Is Demonic Possession a Sex... Thing?

I took the train back to northern Virginia the next day with Mo, suitcase in tow. I stared at the passing farmland, thinking of Samael's story. Mo flipped through a thriller, unable to focus on a single page.

"Shannikins," he said, elbowing me.

I took out my ear buds. "What?"

He closed his book. "How's Rosanna?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself? You have her number."

Mo bit his lip. "I hate texting her."

I paused my music. "Why? What could she possibly do to you with emojis?"

Mo sighed. "It's just, I don't know what to say. She's into all these things I don't know about, all these bands I've never heard of. And she's so good at guitar. The only instrument I can play is the kazoo."

I laughed. "You're even horrible at that. God, remember when we had to play the recorder in elementary school? You sucked."

Mo frowned. "I have good memories about that recorder. Especially 'Hot Cross Buns.' Don't ruin them."

I snorted.

"What about you?" Mo asked. "What happened to Baxter? He's still got a crush on you."

"Oh god, not him. It was like dating a steak– all muscle, no brains. Kinda like dating you."

I glanced at the time on my phone. We had an hour to go.

Mo whistled. "Harsh, so harsh. I'll let you know I had a straight C average this semester."

"I'm so proud of you."

Mo smiled. "I know you are." Mo took a sip from his water bottle. "So you really haven't dated any other guys?"

I remembered Samael's kiss. "No."

Mo narrowed his eyes. "I can tell when you're lying. Your right eye twitches. Spit it out: who is he?"

I tapped my fingers on the armrest. "No one you'd know. And we're barely dating. Barely."

"Oh, so he was just a hookup?"

"No! The guy is a loser. I don't want to talk about it."

Mo chuckled. "So how many crusty parties do you think gramps and gram will drag us to?"

I was glad for the change of subject. I thought of my grandfather, a former senator and political advisor, and the elaborate parties my grandmother threw for his inner circle. "Too many."

"There better be a shrimp bar again," Mo said. "And we better be allowed to drink. I can't deal with politicos sober."

They didn't let us drink. I found myself milling around a shrimp bar, suffocating in a conservative dress. I toyed with a branch of holly. My grandparent's townhouse in Georgetown was festive, hung with mistletoe and red and green streamers. An ornamented pine tree stood at the center of the room. Mo talked with a House representative about football, and Washington's best surrounded me, dressed elegantly, with glasses of sell-your-firstborn-to-afford wine at hand. I dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce and avoided questions about my studies.

"You're a biology major? How impressive."

"Your grandfather tells me you draw. Is it true? Is the still life over the mantelpiece yours?"

"Have you considered a career in politics?"

"The funniest thing happened during last year's campaign."

I wanted to run for the hills. Capitol Hill, that was.

I looked to my twin for help. Finished discussing his touchdowns, Mo swooped in to save me from gramps' associates. He enthralled the adults with tales of fraternity life, giving me an opportunity to escape. I went to the balcony, plate of hors d'oeuvres in hand. The cold stung my legs, but I endured it, if only to be away from the lobbyists.

The sliding glass door opened behind me. Out came my dad, dressed in his lawyer's best. His hair was ruddy in the winter sun.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, nabbing some brie from my plate. "How are you holding up?"

I sighed. "You know how I feel about gram's parties, dad."

My father laughed. "There's a reason I became an environmental lawyer. I couldn't deal with my parents' stuffy politics and even stuffier traditions. But hey, the food is delicious."

I smiled. My dad had gone through a hippie phase, to the chagrin of gram and gramps. I probably inherited my love of the outdoors from him.

Something black darted across my vision. I looked to see Gog and Magog land in my grandparents' garden. They pecked in the flowerbeds.

"Two for mirth," my father said.

"What?"

"You know, that old rhyme about crows. One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for death."

"Death?" I shivered. "Dad, what do you think happens after we die?"

My father straightened his tie. "That's not a very festive question, kiddo."

"Humor me."

My father leaned against the balcony railing. "I think it's like sleep. We drift off to dream in the Earth, become one with flowers and trees. I think it's peaceful. Why? Is winter getting you down?"

I watched Magog eat a worm. "No, it's just that mom's Catholic, and you're an atheist. I don't get how you make it work – how you reconcile your differences."

My father stole a shrimp from my plate. "If you love someone, you make it work."

I looked up at the billowing clouds. "I've never been in love."

Dad laughed. "What about Thomas? Or Regino? Not even Peter?"

I shook my head. "That was high school. It doesn't count."

"You're young. You have time. Just have fun, okay? Stop worrying."

If only dad knew how much there was to worry about. I wanted to tell him everything, but it died in my throat, like Gabriel said it would.

Christmas dinner came, and gram sliced honey ham with a silver knife. We sat round my grandparent's elaborate dining room and ate off china. There was laughter and rich food – cranberries, rolls, butter so creamy it melted on your tongue. We spent the night at my grandparents, and Christmas morning came.

I could have sworn I heard someone downstairs at midnight, but chalked it up to dreams. Presents were unwrapped and placed in neat piles besides the couch. I came to the last gift, a small box addressed to me in spidery script. I tore the wrapping off and found a leather-bound sketchbook with a Celtic knot-work of crows and roses pressed onto the cover. I admired its beauty and leafed through the silky pages.

"This is amazing," I said. "Thank you so much."

My family looked at each other in confusion.

"Where did you get that from?" gramps asked gram.

"I didn't buy that for her," gram said. "Ernest?"

My father shook his head. "No. Rose?"

"I got her the oil set," my mother said.

We all looked at Mo.

"I gave Shannon the novelty socks!" Mo said.

"Then who…?" I said, turning to the back of the sketchbook. A slip of paper fell from the binding. I picked it up:

"MAYBE YOU'LL DRAW ME SOMETHING, MAGGOT."

I dropped the sketchbook.

"What's wrong?" my mother asked.

"N – nothing," I said.

I put the sketchbook underneath my other presents.

Mo and I went to a concert at the 9:30 Club two days before New Year's Eve. During intermission, the heat of hundreds of people got to be too much, and I went out back to cool off.

The pavement was wet with melted snow. People milled around, smoking cigarettes, toying with their phones. I looked up at the curving moon, so much like the smile of a Cheshire cat. I wandered into an alley behind an Ethiopian resturant, only to find something that looked like a drug deal going down.

I turned to leave, but heard a name come from one of the shady men: "Azazel, she's here. At the concert. We can take her without anyone noticing."

My blood ran cold.

Gog and Magog landed at my feet and began to whistle. The Watchers looked up, their eyes hollow pits, burns on their skin.

"It's the whore who killed Jeqon. Quick!"

I ran, darting down the street, taking random turns. I whipped out my phone and speed-dialed Samael.

"Merry late Christmas, maggot. I was wondering when you'd call."

"Sam? The Watchers are here."

He cursed. "Send me your location. Now."

I scrambled behind a dumpster, then texted him the street name. A dozen Watchers rounded the corner, pulling guns from their belts. Their eyes were plucked out, but somehow, they could see.

One snarled, revealing jagged teeth. "There she is. Come out, kitten. Let's play."

I summoned my petersword. "Get back, you trash!" I said.

A Watcher with a shaved head laughed. "Nice toy. What are you going to do, lock the dumpster shut and hide in it?"

"Don't underestimate her, Sariel," said the one with the jagged teeth.

"She's weak, Azazel," said Sariel.

"No," said Azazel. "She's our seal. Our beautiful whore. We'll treat her well, won't we, gentlemen?"

A Watcher with golden skin approached. "The bitch killed Jeqon. Why should we show her mercy?"

Azazel's lips were a thin line. "Jeqon disobeyed orders, Semyaza. He got what he deserved." Azazel focused on me. "Didn't he, Shannon O'Connor?"

"You're all rapists!" I said, stepping back. "I've read the Book of Enoch, I know what you did."

The golden-skinned Watcher – Semyaza – smirked. "That's not how the women felt. They thoroughly enjoyed our affections."

Azazel grinned. "Perhaps we can give you the same pleasures we gave our wives."

Sweat made my hands clammy. "You're filth," I said.

A vortex opened before me and out stepped Samael, scythe shining. His eyes were storms. "Stay back, Shannon."

Azazel pointed his gun at Samael. "If it isn't the king of carrion. I'd say you look well, Sam, but there are more cracks on your skull than rings on a tree."

Samael bared his fangs. "That must be hard to see with your eyes ripped out. Don't have enough power to hide your wounds?"

Semyaza hissed. He fired a shot at Samael's breast.

Samael doubled over. Steam rose from his wound.

Samael struggled to rise. "Adamant bullets. Where the hell did you get those?"

Semyaza blew smoke from the barrel of his gun. "Like I'd tell you. Now, let's make this easy. Give us the girl, and we'll let your bony ass off with only a few grievous injuries."

Azazel aimed his gun at me. "Or you could try and defend her. It might be more fun."

"Sam? Get up!" I yelled.

"I'm trying," Samael said. He fell onto his stomach and hacked up blood. "Adamant is poison to angels, even fallen ones," he choked. "It's like kryptonite."

I was terrified. "Screw you guys!"

"Screw indeed," Azazel said.

"Do what we did last time – with the angels in Pandemonium," I said, desperate.

Samael groaned. "I'm too weak. The adamant is spreading in my ether."

The Watchers closed in.

"Try, damn it," I said.

Samael vomited gore. He wiped his lips with a shaking hand. "It will hurt. I can't keep back the pain this time. I'm not strong enough."

"Whatever!"

"Alright."

Pain beat my bones like a jackhammer. I slumped to the ground and curled in on myself.

Shannon? Get up!

I struggled to open my eyes. I scrabbled for Samael's scythe. Sickly power coursed through me, mingled with pain. My body went on autopilot. Wings burst from my back, lifting me off the ground.

The Watchers shot at me. I avoided their bullets, twirling the scythe to deflect them with the flat of Samael's blade. I squeezed the scythe's staff and aimed a lightning bolt at Sariel. It struck his heart, and the Watcher collapsed.

"Bitch," Sariel hissed. He fired off a shot.

The errant bullet hit my back, below my shoulder. I cried out. Blood poured down my spine.

We have to get out of here. They're too strong. I need to heal you.

It hurt to move, with the bullet lodged deep in my muscle. I flew a rough path over the buildings, with Samael at the helm.

"Let her go," Azazel said. "It will be a stalemate with Samael possessing her."

The Watchers disappeared behind an apartment complex.

What if someone sees me? I thought.

Mortals can't see immortals unless we make our presences known. That's why no police came. You think that many gunshots would go unnoticed?

Where am I going?

Somewhere safe.