, changed in some way. But it was clearly himself, with all his mental faculties and drives. He went to go get his favorite meal, and talked about going to the Opera, one of his largest passions. There was just something dark about him. Like suddenly a good steak was deepest gluttony and Puccini was a dark unbearable secret related only to me in the confessional."

Woodberry picked up the narrative as Albano drifted off. "Something insidious had affected him, but we needed to know what. This Ruha d-Qudsha is an insidious spirit, a twisted version of a passion or ecstasy that seemed to the Mandaeans to be the Holy Spirit. It acts the same way, and gets it's strength from similar moments, but slowly corroding it's vessel's mind and soul until they are utterly spent. This man is indulging in his favored passions, letting his lusts run amok. Do you see how you fit into this, little one?"

Julia was taken aback, by the unfinished suggestion, and by the term of endearment. "I think I just might," she replied with measured words.

"Now, I don't know what all his lusts may be, or what you'll end up doing, but, you'd-"

"I'd make great bait." Julia frowned further and raised an eyebrow. "I don't take hits well, so I better have backup on this." She glared at Thomas. This was not how she expected her night would go. Her stomach growled.

Woodberry caught the glare. "Thomas will go."

"I will?"

"He will?" Swain looked like a cross between a hurt puppy and an outraged imp.

"Father Swain, how many men do you know who can exorcise a demon with just their minds?"

Julia's frown disappeared and she bit her lower lip to suppress a laugh. Thomas looked a little nervous, but she felt a lot safer. She gave his had a squeeze and whispered through a grin, "We'll figure this Ruha d-Qudsha thing out."

Woodberry kept talking to the table, about making some sort of container for the Ruha d-Qudsha, like a box to seal it in. He and Swain would provide backup, Albano would come in case a personal appeal was needed to get in touch with the possessed man's soul or mind, but he was to hang back, in case fireworks started. Julia guessed that to be wise. Albano looked like a nice guy. Nice guys always wind up taking the beatings. Of course, she was being sent in first, right into the lion's den with little protection. She was an expensive spy, an expensive diversion.

Julia wasn't sure if the men around her felt the same. If she failed, she would still be a diversion, and there would be one less demon in the world.

And one less of whatever the Ruha d-Qudsha was.

Julia tried to listen to what sort of device they were constructing, but it was as useless as an umbrella in a wind storm. Albano ran out of the room and came back with his arms full of items including a small wooden chest. It looked like a recipe box, and Julia grimaced at the thought of dinner gone by. Albano pulled out a handful of cards and placed them on the table, confirming her guess. On top was a recipe for "Mama's Tamales." Her stomach rumbled and it must have translated to another frown. Thomas leaned towards her and gave her a little smile. "I'll be right behind you. You'll be okay."

"Thanks." She sighed. "I wish I had dinner, though. My stomach is, I swear, as loud as a fog horn."

Thomas looked crestfallen, and rather guilty. "You mean you didn't eat?"

"I should've at Maxfield's, but I didn't think-"

Their side conversation was cut off by Albano. "I guess that's everything, then."

He spoke so quietly, but had a way of attracting all the attention in the room. Julia turned to see the wooden recipe box had been covered with sigils, filled with some herbal concoction, anointed with what smelled like olive oil, and a chain bike lock was wrapped around it. Her jaw dropped to see the DIY MacGuyvered spirit trap. She was rather impressed, and shelved her hunger temporarily.

"I hope it works," she said, a small creeping sense of fear or self preservation nagged at the back of her mind.

"It will," Thomas said, but something in his own voice sounded just as concerned. "It will," he repeated.

The priests packed up the books, and Woodberry wrapped the box in a cloth. Julia caught some embroidery on the cloth. Vestments, perhaps? In short order the men were packed and had donned their coats and jackets. Julia only had her trench to worry about, and she tightened it around her waist before leaving. She ran her fingers through her hair, as though it might do something practical, or as though she was going to meet someone right on the street. It was a silly human habit, a girly habit, that she had picked up somewhere. Her hair stayed in a fairly wicked and sexy state without regard to her own efforts. II did, however, reduce the threat of upcoming helmet hair to a laughable idea.

Julia followed the four priests out of the rectory building and back to the red paved courtyard. They turned right to a double gate that faced 16th Street. The fog had thickened and drops of moisture hung in the air, illuminated by a few safety lights. Fog from the Bay had a way of holding ambient light from nearby and playing tricks with it, casting shadows in extra dimensions. The gate seemed to cast a shadow forward onto an expectant sedan parked in the driveway as well as backwards onto Thomas' motorcycle, giving both vehicles odd stripes.

Albano unlocked the gate and held it open. Woodberry went to the driver's side while Swain carried the box in his arms like a precious newborn, the embroidered cloth hanging from it like an heirloom christening gown. Thomas handed Julia a helmet off the back of the bike, both a riotous shade of yellow. That color was probably the loudest (and most unintentional) aspect to Thomas' normally collected and laid-back demeanor. As she took her seat on the pinion and cinched the helmet's straps, Julia wondered if anyone ever guessed that the man on the bright Ducati ST4s was a Roman Catholic priest. Probably not.

Thomas put the bike in neutral and slid out through the gate. He briefly double checked the address with Albano before turning the engine. On the motorcycle, they'd have a bit of lead time for Julia to lay bait. Looking over at the sedan, Julia also thought that the motorcycle would save on the potential awkwardness of being crammed into the third rear passenger bitch seat between two of the men. One was enough, and she wrapped her arms around him and leaned into the westward turn.

The Ducati purred and revved and they made their way through the City, first to Market Street and then south along it's twists as it hugged Twin Peaks and turned into Portola Drive. Julia got a thrill from seeing different neighborhoods in the City and exploring what she now felt comfortable calling her home. A brief pause for the light at the intersection with Woodside and O'Shaughnessy provided Julia with a chance to ask the big question:

"Where are we going?"

Thomas leaned back and turned his head so she could hear him better through his helmet. "St. Francis Wood. Real nice, with big lots for San Francisco. Houses from the teens and twenties, I think."

The description rang a bell, but the affluent neighborhoods west of Twin Peaks all sort of merged together for Julia, despite her own work having taken her out here a few times. The address they headed to wasn't too far from the fountained traffic circle in the middle of the neighborhood. It all looked sleepy and peaceful, the fog acting more as a sheltering blanket keeping the surrounding world away and unseen. It was a curtain or a privacy screen.

Julia sighed as Thomas turned off the Ducati's engine and coasted the bike forward to the house in question. It always seemed like the good neighborhoods had the worst problems in them, or perhaps just kept their dark secrets more hidden than the badd parts of town, who wore straightforward problems openly on their sleeves. But Julia knew that was a lie. At least, it was probably true for most mundane problems, but it was certainly a lie when it came to the supernatural. Supernatural problems came down everywhere, and they seemed particularly good at doing so in San Francisco. Or, she wondered, was that just a sign that she was truly getting to know the City's secrets? That she was actually a San Franciscan?

Julia stretched and took off her helmet while Thomas lowered the stand for the bike. He pointed to an unassuming split level with a somewhat Mediterranean look; it was Mission Revival Lite, half the calories of a real architectural style, just quaint enough for tasteful inhabitance. A row of large windows faced the street, and Julia could see a light on somewhere inside the house. She also saw a thin patio on the side of the upper level, and noted it as a convenient escape option.

"Formulating a plan?" Thomas asked, removing his own helmet. It wasn't the first time they had tag-teamed like this, but each time offered a different challenge, but the satisfaction of a job well done can't quell the butterflies before the job has started.

"It's his passions ruling him, and his darker ones, so I have no idea where we'll end up, just that your friends think he'll have a weakness for me, or one I can find easy enough. But you never know. I'm not an end-all, be all. Sometimes I'm just a catalyst that convinces them to go out and act on some other urge, to give in to thinking they need to do it. Like that time with the married couple."

Thomas made a thoughtful hmm noise. Still young in terms for either a demon or a human, Julia had to figure out what she was supposed to do while on the job, and trust her gut and whatever divine or infernal will suggested. The results were some times surprising, as with this particular memory. She had been caught in the act with a married man by his wife, and it was in fact the wife who, upon seeing the liberties her husband took, was then consumed with her own disordered desires that put his petty sexual dalliances to shame. Her eventual undoing made the front page of the Chronicle a month later.

"Well," he said, easing off of the bike, "either way you'll have his undivided attention. And that's all either of us really need."

"Right."

Thomas was right, though the simplicity of his words made her want to roll her eyes. All she needed was a shared moment of pure lust to get the information she needed. Usually, that wasn't hard.

Julia and Thomas turned, hearing the engine from an approaching car. It looked like the sedan, signaling go time. The sedan pulled to the curb and the headlights shut off. Julia handed Thomas her helmet and kissed his cheek. He was an oasis of warmth from the cold air. Part of her wished they were still on the Ducati, zipping through the streets, a thrilling combination of wind and warmth.

"For luck," she reminded him, before he could speak a protest. She strode off to cross the street, leaving him to compose himself as though it hadn't happened as the other holy men made their approach.

Julia ran her fingers through her hair again and straightened her trench. Then she carefully misaligned it, tugging it loose to expose her neck and look hastily thrown on. She gave a totter in her heels, feeling for the angle where she would just keep from loosing her shoe. It was tricky to fake with the moisture in the air and the slickness of nylon stockings, but Julia was confident. She sidled up to the formal entrance, leaned against one of the decorative pillars, and rang the doorbell with the deliberateness of one who had to be because they were just sober enough to realize that all their attention would be required to pull off even the most mundane and routine of actions and just drunk enough to feel completely self-satisfied in pulling them off without appearing totally wasted.

Chimes rang out inside the house. The chimes were followed by footsteps. The Footsteps were followed by a shadow on the window and the door opening wide. "Yes… miss…? Oh, my."

Through the dreamy doe eyes of the happily inebriated, Julia saw a man around fifty, but doing quite well physically. He was wearing a gold and navy silk dressing gown rather than a bathrobe- old school - and was wearing it well. He wasn't the sort to remind a girl of men like George Clooney or Denzel Washington who were rollicking good at that age, but the man at the door could have made it onto a magazine cover if he wanted, unlike some mages she had seen. They seemed to fall into two categories: the ones who prided themselves in their abilities of all sorts, and kept fit, and those who forgot that they were anything more than a conduit for magical awesomeness and that they had a physical nature worth maintaining at all.

On quick reflection, Julia surmised that that was true of a lot of men around age fifty.

"Devan?" she said, with a yawn. "Is this Devan's?

"No, I'm Ricky," the man said with a worried frown.

When the man frowned, she frowned too. "Idiot driver! That taxi let me off too early. I should have known." She slumped back against the pillar for effect. Julia slid down a few inches, catching her skirt and raising it a few inches in return. She looked up at the man, Ricky, who had shortened the distance between them by a few inches as well.

"Here, let me help you up. We'll call someone, eh? This Devan?" He put his hands under her elbows to prop her up. Julia wondered if this guy was actually possessed or not. He was being goddamn helpful. She stood up, but fumbled on her shoe, loosing it the exact way she had practiced not to. "Crap."

Ricky looked alarmed. "If I may?"

Julia shrugged. If it helped Ricky feel comfortable and let her in so she could seduce him, and she could still have her shoes on in case she needed to run, why not? Let him put the shoe back on for her.

Ricky crouched down, his hands leaving Julia's elbows for her high heeled shoe. He eased the shoe back on her foot, delicately and slowly, as though she was Cinderella and they needed to draw out the moment for an imaginary audience hanging on whether or not the shoe would fit. it was rather sexy, rather like a tease before foreplay. One of his fingers brushed against her ankle where there was a rip in the nylon. Skin met skin and then his past hit her like a sledgehammer.

This small act was foreplay to Ricky, who had a long history with admiring, but rarely getting near, feet. In that brief moment of contact, Julia saw every incident of true lust Ricky had ever experienced, and there were many to sort through from those fifty years of life, starting with the velcro of his own shoes in kindergarten, through a failed relationship with a ballerina and the unfulfilling nature of foot fetish pornography, and ending with her own feet right here. She was slightly confused as to exactly whether the target of his desire was the foot or the shoe. And yet Julia did not get the same sense of satisfaction or burst of renewed vigor that accompanied sexual contact with a mortal. It felt somehow flat. Still, she knew the ballpark his weakness was in. Her ability felt very odd at the moment, but Julia decided to roll with it.

"Pretty, aren't they?" She smiled and waved her foot with a sultry air.

"Oh yes." A dark look was starting to cloud Ricky's eyes. He look hypnotized. "Very."

Julia had to fish a little. "What do you like best?" she asked encouragingly.

"The color."

She could have facepalmed. Instead she cooed at him, running the toe of her shoe along his knee so that her foot was resting on his thigh. "What about the color?"

"I find the flowers to be alluring."

For crying out loud, it was the shoes. Julia suppressed her laughter and let out only a tiny fraction as a girlish giggle. "Why don't we go inside and you can see more where it's nice and warm."

"Oh yes." Ricky most certainly had a dark cast to his expression, but Julia paid no heed to it. She was good at lying, but not good at recomposing herself. She had to ignore the warning signs for this to work. Like the muffled noises coming from upstairs as Ricky shut the door behind her, the way he focused so intently on her that he left the door unlocked, or the way he followed her up the stairs, gripping the banister so tightly that his knuckles showed white. He was barely containing something within himself as they climbed up the hardwood stair, his soft padded slippers silently following her clicking heels.

Julia sat at the top of the stair, turning her upward march into a half crawl. She gripped the wrought foliage that served as a banister and leaned against the butter colored wall. She crawled, watching Ricky follow her high heels with hungry eyes. She gave a giggle as he reached up to touch them, to fondle her feet. Again there was contact, and again, Julia got nothing in return.

Julia did her best to not look alarmed. She should be getting something of that feeling of euphoria that let her know she was doing her job right, that her target was putty in her hands, putty that might be molded into an unconscious state should she continue too vigorously. But there was no transfer of energy that would sate her deeper hungers. There was not even a glimmer of excitement. Heck, there wasn't even boring old static electricity.

Julia felt another tingle of alarm, and her gut screamed at her to get out. But Ricky was entirely focused on her, and she knew from the way he crept forward that she had his mind entirely. But something else had his soul. Ricky was a man already possessed and Julia was suddenly very afraid.

Julia suppressed a shudder as Ricky, no, the Ruha d-Qudsha, passed her on the stair. He held out a hand for her to rise and led her to a bedroom with French doors leading to the upper patio Julia had spotted from the street. Behind them were doors to, Julia guessed, other bedrooms and a bath. Built in bookshelves lined the upper foyer. She heard the muffled sound again and Julia tried to hear where it was coming from without looking. The effort was futile. She had to ignore it and move on.

Julia walked into the bedroom with a swing of her hips. "And what would you have me do with my feet in these shoes with the flowers you just can't get enough of? Walk around? Try on some pair you have hidden away? Don't tell me you don't have more shoes. Shoes you can stroke and hold just so."

Julia held her hands out as though petting a kitten rather than a shoe. She considered that, without the Ruha spirit thing in him, this Ricky might have fallen for her and become the world's next Jimmy Choo. This man had a block between him and what could be a great God-given passion and talent. Singlehandedly, Julia could've been responsible for a footwear breakthrough, beloved by fashionable ladies around the world. But no, he was sickened, and twisted. He looked at Julia with a hideous grin and she saw his eyes cloud over with a grotesque milky film.

"Oh," the Ruha d-Qudsha said, in a voice that was half Ricky's and half a gravelly lusus naturae, "I already have a fine pair in the other room. Little Lenora. I caught her walking the Tenderloin. She's only twelve or thirteen, and her shoe fits right in the palm of my hand. Now she's in my circle. And with her is Emilia. Emilia, Emilia, Emilia!"

Julia's eyes widened in horror. What the hell had she gotten herself into? Ricky leaned back, caught in a moment of ecstatic joy and he spun around, paisley dressing gown unfurling from him like a Whirling Dervish's skirt. She sat on the edge of the bed, half from the need to feel something solid beneath her to stabilize her mounting dread and half from simple dumfoundedness to what might be next. She tucked her feet up next to her side.

Meanwhile, Ricky spun. "Emilia! With the voice of a nightingale!" He stopped, breathless, to face Julia again. "She will have to sing for you, too. I took her for my collection as well. Like Lenora. No one can see them but me. I keep them safe in the circles I build. They can't leave the sigils."

Then his gaze changed. The Ruha d-Qudsha looked Julia up and down. "But you're different than the other two. I can't have you around! No! Not you! Only… no, not all of you. Maybe I can keep part…"

Julia followed his gaze to her feet and he looked up with a jerk. Their eyes locked. His milky eyes had gone almost entirely white. Julia's hand tightened around her foot and she pulled off the shoe and the possessed man lunged for it. He grabbed her other foot and wrenched it out from underneath her. Julia screamed and brought her heel down over his head. It stunned him for a moment, but he still pulled her down off of the bed and onto the hardwood floor. Sprawled on top of him, Julia did the only thing she could attempt to make a difference. She grasped his torso with her legs and put her mouth on his, sucking in Ricky's spirit with all her might.

There was a clamor from downstairs, and Julia heard the heavy footfalls of the four priests coming up the stairs. Ricky's arms beat against her, but still she held on. She could feel only a trickle of spirit from him, and then it was gone. With a swift jolt, the Ruha d-Qudsha bucked forward, butting Julia in the head. She fell back against the bed, smacking her shoulder on the mahogany frame. Her eyes widened in fear.

With the sinking feeling in the pit of her existence, Julia realized she had done the worst possible thing. Instead of making the Ruha d-Qudsha work harder, she had eliminated all that had stopped it from possessing Ricky entirely. It raised up in front of her and lunged for her feet. Nails and teeth sunk into her ankle and Julia screamed, kicking madly with her free foot.

"Get thee back."

Julia heard Thomas and his words hung in the air like the fog outside, thick, permanent, and full of gravitas.

Thomas never had to shout, nor did he need to gesture. His words were more like a sternly granted permission than a command; they expressed neither anger or hatred, nor even the normal fears she knew he carried from time to time. They were Logos.

Ricky's body slumped against her. Julia kicked his head away from her in disgust. She heard a hollow clunk and the jangling of metal on metal. It took her a moment to realize that she had closed her eyes in the struggle. She felt a rushing of air and opened her eyes to see Albano hovering over his boyhood friend, tending to him. She knew he would be passed out, at least for a day, but possibly more; she had no idea what sort of damage the Ruha d-Qudsha would leave on him.

"He's got… he's got a girl and a woman," Julia stammered, surprised at her own lack of breath. "He's got them in the other room, in some sort of magic circle." She saw Woodberry duck out of the door frame and heard the opening of another door. Swain remained, speaking words over the damned recipe box, wrapping it carefully in the embroidered vestments. Maybe he wasn't strong of will or possessed any magical ability, but he believed wholeheartedly, and that was worth a king's ransom. Julia wondered if she had misjudged the man.

She let out a long breath and leaned back. She was surprised to find not the bed with it's welt inducing hardwood frame, but the gently heaving respiration of Thomas' warm chest. He had gone behind her to support her and ease her away from Ricky's torpid form and she hadn't even noticed. She turned her face against his soft shirt and her hand found the edge of his motorcycle jacket. She grasped it tightly and let the weight of her arm hang off of it. She let out a long sigh.

"Is your foot okay?"

Thomas held Julia and helped her sit up on the floor. He looked down and she followed his gaze. There was relatively little damage, thankfully, just some bruises; Ricky's teeth seemed unworthy of the ability to break skin with ease, unlike some men she had met before. She stretched her ankle and secured her shoes again.

"I think I'll be okay," she said after her inspection. Thomas helped her back up to the bed. She looked at Albano, and did not envy the time he would have helping his friend in the upcoming days. A flash of light caught her eye from the hall, and she and Thomas both turned to see Woodberry escorting the Ruha d-Qudsha's two captives downstairs. She wondered how they would shield Ricky, the actual man and mage Ricky, from possible kidnapping charges. Or did she even want to know?

Thomas stood and pulled away from Julia, her hand dropped away from his jacket and landed with a thunk upon the mattress. He spoke to Swain briefly, gesturing to Julia, and returned to her side. In a bit of a daze she let him lead her downstairs and through a hall to a nicely remodeled kitchen. It must've taken longer, like a real amount of time, but before Julia knew it she was clutching a mug of tea and eating peanut butter cookies out of a bear shaped jar. Slowly she revived. All the energy she had left was coming from the mug and jar in front of her.

"Well, you look a bit better now." Thomas was also drinking tea. She wondered how he had found the tea. The two of them were drinking tea in the house of a mage who had been possessed but was currently unconscious upstairs. It felt rather absurd.

"It was just… not right." Julia searched for the vocabulary to describe what had happened. "It was like I was draining Ricky, but the Ruha d-Qudsha was draining me. It was stronger and… scary. It just all felt wrong from the beginning." Her mask fell and she let the worry show on her face. Thomas gave her a sturdy hug. "How about we get some late night and head home, hmm?"

Julia shook her head 'yes' with gusto.

By the time she had finished her tea (and eaten a few peanut butter cookies), Swain and Woodberry were packing up. The girl and woman - Emilia and Lenora - had been picked up by somebody Julia didn't know. Swain had secured the spirit box trap in the sedan. Where the two of them were planning on taking that thing Julia didn't know either. Perhaps that was for the better at the moment. She was sore, cranky, and hungry, so very hungry for something that no normal food would satisfy easily. Not anymore. Not after the Ruha d-Qudsha had taken it away.

Albano looked like he was setting up camp for the night and saw the rest of them out at the door. He looked tired, and ashamed. "I'm sorry," he whispered to Julia as she passed by. "I didn't mean for this."

"It's not your fault, Father." She gave him a smile and delicately laid a hand on his shoulder as a token of reassurance.

"We are all… tools to His end sometimes, and sometimes that end is not always for us to know."

Julia smiled. "Till next time, then."

She did not envy him at all, but she might see him again, and remember how he cared for a friend he had grown apart from long ago. The door closed and it was just her, Thomas, Woodberry, and Swain standing in the brisk fog of a San Francisco witching hour.

Swain and Woodberry were mumbling goodbyes and goodnights to Thomas, but Julia cleared her throat to speak. She felt compelled to now. "Monsignor, look after Father Swain here. He's got a good heart but his dice aren't always so lucky."

"You lie!"

Julia rolled her eyes. "Look, I've had a rough night so stuff it! I'm trying to do you a favor!" She looked searchingly at Thomas and Woodberry, who both looked as shocked as Swain was horrified.

"She's a succubus for crying out load!" Swain spat out. "She's a henchman of the Lord of Lies!"

Julia couldn't let that one go easily.

"Right, so when I say something you like, it's truth, and when I say something you don't like, it's a lie. Nice!" Julia shook her head and turned back to Thomas and Woodberry.

"Swain's got true faith, so don't squander it. He's got something special," she said with glistening eyes. "But he's going to loose it if he's not careful because he doesn't get the chance to be that important. A little credit where it's due, Monsignor, and some purpose for his vocation. Or I'll see him again in Las Vegas praying for something entirely different again."

Thomas and Woodberry seemed to get where Julia was going, but Swain protested. She expected this. "How dare - I would never! How is this help!"

Julia stared him down with as much of her personal charism as she could muster given the circumstances. The words that came rolled off her tongue like a honeyed curse: "Because if I don't let them know now, you'll wind up on the street, a broken man, bereft of your faculties, and you will know that things like this Ruha d-Qudsha are out there, and you will feel so defeated that you won't be able to lift a damn finger to stop it."

Swain looked incredulous and stammered a protest, but Woodberry guided him back to the sedan. Julia heard him say, "You did good, tonight," but she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or Father Swain, or both. Instead she and Thomas crossed back to the vivid Ducati, a predator made demure by the fog.

"Why did you do that?" he asked as they fastened their helmets back up again.

Julia straddled the pinion seat and paused, thinking. The Ducati roared to life beneath them. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Thomas. "It just felt right after what happened tonight."

"I'll take that," Thomas said before lowering the visor on his helmet. Perhaps it needed time to process, or time to rebuild energy. Or just time to sleep it off. Thomas seemed attuned to this. "Let's go home."