Damian's gloved hand was not as vicious a punishing implement as the cane, but the burn came swiftly and steadily nonetheless. I tried not to squirm, if only because of the tight way he held me. He would feel my every wiggle, he would be immediately aware if I so much as twitched in discomfort. I was determined to remain stoic, but the pace he set with his hand was brutally consistent. There was not even a moment to draw breath between each slap, and the crack of the leather seemed unbearably loud. I thought of Octavio hearing it...or Rachel. I wondered if they would revel knowing that I was being punished for what I'd done...the thought made my insides turn to utter mush.

Humiliation was both delicious and terrible.

With a resounding spank that made a squeal rise up in my throat - but luckily not escape - Damian paused and I felt the movement of him reaching up to push back his unruly hair. "Now then, Samara," he said. "Let us try again: why are you in this position?"

Another rude response rose up in me, but this time I resisted it. I drew in a shaky breath to steady my voice and said, "Because I was cruel to Octavio and Rachel. I hurt them and they didn't deserve it."

"Very right you are," he said, and punctuated it with a sharp spank right at the curve between my thigh and cheek. That got a whimper out of me, and it also made me stomp my foot in frustration. He laughed. "Ah, so that's where the sting is, hm? Right there?" Again he aimed right for that tender spot, and again, and again. I managed to stifle myself the first time, but at the second and third I yelped at each and began to growl and squirm and mutter rapid curses.

"Now, Samara," Damian said reproachfully. "Such foul language. Do you think I can allow that kind of disrespect?"

I told him exactly where he could shove his "allowances" and was met with a particularly nasty predicament. He shifted his position, moving the leg on which I rested higher upon the desk and thereby moving me upwards enough that my feet no longer touched the ground. Thus maneuvered, that wicked spot he'd found a fondness for was all the more exposed and he began to set fire to it with a determination that made my breath catch-

Before I released it in the most furious string of curses, yelps, and indignant whines.

All my struggling and noise was for nothing. Damian was immoveable, and with every squirm of mine the grasp of his arm around my waist only tightened. My flesh was burning, and the longer it went on the deeper my mind sank into a strangely calm place: my efforts to remain unbothered no longer mattered. My desire to replace contrition with anger simply vanished. For all the stinging pain my body felt light. My every limb tingled. I felt more connected to my own bodily sensations than ever before. Instead of furious snarls my cries became simply that: cries of primal pain, of endurance. I did not feel afraid. I did not feel angry or sad or guilty anymore. I could focus on little else save the strength in Damian's body and the incredible feeling of acceptance.

When he stopped, it was only after I'd ceased struggling. He did not immediately remove his arm to let me up, nor did I make an attempt to move. I lay there limp as a newborn kitten, surprised to realize my face was damp with tears. Yet I felt nothing but elation. Weariness was descending once more but even that mattered little. I felt human again. I felt as if the voices had been beaten out of existence.

"Samara?" I gave a little whine in response. "How are you?"

He began to pull me up, so that I stood dizzily on my feet, blinking tiredly. With the closeness between us broken, I somehow felt embarrassed again, as if I had left that safe space he had provided and had to once more assemble my mask. But the walls that had surrounded me lay in a heap of crumbling brick, and my backside was stinging far too much to manage to put them back up again.

"I'm alright," I said softly. My thoughts were too fluttery to manage a better analysis of my own feelings. In fact, the more I tried to dissect them the more confused I became. I was truly too tired to think.

"Are you really?" Damian reached out his head, and began to wipe away the tears on my face, but I pulled away. I couldn't bear it. It was too much...the gentleness...the brutality...everything...too much. I was so tired. Damian's forehead creased with concern. "Samara...please..."

I wasn't sure what he was trying to do. His hand was still reaching for me, but would not touch after I had rejected it. I wanted it back and couldn't manage to ask for it. I cleared my throat, and wiped my own tears. "You said Rachel was going to draw a bath for me?"

He seemed shaken by my question, as if experiencing a sudden crash back to reality. "Oh. Yes. Of course. I'll...show you to the bathroom."

I didn't want to put back on the bloody, filthy dress, so I merely clutched it to my front as I followed Damian upstairs. I couldn't take my eyes off him: this man that had thrown my emotions into such a storm that I could no longer even name what I felt. He still remained an utter mystery to me. An exorcist with no god, a doctor of the paranormal, a gentleman of the deepest perversions. I knew nothing of his history, his secrets - I only knew that he surely had many. Yet it seemed beneath his roof I would remain, and under his guardianship - if I even dared called it that.

What now was to become of us, after what I had asked of him? After what he had given me?

The bathroom door was slightly ajar as we approached, and I could see the steam within floating in the light of numerous gas lamps upon the walls. As Damian opened the door and stepped aside so I could enter, I could not hold back a gasp. The floor was smooth, tiled white stone. The walls were dark wood paneling on the lower half, and the upper half was papered a pale cream dotted with golden roses. The bath itself - massive, snow-white porcelain - was partially obscured by a Chinese folding screen, lacquered with a scene of gray herons amongst reeds. The tub sat before a tall window through which I could see the shimmering stars of the night sky. A cluster of shining copper piping that snaked from the floor to the ceiling had been used to already fill the bath with steaming water. There was even a toilet with a pulley, a luxury afforded only to the wealthy. It made me wonder again at just what riches Damian truly had.

A gramophone sat upon a table in the corner furthest from the tub, and Damian cranked it to life as I stood marveling at the room, still clutching the filthy dress to my breast.

"I hope you don't mind my taste in music," Damian said, as the record crackled to life. The sounds of a slide guitar filled the room, accompanied by a bluesy gravel hum. "I'll leave you to your privacy." There was a note of regret in his voice that I did not completely understand. He slipped out the door, but I heard him linger outside, and the creak of the floorboards as he sat. He didn't trust me to be entirely alone, I guessed. I could not blame him.

I discarded the ruined dress and stepped up to the tub. Behind the folding curtain stood a mirror in a gilded frame of gold and dark wood, giving me the first glimpse I'd had of myself in days. My hair was a rats nest, coiled and frizzed, spackled with blood, dirt and twigs. My dirty face was streaked with tears. Blood had sprayed across every surface of my skin that had not been covered by the dress, and my feet were black from running barefoot.

I turned, and looked over my shoulder to take in the sight of my reddened backside. Damian had certainly been thorough. My pale flesh was cherry red, bright and throbbing. I brushed my fingers lightly over it, smiling at the tingle my touch elicited. That feeling that had overcome me as I lay over Damian's lap still lingered: like the calm of a storm having passed, destruction sitting quietly, utter peace in surrender.

I frowned. How had I dared let him do it? And...would I dare to do it again?

Would I dare let him do worse?

I stepped into the tub, shuddering at the comforting heat of the water. When I sat, and leaned back, the water came up to my throat and I could have submerged myself easily if I wished. I sighed heavily as the heat began to ease my aching muscles - although it did nothing for my burning backside. While everything else was comforted, the stinging on my flesh only worsened. Somehow, I didn't truly mind.

I had to be mindful to keep my bandaged hand out of the water lest the nasty cut on my palm be opened again. After several minutes of soaking I looked about for soap, and found a lovely rosemary and lavender scented bar of it close at hand. As it turned out, however, trying to wash myself with only my unbandaged left hand was far more difficult a task than I had anticipated. I managed my body well enough, and soon the water was dingy with dirt. But when the time came to wash my tangled hair, I became frustrated enough to try submerging my bandaged hand. The pain that shot through it as the fresh cut made contact with hot water through the bandage made me gasp.

"Are you alright?" Damian called to me from the hall. Damn, how was the man's hearing so keen? Or was he only listening that closely...

"I'm fine!" I snapped, sharper than I'd meant to. But my hand was stinging and my backside was burning and my hair was still filthy, and emotion is a strange thing when one is exhausted. I sniffled just a little, and tried again to rub the soap through my hair with one hand. It slipped from my grasp and splashed into the water.

"Can I help you?" Damian's voice was nearer now. I could not see beyond the curtain toward the door, but I guessed he had poked his head inside.

"I don't need help," I said softly, feeling about for the soap in the now-brown water. I sniffled again.

"Samara," Damian's voice was even closer still. I'd heard him walk slowly, hesitantly across the tile. "Please let me help you."

There was gentleness in his voice. There was an urgency too, as if he were pleading for something he desperately wanted - needed. I gave up the search for the soap. "Alright. You can help."

He stepped around the curtain with an uncertain expression, as if he hadn't already seen me naked plenty of times. He caught sight of the water and chuckled awkwardly. "We'll start with fresh water," he said. He reached into the far end of the tub and plucked up the plug, and the water began to swirl away. I pulled my knees up to my chin, hugging them to keep warm as my  watery blanket was drained. He glanced at me again, and said, "You've gotten your bandage wet."

"It stung," I said sadly. "It's damn near impossible to wash this rat's nest with one hand." I pushed my sopping hair out of my face. "I should cut it off. I hate it this long."

He turned a knob on the copper piping and fresh hot water poured out, beginning to fill the tub once more. I hissed when it made contact with my bottom again, much to his amusement. When he was done chuckling at me, he said, "Rachel has a good pair of shears she cuts her hair with, if you'd really like to cut yours. But let's get it clean at least first, alright?"

I sat quietly as he took up the bar of soap and moved behind me. Gently, as if he were handling a frightened animal, he pulled my hair back over my shoulders. He lathered the soap in his hands and began to work it into the ends of my hair, going slowly up its length, taking his time to run his fingers through the tangles and scrub the muck free.

"Why are you doing this?" I said.

"Because you're filthy."

"No- not...not that," I laughed, just a little bit. "Why are you an exorcist? Why try to help people you don't even know? Why risk your life..."

He was silent a moment. Then, "My grandmother told me that everyone has something to give, and something to take. Some people take more than others, and some give more than others. In the end, it becomes balanced and humanity prevails another age. When my grandmother, Belthazha, was young the skills of an exorcist were considered very sacred. Now, of course, they are still held sacred by the Church. But I, as you know, do not follow the Church."

"Have you never beheld the glory of God?" I said, mimicking the words I had so often heard the pastor say in Lily Dale.

"I have beheld the glory of life and death. Of birth. Destruction. Pain and pleasure. Wonders we do not yet fully understand, such as the miracle of the human brain and nervous system. I suppose I could pick one of the hundreds of gods or goddesses that humanity worships, and ascribe these things to them. Or perhaps I can simply call the unknown my God."

I did not know how to respond, so I fell silent. He had far more bravery than I to dare say he followed no God. Part of me desperately wished I was so brave, if only so I no longer had to feel that it was some supernatural force punishing me for my sins.

"Do you truly wish to know why I'm an exorcist?" Damian said softly, after another minute of silence.

"Yes. I do."

"It's a long story," he said, not so unlike what I had told him only earlier that day. Merely a day...I felt as if I had run and fought and cried for a thousand years in merely a day.

"Well," I said. "My hair is quite filthy. I think we have time to get through a long story."

Damian chuckled softly, but the sound quickly became mirthless. Though I could not see him, I felt the change in his movement, and he sighed. "We'll start with my mother."