Sr. Mary awoke to the rutting sound of the laundry machines on the first floor. All the Maryknoll nuns working at St. Patrick’s were assigned cells in the extra rooms next to the laundry as they were not seen fit for hospital patients. The racket was deafening as the spindles and dryers turned erasing the death bed sweat off the hospital sheets. Here in her cell, Sr. Mary began to dress in her Maryknoll habit, despite the fact that it was no longer required since Vatican II. Some other more modern nuns were even now wearing commonplace apparel. But, the habit represented order and tradition, something Sr. Mary found appealing. She wore a single piece of jewelry, a silver ring in the shape of a "P" crossed at the tail and embraced in a circle. It represented the word "Chi Rho" or Christ, her husband and God.

The latest of her dreams had been very disturbing to Sr. Mary. She knew that the notion of reincarnation was anathema to the Catholic church and wondered if the mental trick of living years separated from the Church in her dreams had not been a temptation sent directly from the Devil. She felt guilty about her lack of faith and the subsequent consequences. But, really reincarnation hadn’t been proved to her to any degree in her dream. It had been a dream and a fantasy of her imagination. Around the edges of her mind, she skirted the face of the speaker who had called it karma. At times the being seemed Christ-like as she could recall, but he was obviously just a minion of the devil sent to shake her faith further. However, God had intervened even in her dreams. The attempted rape in her sleep she was sure was God’s way of calling her back to reality. Sin begot sin and later death. It had been a reminder that the wages of sin was death. And what greater sin was there than a lack of faith?

Knowing this, she resolved to apply herself even harder to her duties working the stain of her failure away through the trials of her patients. She would ask the sisters for prayers because she was sure she was under Satanic attack. After the morning mass, she began her rounds as head nurse in the emergency room area. That day there was one bullet wound from a gang related incident in Roxbury, a patient with asthma who had lost his ventilator and almost did not make it to the emergency room, a mauling by an unleashed dog, and several broken legs, arms wrists etc. All in all it had proven a very normal day. The pace of the emergency room always made Sr. Mary feel useful. As night began to fall, the pace quickened as drug addicts overdosed, alcoholics rammed into the innocent and wife beaters took out their work frustrations on their spouses. Here in the extremes of human existence, Sr. Mary could shake off the dreams that she was beginning to fear. These were basically ignorant people after all. Far away from Christ’s love and understanding of their sins. It was through her own example that she would shine the light of Christ and break the yoke of sin bringing them like newborn babies to the teachings of Christ. She could feel she was fulfilling a purpose by tending to the sick, healing the victims of violence and saving the life of the confused addict. It was noble and worthy of a bride of Christ. She had the support of her church, her family and saints who had gone before her throughout the ages.

That support was absent in her dreams. No one would tell her what was right and what was wrong. She alone had to decide and the thought frightened her. For what she thought was evil eventually did her a favor and what she deemed good could age and ripen poison fruit. How all the years of devotion to the Maryknoll order could come apart in a single night’s sleep was bewildering to Sr. Mary. She was not behaving the way she thought she should. She had full control of herself, if not the dream, and she chose to forget her religion. The source of her life? But it had been a trick, she was sure. That demon had come in to beguile her, masquerading as a professor, performing an illusion like all his others to convince her that a past life had taken place between her and a dream character. Then the illusion was made more realistic by involving her sister at the end.

There had been foul magic in the air in the dream palace, the stench of which could only emanate from the depths of hell. Demons were powerful during the night, she figured. When you were asleep, they could come into your dreams in order to fool you into forsaking your faith. They could do that through the power Satan gave them. Magic would appear only too real in a dream. But dream people weren’t real and neither were their lies. That’s all one had to do, Sr. Mary decided. She would call their bluff and rely on the Truth to keep her from sinning again. Sr. Mary was determined not to be fooled again. All these thoughts churned in her head to the rhythm of the laundry machines that had now ingrained their cycles into her memory as she sat and prayed her dinner break away in the hospital’s tiny chapel.

Her eyes were closed as she began the Our Father, an incantation against the evil afoot. She paid scant attention to the other supplicant who entered the chapel as she felt his wool jacket brush up next to her on the bare wooden pew. Her eyes tightly shut to the distractions of the hospital she concentrated on reaching her God and begging His forgiveness for capitulating to the lies the enemy had thrown at her. She continued to ignore the man who sidled up closer against her until she felt the point of a knife stick in her rib.

"My lovely cell mate," Prof. Taslim’s lips gleamed in evil mischief as Sr. Mary’s head snapped to her left, her eyes focusing on the impossible.

"I’m dreaming..."

"Really?" Prof. Taslim cocked his head.

"I must, must be dreaming." Sr. Mary stammered viewing the demon professor, his fanatically neat beard, delicate wire rimmed glasses, and power tie neoning its way past the jacket’s lapels. Who could forget that haughtiness? That air of smug superiority?

"OK, I’ll accept that." Prof. Taslim jabbed the knife pointedly into her side. "But, you’re still mine."

Another test, Sr. Mary thought. This was her chance to redeem herself. She would summon the forces of Christ against the deceiver and route them out of her dreams forever.

"What do you want?" She asked.

"Don’t scream and I won’t harm you."

Saying a prayer for understanding, Sr. Mary got up and followed her assailant docily through the chapel door, out of the hospital and into the demon’s Toyota Cressida. No one stopped them as Sr. Mary expected even though she wasn’t wearing a coat. It was all part of the test. The dream. The final temptation was yet to come.

"Damn the traffic," Prof. Taslim drummed the steering wheel peeking into the rearview mirror to see if his quarry was still silently bound and gagged in the back seat under a blanket. The snow plows were busy ramming blockades of snow to the side of the streets as they choked the flow of traffic. It was a futile gesture as the storm showed no signs of abating and already Boston had three feet of snow on the ground. Normally the rush hour traffic would have begun to dissipate as 6:30 p.m. rolled around but the storm had the city’s occupants swaddled in a icy scarf that was beginning to smother the patience out of everyone. Finally, at 8:00 p.m., the professor pulled into the garage a block down from his townhouse. There wasn’t any point in trying to park in the street. Even if the spot near his building had not been commandeered by another ever-seeking parking vigilante, his car if left there would surely be booted and towed once the indignant snow plowers tried to clear the street. Boston was the only city, the professor shook his head, which did its best to attract new inhabitants only to deny them access to their cars. It was a hidden tax this limited residential parking policy, one of many in Taxachusetts, designed to bring added income into an already grossly wealthy city. It promoted the building of parking garages, or in cases like Beacon Hill, the leasing of available spaces in other apartment complexes. It also provided a sure profit from ticketing, booting and towing services. And when it snowed, the parking roulette began. Did you chance the fact that you could move your car before the plows came through your street? Even if you happened to bypass the ticket for parking in a snow emergency on the road in front of your house, something illegal in Beacon Hill, recovering the vehicle would prove time consuming from within its tomb of hardened snow mounded on top of it. It was just easier to buy a space in a neighborhood parking lot, if you could find one.

But, the inconvenience also proved tactically inefficient for Prof. Taslim who had wanted to take Sr. Mary to his home. Rape was far from his mind at this point. Manu had convinced him of that. There was more at stake here than a momentary pleasure. Besides, Sr. Mary had lost most of her fear. She had complied with his demand to tie her up as if she understood that her martyrdom was what her Savior demanded of her. And anyway, Prof. Taslim thought, it wasn’t really the sexual act itself that had pleased him. It had been the power he had exerted over her reflected back at him though her fear. He had to bring the fear back. Then, Manu’s voice echoed in his skull, she would be a more satisfying victim. Prof. Taslim trusted the voice at this point. Manu was his god, a voice of reason and knowledge far above his own. Partnered with Manu, Prof. Taslim thought to share in the glories of immortality. Manu allowed the professor to think of the situation as a partnership as long as he exercised full control with little rebelliousness on the professor's part.

So now the professor went about Manu’s business, parking the car in the higher levels, removing the gag from Sr. Mary’s mouth as he kept the point of the knife at her throat.

"Give me your sister’s number," Prof. Taslim instructed as he prepared to dial the cellular phone.

"What?"

"I said, I want Cynthia’s number. As sweet as you are, I’m not interested in just a night of pleasure." Prof. Taslim sneered openly at her.

Sr. Mary’s dignity didn’t slip. The fear Prof. Taslim was hoping for failed to make an appearance. Instead a stoic look crossed her eyes as her stern lips mouthed her answer: "No."

"No?!"

"No." Sr. Mary repeated.

Prof. Taslim’s left hand wound about her frail neck as he positioned himself behind her, the knife still at her throat, her hands tightly bound together. Slowly, once his neck hold was secure, Prof. Taslim ripped the blouse off her left shoulder in a vicious thrusts designed to provoke the fear he was lusting for. Sr. Mary gasped as the cold hit her chest. Suddenly, Sr. Mary felt the sharp edge of the knife slicing a stinging ski trail down the slope of her breast snowplowing a painful stop right before the tender nipple. She couldn’t scream fast enough as her mind registered the offense only after this violation.

"Sex is very close to pain you know," Prof. Taslim uttered his soliloquy. "If you don’t want to be ransomed, you don’t have to make the call. We can make it later, once I’ve convinced you it’s in your interest, of course."

"This is a dream." Sr. Mary said wincing at the cold steel embedded in her chest.

"No, it’s a nightmare," Prof. Taslim replied. "A nightmare where I make the rules."

"Jesus save me!" Sr. Mary began to weave her powerful spell. "I call on the angels and saints to help me defeat this demon! Mother Mary come to my aide."

Prof. Taslim laughed cruelly. "Abandoned by your church, again it seems! Maybe it’s your karma to suffer!"
"I reject the idea of reincarnation or karma. It is a lie from the King of lies!" Sr. Mary shook her head as she began to struggle trying to wake herself up, only to halt as the knife pierced back into the dream.

"Oh, but you would be following in a fine tradition of all the ’saints’ prior to you. Too bad I can’t boil you in oil or burn you at the stake! But, I suppose given enough time, I could come up with something worthy of a saint of God."

The knife came back up sharply to her throat.

"What type of demon are you?" Sr. Mary gasped.

"I’m a human demon," Prof. Taslim mouthed the words like a taste of ice cream melting seductively on his tongue.

"I know the human condition. I live it every day!" Sr. Mary debated her captor, "spells and deviltry like yours are inhuman!"

"Why? I sprung from a father and a mother, same as you! I went to school, I married.." Prof. Taslim clicked off his life credits. "This is real life, Sr. Mary. Do I have to kill you to convince you of that?"

The point of the knife gagged Sr. Mary as she choked back her fear. This dream would not get the better of her again, she determined. Prof. Taslim’s appearance was a sure sign it was all a dream. She felt the pain singeing her left breast trying to delude her into betraying herself. But, Sr. Mary, was convinced it was an illusion brought on by Prof. Taslim. But even so, he had been right. To suffer was martyrdom - a true test of faith. But, where were the spectators? Sr. Mary thought. All good martyrs had to suffer humiliation as well, any good Catholic knew that. For that you needed other people.

"What do you want with Cynthia? Can't you just walk into her dream like you did mine?"

"This isn't a dream!" Manu shook her violently. "I want to make a deal with the healer. She should know where he is."

"Healer? Who would that be? Why would Cynthia know?"

"Just give me her number!"

Sr. Mary relented realizing the true test was yet to come as she released the information to Prof. Taslim. Cynthia probably wouldn't know and she would probably suffer anyway, Sr. Mary thought. After all, a phone number was not an address and maybe Cynthia would be able to ransom her even if it was only a dream.

"Hello? Who is this?" Cynthia’s voice came over the phone annoyed that only street noises echoed back at her. This was just the culmination of a series of annoyances this day. She had spent the morning trying to locate the absentee landlord to turn on the heat. As the landscape had turned from a dull gray to a brilliant white, she began to fret for Sunshine, her pet cockatiel. She had put the electric stove on and place her cage near it trying to keep the bird away from the fateful draftiness of the once cozy apartment. The bird was shivering its miserableness at her. But, still she couldn’t locate anyone to do anything about the heat. When the phone rang, Cynthia expected it to be the landlord finally returning her call.

"I have Sr. Mary," Prof. Taslim said on the other end of the line. "Do what I ask and she won’t get hurt."

Cynthia analyzed her options. Prof. Taslim had been clear on his ambitions. He wanted her to get the key to the seventh level for him and requested her to allow him temporary possession of her mind in exchange for her sister’s life.

"If you’re really who you say you are, you don’t need my permission." She had tested him.

"Unfortunately, it’s not so." Prof. Taslim had informed her. "Manu can only inhabit those that welcome him."

"Don’t do it Cynthia!" Sr. Mary screamed as she realized her error. The demon didn’t want information, a ransom, or her own martyrdom, he wanted a soul!

Prof. Taslim shoved the gag back into Sr. Mary’s mouth.

"Bridget?! Bridget!" Cynthia became hysterical as he heard her sister’s voice struggling to warn her over the phone. "What have you done with her?"

"She’s alive, " Prof. Taslim refused to allay her fears.

"I’ll call the police..." Cynthia warned him.

"And tell them that someone from your dreams kidnapped your sister?" The laughter beat down Cynthia’s confidence.

"How can I be sure you’ll keep your promise?"

"You don’t have a choice."

"I’ll try to find out myself," Cynthia tried stalling for time. "No possession."

"So you can betray me? NO. You either agree now or she’s dead. I’ll give you five minutes to decide."

The phone had gone dead.

Nervously dialing Ed’s number she had turned to the only person she could ask for help aware he might let it all happen anyway. The conversation had been short and to the point as the minute hand had beat off her last few minutes of freedom.

"Prof. Taslim’s loose in Boston. He’s kidnapped Sr. Mary," Cynthia wrung the words from her throat. "Can you help?"

"What do you want me to do?" Ed asked.

"I heard him - in the dream," Cynthia explained. "You’re a sorcerer. Can’t you use your magic to find them and free her?"

"Cynthia this is reality!" Ed shocked her with his practical appraisal of the situation. "I can’t wave a wand and snatch her from him."

"Is it because of her karma?" Cynthia asked unable to believe he was denying his powers. She had experienced them herself and she knew he was lying.

"I can’t... really."

"Even in the dream? Can’t you protect her tonight?"

"I won’t interfere unless it involves my own karma."

Selfish bastard, Cynthia fumed at him. He deserved what he was going to get. What good was magic when it didn’t help other people? Hanging up she went to get her only true friend, Sunshine. At least she would be with her during the end. But even Sunshine had betrayed her mistress, dying at the most inopportune moment as she had finally succumbed to the cold.

Cradling her dead bird astonished, Cynthia’s anguish knew no bounds. Death was all around her and soon would be in her. But, she was meeting it on her terms. She had thrown out her Catholic faith and its controlling tendencies and then rejected a laissez-faire New Age. There were no demons or angels, Cynthia realized. Reality was what you made of it.

"OK," she agreed to Prof. Taslim’s terms when he called. "But I want to join you - not submit to you. I allow you to take possession of my body only. My mind remains my own. I want to know when and how Bishop suffers. And I want him to know I did it of my own free will."

"Deal." Manu embraced the unexpected ally as his mind filtered out of Prof. Taslim’s consciousness and into Cynthia’s waiting receptacle. To Cynthia it was as if the cold had seeped past her skin and into her heart, bordering her mind as she had limited it. It licked hungrily at the edges of her brain denied its final conquest. As Cynthia adjusted to her split consciousness, a flash of cold electricity sparked through the palm of her hand and into Sunshine’s lifeless body. The bird opened its intelligent eyes chirping warmly at its mistress. "You see?" Manu said, "a gift in honor of our marriage."

As Cynthia blinked the tears away from her eyes she fluffed Sunshine’s feathers with her cheek. She couldn’t help but feel pleased at Manu’s generosity. This was the way magic should be, she realized. It was refreshing compared to Ed’s impotent enchantments.

And then, oddly enough, the heat kicked back on.

CHAPTER 14