The Fall Of Sister Nina

Content warning:

The following story contains nonconsensual sex, mind-break, and the on-screen death of a supporting character.

***

Sister Nina's fingers idled at the hilt of her ceremonial dagger. Saints willing, she wouldn't have to use it. She was trained with it, like all of her fellow hunters, but invokers like her weren't really expected to involve themselves in the bloody business of combat. When the target was bound and vulnerable, it was the ranking officer's duty to deliver the final blow.

Tonight, that duty would fall to Brother-Inquisitor Godfrey, a glowering, square-jawed titan of a man. He was already bracing his shoulder against the flimsy wooden door of the decrepit townhouse. Nina didn't much like Godfrey. He was a swaggering lout who treated his fellow hunters as accessories to his own glory, and the flexibility of his vow of chastity was an open secret among the serving staff back at the monastery. But his strong sword arm and fearsome disregard for physical pain made him a natural paladin, and, by all accounts, his hunting record was genuine.

"Brothers and sisters," he said, keeping his voice low. A squad of armoured zealots hustling down an empty street wasn't exactly subtle even if they tried, and Godfrey rarely tried, but he maintained the fiction of stealth regardless. "Behind that door is a wayward soul, an

intellectual

" - he spat the word like a curse - "whose meddling with the Beneath has borne blasphemous fruit. We know not what ruin she has brought upon her body, but it now stains the beauty of the world."

Nina clutched at the cluster of silver icons that jangled softly at her waist. She recalled the briefing, the Abbot's lurid descriptions of the kinds of mutations they might expect. Summoned horrors and laboratory creations were one thing, but this was Nina's first possessed target, and the mere thought of a human form warped by hellish influence was disquieting.

"Such a twisted wretch demands St Ashildr's mercy," Godfrey went on, "and it falls to us to deliver it. Who will stand with me?"

With a soft clatter of steel plating, the Knights of St Ashildr raised their fists skyward in unison, saluting. Nina took a deep breath as she joined them, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. It was easier to be brave with so much armoured bulk between her and the demon.

"To arms, then," grinned Godfrey, drawing a bastard sword from the scabbard on his back. Even in the dim lamplight, Nina could make out the battle-psalm carved along the length of its blade. Two of the paladins drew shorter swords of their own and hefted shields, while the other two drew back the levers of their crossbows and loaded them with blessed bolts.

Nina, of course, needed no weapon. With a moment's focus, she offered up a prayer to the saints. Even after a thousand repetitions, the heady tingle of holy power flowing into her palms still gave her a little thrill.

Sister Estelle, one of the shieldbearers and Godfrey's second in command, pressed her ear to the door and whispered a prayer of her own, checking the corridor ahead for traps. "Nothing," she said.

Godfrey nudged her aside, lined himself up, and took a couple of steps back. Estelle shot Nina a quick glance, rolling her eyes. Of course he had to be first in.

He rushed forward. The aged wood practically exploded from the impact, and a couple of Knights flinched to avoid flying debris. But then he was inside, and they poured in after him: the shieldbearers first, then the marksmen, and finally Nina, hands sheathed in divine light, eyes aflame with heavenly rage. Whatever evil lurked beyond that doorway, the saints would carry her to victory.

A few breathless seconds later, they were in the living room and spreading out into formation - Godfrey in the middle, shields on the flanks, and Nina and the marksmen screened behind them.

Once she'd had a moment to take in the surroundings, Nina felt some of the adrenaline starting to dissipate. Her time with the Knights of St Ashildr had taken her to dark and terrible places, from blood-soaked cult strongholds teeming with dark magic to stinking, monster-infested grottoes nestled in forgotten corners of the realm. By contrast, this place seemed to be little more than an untidy, poorly-maintained study. Much of the furniture was broken and caked in dust, shoved to the edges of the room to make way for three desks pushed together at its centre. The tabletops were invisible beneath a thick layer of loose paper, some water-stained, some lightly scorched, and a black puddle where an inkwell had been knocked over. A single lantern balanced precariously on one corner was the only light source, casting everything else in fidgeting shadows.

Behind the amalgamated desks was a chair, and in that chair was a woman. She was tallish and full-figured, and wore only a threadbare grey robe. Nina put her at thirty or thirty-five. If not for her vacant, open-mouthed stare, and the unholy runes etched on her cheeks and forehead, she might have been quite striking. She barely seemed to react to the intrusion, simply casting her wide, hollow eyes from one side of the hunting party to the other and back.

Nina felt a faint chill rattle through her when the woman-thing's eyes met hers, though it was hard to say whether this was the work of impure forces or her own nerves. She raised her right hand, straightened her fingers, and murmured the first few words of the Invocation of St Osra, an ages-old abjuration against the unclean. It would take only half a second to finish the prayer, trigger the working, and send a soul-scorching ripple of light through the fiend. But she held the last syllables back for now. The target hadn't met them with violence, and the Invocation was no use against such a peaceful foe.

Godfrey stepped forward, holding his sword menacingly across his chest, ready to strike. The saints might have rules about when their powers were to be used, but cold steel was not so selective. "Lyra Highmarch," he growled, "we, the Knights of St Ashildr, charge you with the crimes of demonology and defilement of the self. How do you answer these charges?"

Lyra - if indeed she could still be called that - focused her eyes on Godfrey and tilted her head slowly to one side. The motion reminded Nina of a bird of prey.

"How do you answer?" Godfrey repeated, clearly irritated. At this point, most antipriests and occultists would be fighting back, fleeing, or collapsing and sobbing in utter defeat. He wasn't equipped to deal with this new, fourth option.

Lyra righted her head slowly. She hadn't blinked yet.

Godfrey pounded the desk with his open palm, trying to goad Lyra into some sort of reaction. "Answer me!" he bellowed. "How do you plead? Answer me, witch, or we cut you down here and now!" Nina heard a click on either side of her as the marksmen readied their crossbows and trained them on Lyra. She held her breath and let the Invocation hang in her mind, ready to complete it at the first sign of retaliation.

After a few long seconds of agonising silence, Godfrey let out an inarticulate bark of rage and leaned forward, reaching out to grab Lyra by the lapels.

What happened next was almost too fast for mortal eyes to follow. One moment Lyra was sitting stock-still behind the desk; the next, she was on her feet, leaving the robe behind as she vaulted up onto the desk with preternatural grace. Her naked form was pale and statuesque, stained with ink and ichor and covered with wicked runes of the same kind that marred her face. Nina spoke the word she'd been holding back, flooding the room momentarily with a nimbus of golden light. But the runes flashed blue in reply, and she was stunned as she felt her divine assault slamming into a cold, inflexible barrier.

When Nina recovered her senses, Lyra's hand was wrapped around Godfrey's throat, and blue flames leapt from where her skin met his. With an inarticulate scream of pain and rage, Godfrey brought his sword down with a wild overhead swing. Nina watched in horror as Lyra raised her free hand, caught the four-foot blade without spilling a drop of blood, and twisted it back on itself as easily and casually as a scribe folding a sheet of paper.

The shieldbearers had overcome the initial shock, and began to advance towards the desk, but Lyra was holding Godfrey too close for them to land a solid blow on her without risking collateral damage. One of the marksmen lost his nerve and fired, sending a blessed bolt whistling across the room at blinding speed. It flew wide, embedding itself in the far wall, and drew only a disdainful glare from Lyra, who tossed the ruined sword at the offending Knight. Her fingertips burned with the same blue fire that tormented Godfrey, and, as the flames travelled up her arms, they seared away her sallow skin, leaving scaly blood-red hide and clawed fingertips in their wake. This horror had been wearing what remained of the mortal Lyra Highmarch as a flimsy disguise, and now, it seemed, she was done with her old body.

Godfrey roared and struggled, but his wildly swinging fists bounced off Lyra's burning body without leaving a mark. Far from appearing hurt, now the fiend was

smiling

, baring teeth that lengthened and sharpened as the flames scoured her face of its humanity. Black horns sprouted from her temples, coiling like a ram's, and the rune at the centre of her forehead opened into a third eye, which burned with blue radiance so intense that the knights shut their eyes reflexively against it.

Nina planted her feet and began to recite the Invocation of St Osra again, stumbling over the intensifier mantras as she summoned up every ounce of her power. She kept her eyes closed and tried to tune out Godfrey's cries and the rising crackle of ambient power swirling around Lyra. Surely this would break the demon's wards. It had to.

She had made it halfway through the final verse when a thunderous telepathic shout shattered her concentration, almost knocking her off her feet. The Invocation died on her tongue. She was dimly aware of clangs and yelps as her fellows were similarly stricken, but all she could hear, all she could feel, was a single word, spoken with the voice of thousands directly into her soul.

GUILTY.

There was a sudden, intense rush of heat, a quiet rumble of flames, and then a loud clatter. Nina opened her eyes and looked down to see Godfrey's armour heaped on the dusty floor, empty and inert.

And looming over him, knocking over the lantern as two pairs of dark feathered wings unfurled from its back, was a figure that struck despair into the hearts of the Knights of St Ashildr.

It wasn't the demon's wickedly sharp teeth and claws that cowed them, nor its menacing stature, so tall that it had to step down from the desk to stand straight beneath the high ceiling. No, it was the ring of flames that floated between its massive horns, its eerie blue light drowning out the sputtering lantern. That crown spelled disaster. This was not merely a cunning servitor or brute hellbeast that had slipped its bonds. No, Lyra Highmarch, the blinkered, arrogant fool, had dragged an Exarch up into the mortal realm, a noble demon of fearsome power and ineffable evil. It was an Exarch that had slain St Ashildr herself, centuries ago, and it had taken the sacrifices of a dozen priests to banish the abomination.

Here, though, there was no thought given to a heroic final stand. The saints valued courage, not stupidity.

By the time Estelle called for a retreat, the marksmen were already bolting for the exit. Nina was ready to join them, but a spark of desperate bravery made her hesitate. The fiend wasn't bound here. It could, and surely would, pursue them. And, while a direct assault was clearly out of the question, a simple chant of immobilisation, bolstered with every amplifying verse she knew, might just break through its wards and hold it back for a few precious seconds, enough for the survivors to get a warning out.

She ignored Estelle's cries and the demon's roar of triumph, concentrating on the syntax and cadence of St Corin's Castigation. The power sizzled and surged at her fingertips. She could do this. She could save her comrades. She just had to clear her mind, ignore the screaming and the metallic tang in the air and the empty suit of paladin armour slumped at the Exarch's feet, and

strike

...

She was already on the floor by the time she understood what it had done. There had been an arc of holy lightning, the Exarch had gestured dismissively, and then she had felt the strength drain from her limbs and her knees give out beneath her. It had not only resisted the spell, but turned it back on her. Demons could take anything from a few minutes to a few days to recover from a Castigation; she wondered how long a human body, even a blessed one like hers, might be paralysed.

YOUR HEART IS STRONG, LITTLE HERO.

The telepathic voice hurt Nina's head, filling it so completely that she wouldn't have been able to muster a response even if she could move her tongue.

YOUR FRIENDS WILL THANK YOU.

The others had fled, and, while she did feel a pang of abandonment, Nina could hardly blame them. They had never stood a chance against an Exarch. Truthfully, neither had she, and now she would surely die for her recklessness.

The swelling light and the shifting floorboards told her that the demon was closing in on her, though she noted it was shockingly quiet given its size. She could barely move her eyelids, the Castigation fighting her every twitch, but she managed to close her eyes before the Exarch entered her field of view, and braced herself as best she could for the end. At this point, all she could hope for was a quick execution.

WHAT AM I TO DO WITH YOU?

mused the Exarch. It crouched over Nina and dragged a clawed fingertip down over her breastplate with a metallic screech. Its heat was palpable, like a furnace held inches from Nina's face.

SUCH A PRETTY TOY. SO VERY PURE.

Her heart sank. No quick, clean death for her, it seemed.

She felt the heat swelling and intensifying, and then motion beneath her. Her armour dulled the sensation, but she felt her limbs sagging and the padded lining shifting beneath her back - she was being picked up and carried. Nina was not a small woman, her body strengthened and tempered by years of monastic training, and the plate she wore was only marginally lighter than a paladin's battle-harness, but, in the demon's arms, she was as limp and helpless as a rag doll.

The shifting of her own weight told her she was being put down again, but her legs still dangled, and, when she forced one eye half-open, the ceiling was closer. She must be up on the desk.

And then she felt the Exarch's hands on her thighs, pushing them roughly apart.

Nina had never put much stock in the tales she heard whispered in the Sisters' quarters, the obscene rumours of what some demons got up to with their captives. She could see where the stories came from. Demons were perversions of virtue, and self-discipline and chastity were among the saints' greatest virtues. And, undoubtedly, there were cases of lecherous fiends corrupting the minds of mortals, compelling them to sin. But all the scriptures and tracts Nina had studied were in agreement: demons did not feel such physical yearnings themselves. After all, they did not eat, drink, or sleep as humans did, and why would the pleasures of the flesh be any different?

She knew this well, and yet her first, impulsive reaction was to fear for her purity. Unlike some of her comrades, Nina had not taken holy orders as soon as she was able. She'd had her share of worldly experience before forsaking the secular life. She might be chaste now, but she remembered what the hasty, excitable touch of a lustful man (or, from one brief drunken encounter, a lustful woman) felt like, and the memories came flooding back as she tried desperately to resist the Exarch's pressure. But her legs still wouldn't obey her, and she was prone and exposed as it continued its wicked work.

YOUR FAITH IN COLD STEEL IS LAUGHABLE,

boomed the voice in her head.

SEE HOW IT YIELDS TO ME.

A point of uncomfortable heat ignited just below Nina's waist, and her heart began to race as it grew stronger and stronger, emanating from some searing-hot point half an inch from her skin. Again she heard the clangorous scrape of distressed metal, but this time it gave way to jingling and hissing as the Exarch's superheated claw sliced through the chainmail that protected Nina's groin, opening up a broad, rough slit that ran from her navel to her rear. The heat subsided as quickly as it had bloomed, and then the padded layer beneath ruptured with a flick of the demon's finger, baring Nina's sex to the cool, damp air.

Shame roiled in her chest as she felt another warmth down between her thighs, one that came from within. She felt such flushes of excitement often. Despite the constant temptation to quell them with a finger or bedpost, she had never once given in since taking her vows, but she had come far closer than any servant of the saints ought to. These episodes were difficult and embarrassing enough when they seized her in her few private moments, but to have one here and now, despite (or, her mind whispered, maybe because of) the archfiend menacing her... she was no Sister at all, to be so stricken. She cursed her body for its weakness, and, with the strength that was starting to trickle back into her muscles, she balled a feeble fist, a pathetic gesture of defiance.

PLEASE,

said the Exarch,

YOU NEED NOT REPRESS YOURSELF AROUND ME.

Nina shivered - was it inside her head, or could it simply sense her arousal? The shiver became a full-on shudder when she felt something long, hot, and slippery tickling at the exposed top of her thigh, leaving a slick trail that tingled faintly on her skin. The sensation was alien, but she recognised it for what it was. It was a tongue. It was the Exarch's tongue, long and sinuous, and it was dancing perilously close to the place she had sworn to keep sacred.

It circled for a time like a wolf toying with prey, coating her shaven mound with its sticky slickness, dragging lazy arcs from thigh to thigh that came only a hair's breadth from her sex. To Nina's horror, the treatment only seemed to intensify the ache growing in her loins, and, unable to shift her focus, she felt herself flushing, swelling, the sensations she could usually ignore growing stark and conspicuous. Her skin sang, and the sensitive little nub at the crux of her folds throbbed with un-sensation, the absence of touch cavernous and yawning in her thoughts. She repeated her vows over and over in her mind and willed herself to calm down - if the Exarch was going to violate her, she ought to face it with resolve - but her body wouldn't obey.

She tried focusing on raising an arm, offering even the most token resistance, but it was still recovering from the Castigation, and all she could muster was a twitch and a grunt. And that grunt sounded, more than Nina would have liked, like a whimper.

The noise she made, involuntarily, when the tongue suddenly withdrew, was

definitely

a whimper. The Exarch chuckled, an actual vocalisation instead of telepathic speech, a harsh, taunting animal cackle that bathed Nina's nethers in hot, tingling breath.

SO QUICK TO TURN FROM THE SAINTS' LIGHT.

She felt hands beneath her again, sliding under her shoulders, and her eyes had recovered enough to reflexively flicker open. She regretted it instantly. The Exarch's face was inches from hers, a nightmare in crimson, baring its knife-edged fangs, eyes and runes burning with unholy ardour. It was far removed from the face of Lyra Highmarch, or of any mortal soul, but Nina still recognised the twisted curve of its mouth as a smile. It drew back, giving her a better view of its torso - this, too, was unrecognisable, the human form supplanted by knots upon knots of muscle and shining black carapace - and hauled her half-upright, supporting her head so she met its gaze.