Chapter Two
While Satanic Panic, Inc. has built its current success on bartering souls and possessing humans, it wasn’t always so easy to acquire targets.
Traditionally, the only humans who were vulnerable to possession were ones whose souls were already weak.
Seldom do the possessed ever seek to make a deal to gain their sentience back.
Back in the day, it took months to find a decent target, and even then, there was never a guarantee that the victim’s family would act in a way that would lead to a deal.
Truth be told, possessions have always been more of a marketing tactic than anything. A way to spread awareness about the power that exists on the other side. If there’s a demon in your little sister, you’re pretty motivated to figure out how to exorcize it.
On Earth, that knowledge is hidden in grimoires: tomes of incantations and spellwork that would tempt even the most righteous of humans.
But even armed with that unholy knowledge, humans are dumb. They make mistakes while summoning. Or they get cold feet when a demon arrives and offers a deal to “fix” their possessed kin.
In short, possessions are a messy way to get souls. So why even bother with it at all, when crossroads and Wall Street exist? Why would Mammon, the Prince of Greed, take such a monumental risk?
The real innovation of Possess-An-Ex isn’t the marketing. It isn’t the revenge. Humans and demons have used those tactics for centuries to lure each other into sin.
No, the thing that makes Possess-An-Ex truly special, the thing that sets us apart, is the piece of technology currently clutched within my claw.
I line up my shot in one, smooth movement.
Bang.
“Tell me how it works.”
“How what works?”
Phil stared at me, hand still poised on the railing and hooves still spread mid-step on the stairs leading to Lucifer’s office.
“The gun.” I gazed up the stairs where Mammon took the weapon, despite the fact that I could still feel the weight of it in my hand.
I closed my eyes, and I was back in the animal shelter, staring at the pair of haunting blue eyes behind the bars.
“They’re summoning circles, on the bullets, I see that, but how…
how does it transfer the shooter into the target? ”
Tap tap tap.
He didn’t even seem to realize the noise his claws made on the black metal railing while he considered his answer.
“I can’t tell you the exact science behind it, because I don’t truly understand it myself.
It was Belphegor’s doing. Designed with the help of some damned human, Samuel C-something.
Cot. Cult. Something like that.” He lifted his eyes to my face.
“What I do know is Belphegor can’t mass-produce them.
The guns or the bullets. They’re custom to the user.
He asked Mammon who was going to be shooting it, and Mammon took a gamble that Lucifer would let him use you. ”
“Me?” My hand shook. I couldn’t get rid of that stupid imp’s memories in my head. “Why me?”
“Az. Don’t be thick. You know why.”
He jerked his head toward Lane Three. Reserved, always, for Hell’s greatest weapons expert and sharpshooter.
Me.
“How’d he know Lucifer would let me go so easily? Doesn’t he need me? To train his armies?”
Tap tap tap.
“Az, certainly you’ve noticed the lack of new recruits lately?”
I didn’t answer. There always seemed to be more recruits to me. But I could admit that, yes, it had been a while since we’d seen an influx of the freshly damned to serve on the lines. It was always imps. And they got weaker every year.
“Lucifer’s more worried about growing his armies than training them,” Phil said finally. “He wants humans. Conniving minds and strong wills. And after your performance today, Mammon’s going to have no trouble convincing him that you’re his best hope for that.”
I feel the instant the bullet pierces the human’s flesh and my summons initiates.
In a flash of some truly devilish advancement in demon science, my being collapses, before rocketing into the human at the impact site.
The pistol clatters to the floor. In a fraction of a second, I feel myself contract and expand like an accordion, my being shape-shift into something thinner, taller, and dressed in the lamest costume I’ve ever seen.
By the time I open my eyes, I’ve got a blonde vixen in my hands and her tongue down my throat.
Mmm… What a way to start a mission.
I squeeze her ass.
She pulls away with a smack, batting my hand away.
“Took you long enough, Shortstack. Now come on, they’ll be here any second.”
I reach out to the banister to steady myself, then brush Trevor’s indulgently long hair out of my eyes. Fuck, she’s in a hurry.
Normally when Eve sneaks the summoning instructions to a human, she lets them know it might take a few minutes for the demon to acclimate to the new body. But it seems Blondie never got the memo.
I hurry to catch up to her, but trip, catching myself by wrapping Trevor’s arms around her torso.
“You sure you don’t want to get down to it right here in the hallway?”
“No. We’re going to their bedroom. It’ll sting more there.”
The slightest hint of dread fills my chest as the still-conscious Trevor stirs inside his body, fighting for control. I mentally smack him. Don’t you dare, bucko.
When the bullet pierced Trevor’s shoulder, I gained control of his meatsuit, but he’s still conscious under the hood.
It’s part of what makes the Possession Pistol so revolutionary.
Not only does it eliminate human error by putting the possession mechanism in the hands of the demon shooter—literally—it also enables us to inhabit any human.
No more picking off the most vulnerable, the most mentally fragile.
These targets are likely to survive after the fact.
It makes the shame and vengeance all the sweeter, when the humans remember all the depraved shit they got up to while we were inside controlling their actions.
Even their therapists will be disgusted with them when they confess what they’ve done.
Which, of course, is why this service is so attractive to humans with a grudge in the first place.
Watching the target of your revenge spiral after the fact is half the fun.
And after only one year in the business, we’ve acquired hundreds of satisfied customers. Hundreds of new recruits for Lucifer’s armies.
But it isn’t without its complications. The reason this is a job for a specialist is because it takes extra skill to wear the suit without scrambling the spirit.
Leaving enough room inside for Trevor to feel every sensation and emotion isn’t easy: it requires a sacrifice on my part, containing the full range of my own feelings and abilities while in residence.
Being able to balance that with the need to control their limbs and fine motor function is something I’m still working on.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m pretty damn good. But balancing in a human body that’s almost a foot taller than my demon form is a big adjustment. It can take a minute to get settled.
She lets go of us, and I sway on Trevor’s gangly legs. I steady myself by spreading my arms to the side, taking stock of my lungs and drawing in deep breaths until the room stops spinning.
“Are you coming or what?”
I’ve only had 365 days to get used to this sensation: reacclimating to an entirely new musculoskeletal system, adjusting to different heights and weight distributions like it’s nothing, and Blondie here is expecting me to just skip down the hallway as if hopping inside this guy were as easy as putting on a bra.
Although, considering the size of the tits on this broad, that might be a generous metaphor.
Even Trevor’s pathetic essence stirs as we turn around and take in the sight of the vile woman’s ass cheeks jiggling with every step upstairs, his revulsion and fear mixing with arousal.
That pink-and-white cheerleader getup she has on isn’t helping matters, either.
It’s lucky this guy is such a pervert, because he doesn’t fight me as I direct one foot in front of the other behind her to his parent’s bedroom.
I feel a chub forming in his bell bottoms, rubbing uncomfortably against his zipper.
Oh, fuck, is this dude going commando right now?
I let the full weight of my judgment leech from my spirit into his as the stiff denim scratches against his private parts.
This guy is disgusting. Horny, I can respect—but he doesn’t even have the dignity to own it.
Here he is, getting hard at the mere view of his ex-girlfriend tearing off her shirt in his parent’s bedroom, despite the fact that he broke off their relationship because his daddy didn’t approve.
Well, that, and she’d served her purpose after getting naked for his little photoshoot.
The full context of their break-up fills in the longer I inhabit Trevor. His mind is completely open to probing, without any kind of mental defenses in place.
Most humans never realize that a little mental fortitude goes a long way in protecting against demonic possession, so they never bother to take a yoga class.
I wonder if Blondie here is up-to-date on her meditation practice.
“So, we’re just getting right to it then, or–”
“Goddammit, do you need me to explain everything? I thought revenge sex was what I was hiring you for.” The top of the cheerleading costume flies across the room.
Blondie unhooks her bra and her round, perky tits spill forward.
Mine and Trevor’s brains short-circuit for a second as we stare, unblinking, at her perfect chest.
She puts her hands on her hips. “Pants off, asshole!”
“Right,” I mutter, still staring at her body as I unbutton the jeans and peel them off Trevor’s skinny legs. Fringe vest and tunic quickly follow as Blondie also completes her striptease.
Harley’s got the best body…