A boiling heat which at the same time had a chill as though as she were sitting in the fumes of dry ice suffused her skin. Her head was reeling with images of memories decades old, competing and enhancing the terrible words coming out of her nephews mouth. Absurdly the voice of Pelle’s childhood came out of the mouth of this young man even as he was looking at her in a way a nephew should not look at his aunt.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-family:Gochi Hand">What are the bad things <i>you</i> think of?”</span><br/><br/>These were words which normally she would have easily pushed aside, her training giving her strength. And yet the smell around her, coiling through her, caressing her senses like a lover, brought a flash back of her looking up at Pelle’s father, as he pounded into her with a tear stained savagery, roughly gripping her young breast with one hand, her upthrust and angled knee with the other, and crying out as he ejaculated deep inside her, spilling the seed meant for her sisters womb in hers instead for the last time. She panted heavily, feeling a rush of heat at the juncture of her  thighs, even as her mind recoiled, yet oddly strained forward, eager to re-live her own climax. She moaned, conflict boiling through her like the flames of hell. Her nipples hardened and pushed at the fabric of her bra and blouse.<i>Oh! LORD! Where are you? Save me. </i>Why did the flames envelope her so wantonly? And there it was, Pelle’s father looking so much like his son in those days. The angular, lithe body, how well he fit to her generous curves. How satisfyingly his member sheathed in her body, filling her, piercing her, taking her. Her sister suspected, she knew, and hated her for it. He wasn’t the first of her boyfriends to sample at both banquets after all. But he was the last. Her holy sister, who lived by the water but not in the blood. So sanctimonious and superior. Thin and bony, a thoroughbred to her curvaceous draft horse.<br/><br/>Mary Theresa had been a Pagan then (and had not yet taken the name of her patron saint), and was celebrating Walpurgis Nacht a few weeks later in an orgy of the Great Rite, right there by the bonfire, a tangle of countless men and women copulating, egged on by liquor and drugs.  When she awoke the next morning, the essence of uncounted men seeping out of her along with the remains of the drug fueled haze, she had gone to the river and washed herself. She never went back, leaving the soil of her body and the soil of her soul in that river. Or so she had thought.<br/><br/>She came back to the sensation of Pelle pressed to her chest, yet his next words brought no relief. The images he described belonged to a Bosch painting, not to the sweet lips of this young man, a boy she had witnessed grow from newborn to adult. She tried to pull away but his head slid lower on her breasts and she forgot to breathe.<br/><br/>"Father Daniel, will take your confession, he cannot deny." She said in a rush, feeling her hard nipples press against him, aching and swollen. 'Pelle, you are making me uncomfortable, please..." His smell had become overpowering, and she needed to leave, needed the comfort of her room to pray, and spend the night on her knees... her mouth wrapped around his flute...<br/><br/>She keened in distress and horror, a terror descending over her which cut through the haze of the smell of unworldly arousal.<br/><br/>Something was very wrong here, this wasn't anything she had ever seen before, felt before, smelled before, she looked around her and saw a darkness gathering which was palpable.<br/><br/>"Saint Michael!" She cried out, her hand pushing at his head, seeking her crucifix,  fear rendering her voice tremulous, "Bring thine sword of light and chase away this darkness! Protect this boy and this woman, in the Name of The Lord!"