Blood, piss, and rot - the smell hit me the moment Damian opened the door. The room was in shambles. The mattress was torn from the bed, sheets wrinkled up and torn on the floor, the bedside table overturned, bits of broken wood scattered about...long, deep scratch marks in the walls, as if from some great beast. But where-

There. Standing in the corner with his face to the wall. Naked, covered in splotchy purple and red bruises across his back. Hanson Dagwood.

Damian put himself in front of me, quietly and swiftly. Hanson was swaying slightly, his shoulders shuddering as he drew long, trembling breaths, almost as if he was crying. A strange blackish smoke lingered around him, curling about his body like a snake then disappearing just as quickly. It seemed that every time I blinked I lost focus on it.

A weak little rat. Pretending to be big.

"Hanson," Damian called out to him. "I am speaking to the man named Hanson Dagwood and none other. If you're here, please respond to me."

The man moaned, curling his face down into his hands. His bones were jutting from his skin - he looked as if he had not eaten in days.

Nothing but oil and wine, oil and wine, oil and wine...

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the Gray One crouching in the corner. It was an illusion. I had to ignore her. Ignore her soft, breathy chuckles that felt as if they were right on the nape of my neck.

"Hanson...my name is Hanson...I think..." the man sobbed, voice muffled in his hands. "Please don't come near me. I'll only...only hurt you..."

Damian took a step toward him carefully. "You won't hurt me, Hanson. I'm here to help you, to protect you. But you need to listen to me very carefully. You need to listen to my voice and only my voice, do you understand?"

"So many voices," he groaned, and slowly turned. His bloodshot eyes had heavy dark bags beneath them. His lips were chewed, pulverized purplish meat. His wide eyes flickered between Damian and I. "Always voices. Voices...voices...voices. Can't listen to all of them can you?" With the last sentence, his eyes fell on me with grave finality. He smiled, revealing a mouth full of jaggedly broken and missing teeth. "I listened when they told me to pull out my teeth. Did you?"

"No," I whispered. Damian stepped closer to him.

"My voice is the only one you need listen to now, Hanson," he said. "I'm going to help you. I'm going to free you from the voices that are tormenting you. Please lie down. On the floor, or mattress, whichever you prefer. Allow yourself to relax so you can focus on my words."

Hanson frowned, distrust contorting his features as his gaze slowly shifted from me to Damian. "Your words? And why yours? Who are you?"

"I'm an exorcist, and a doctor. Your mother called me here to help you."

So many of you. Filthy rat. Don't hurt me, let me in. You're not welcome.

The voices echoed rapidly back and forth, making me wince. The expression was not lost on Hanson, whose wide eyes flickered back to me. "Names, names, names," he muttered. "So many names. Won't you tell me yours?"

My name hovered on the tip of my tongue, but Damian beat me to speak. "My names is James Kelly. This is my assistant, Samantha West."

"Lies," Hanson shook his head rapidly. "Lies, lies, and more lies. Lying in bed with a killer." He grinned widely, still staring at me. "Lying in bed with a killer."

Something flashed before my eyes. A hallucination - a vision - a memory. Blood. Spurting blood everywhere. A human heart gripped in a bloody hand. I gasped sharply and stepped back, clutching my head. What was that? It had been no memory of mine...

Hanson had begun to chuckle. "Shall I show you more?"

I had to build back up the wall I had previously so carefully constructed. But for all my care, it seemed all too easy to break down. Had I made a mistake? I'd told Damian he could trust me, that I was in control. But my fear was rising.

He won't come in, girl. We won't allow it. We don't allow rats. Subpar echelon beasts.

My body began to tingle. It felt disturbingly familiar - far too similar to when I had given control over to Krahia. As I struggled to control myself, Damian moved closer to Hanson. His voice was no longer gentle and reassuring. It was demanding.

"Listen to me Hanson. I know you're still in there and I know you're strong enough to overcome this..."

I turned away as Damian continued talking. I had to get out of my head and back under control. I focused on my breathing, flexing my fingers, curling my toes. Aware of every muscle I had at my command.

We'll protect you. You're ours, don't bother. We'll keep you safe.

I couldn't allow myself to panic. Not now, not here. Damian was still speaking to Hanson, but his language was foreign. Even so, with every word the young man twitched, his face contorting more and more into an expression of anger. He pressed himself back into the corner he stood in, like a trapped beast, and bared his teeth.

"You made a mistake coming here, Exorcist," he hissed. "You and your little whore!" He twitched again, and his neck began to bend at a frightening angle. He muttered, growling, "No. No, no, no, no. Don't be angry. Don't be angry please-"

"Get down on the ground, Hanson," Damian commanded. "Now!"

Slowly, remarkably, the young man sunk to his knees. Sweat streaked down his forehead despite the chill within the room. His jaw was tense, the veins in his arms bulging. "In bed with a killer," he repeated. "A killer, a killer, a killer." On his knees, his gaze turned to me yet again. "You..."

Pain shot through my hand. Something had thrown itself against my hastily-prepared mental walls. Blood, so much blood - sobbing - get out, rat, before we rip you apart -

Hanson burst into high-pitched laughter. He sunk down, pressed his head against the floor as if grovelling for forgiveness, but his laughter continued. "Don't hurt me, Legion!" he shrieked. "Let me in! Let me! In!"

Damian sprang forward, to one knee, grasping the back of the young man's head in one hand. "Berätta ditt namn för mig," he said. "Du hör inte här. Lämna denna plats."

My stomach lurched. I had the irrational urge to plug my ears rather than hear him speak. I could not understand his tongue, but it seemed the beings within me could. Their muttering was sudden and furious. Names came unbidden to my mind, along with the urge to blurt them out, but I remained silent. I moved a bit closer, cautiously, watching as Hanson sweat and trembled beneath Damian's hand.

"Damn you," he muttered. "Damn you...fuck...I am...I am." He gagged, a violent fit of coughing overcoming him before he choked out. "Shax. I am the one known as Shax."

I was overcome with disgust, as if I were looking upon something rotten and foul. Hanson's body seemed to shift before my very eyes, contorting, skin graying, tendrils of black mist coiling over him. A form, almost human, seemed to crouch over him. White eyes blinked at me. Long limbs squeezed Hanson's body with brutal strength, making him groan as his joints popped.

Could Damian see it? The demon that possessed Hanson was there, staring at me with pupil-less eyes. But...was it truly there? Was it real...or...illusion?

Illusions are not so false as you want to believe, girl. We are all illusions. We are no less real.

"Shax, come out of him!" Damian commanded. Hanson thrashed and he was forced to step back, but the young man did not get up. He remained on the floor, muscles flexing rapidly, his body going rigid as a board. "You do not belong in this body, you do not belong in this plain!"

Shax won't go. Filthy thing. He'll destroy him first. Crush all his bones to bits.

The dark figure's grip on Hanson was tightening. His skin reddened and began to bruise everywhere the demon squeezed him. His choking and coughing grew worse. As if in great pain he managed to turn his head and look at me. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he spasmed. "Let me in," he croaked. "Or I'll break him."

Damian glanced back at me rapidly. "Stay back from him, Samara." His voice was harsh. He immediately launched into another string of the language I could not understand. As he spoke, he reached into the satchel in he carried and withdrew a black book and a small vial of white powder. The powder he rapidly spread in a line between himself and Hanson. Then he opened the book, and began to read:

"De antika krafterna på jorden beordrar dig att lyda. Du är befalld att lämna, överge denna kropp, lämna honom orörd och lämna tyst."

The top of Damian's satchel remained open. I could see the handle of a familiar pistol, carved with runes - I could well remember that gun being pointed at me not so long again. But there was another handle too, also familiar - that of the dagger I had once glimpsed in his desk. I wondered when such weapons would be used. I could recall Damian telling me there were times when a victim could not be saved, and that there would be no choice...

Lying in bed with a killer...

The demon was still squeezing. I could see its teeth, grinning as it clung to Hanson like a leach, staring at me. Hanson began to scream, but the sound was quickly stifled. He struggled, thrashing as the creature clung to him. Damian's eyes were half-closed, and I could see only the whites of them as he continued to speak. The demon was in pain - struggling - thrashing - dragging Hanson with it. It wasn't letting go.

It would kill him.

"Let him go," I whispered. The demon's laughter echoed around me, mocking. I had to help...there had to be something I could do...something...

Shall we kill him? Let us kill him. We can help. Let us. We can make it quick.

My resolve wavered. I could save him, perhaps. I could maintain control. Just for moment, and they could help throw the demon out-

"You're killing me!" Hanson suddenly sobbed, frantic, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling as his body painfully contorted. The demon had dug in, wrapped about him so tightly he could not move. "Please! Please have mercy!"

But Damian was beyond hearing. He was deep within a trance, muscles tense, eyes closed, his lips moving rapidly with words that made me sick the longer I focused on them. Had this been what it was like with me, when he had exorcised Krahia? I had known nothing of reality during that time. Had I thrashed, and fought like Hanson did? Had my demons attempted to smother me, tried to break me in retaliation for being forced out?

My eyes lingered on the handle of the dagger in Damian's bag. I could see the demon...I could hurt it...surely...and if I just let them help me...for only a moment -

Let us, yes, clever girl, smart girl, let us help, let us protect you, let us protect dear Damian. Let us. Let us. Do it. Now.

Suddenly Hanson went still, his body limp. He still stared, his mouth hanging slack. The demon that had clung to him so viciously had vanished. Still, Damian did not cease speaking. His words flowed in an endless stream. I could see the text written in the open book in his hands, but he wasn't truly reading from it anymore. It was all from memory. Years of reciting such powerful words. Years of practice, of devotion and passion to his craft.

I had asked him to trust me. I had to trust him too. I had to trust that he could do this.

I stepped back. I stayed silent. I watched as Hanson's eyes rolled back in his head, as he trembled and whispered vague pleas.

He's going to try it. Stupid little rat. You can't come in. Run back to Hell, you'll find no shelter here.

Suddenly Hanson gasped. Life came back into his face and he bolted upright like a man that had been held underwater. Damian's eyes opened and his face softened with relief.

And a black mist rose up from Hanson's body and rushed toward my face.

Darkness...

Darkness...

So cold...

Where was I?

Familiar smells...wood fires, damp earth, distant perfumes. Women laughing, bottles breaking. These old streets...Storyville? Why Storyville?

There was a young woman before me, crouched in an alley in a torn dress. Her teeth were broken, like Hanson's, and her body was bruised. But she was laughing at me. Laughing with eyes that ran rivulets of blood down her face. She slammed her head against the brick wall. Again, and again.

I was staring down the barrel of a familiar pistol. My hand was shaking. I was exhausted. My mouth was dry, my throat was aching, my heart pounding.

"Don't you want to save her, Exorcist?" the woman taunted, her voice unnaturally dark, deep. "Can't you do it? Come on now! Time is ticking. Send me back to Hell! Aren't you strong enough, Exorcist?" She dissolved into laughter, raking her own nails down her face, leaving scratches that bloomed with pinpricks of blood. "You're too weak! Too weak to save her! Fraud! Shame! And now you'll kill her because you can't save her!"

"You've already killed her," Damian's voice came out of me. Shaking. Furious. "You've already killed her and you'll be destroyed in return."

The woman rushed toward me. I knocked her away, whipping the pistol across her face, and she fell to the ground laughing. These hands weren't mine, these arms...this was Damian...I was seeing through Damian's eyes...

A memory?

"Deflect the blame, deflect the blame," the woman cackled. "She would live if you would only leave us alone." She crawled up from the ground, her nose crooked and bleeding, and spat toward me...towards Damian. "Stupid Exorcist. So obsessed with the win. I would've taken good care of her if you hadn't tried to cast me out. And she could have lived-"

The shot rang out. My arm shook, and the woman's shattered skull decorated the wall behind her. Her body fell with a thud, a carcass that splattered blood across the ground.

Darkness, cold. A pounding heart. Flashes of blood. Blood, blood, blood. I held a human heart in my hands moments before I tossed it into a fire.

Burn the heart. Always burn the heart. Don't let them keep using the body...

"Samara! Samara, wake up!"

I jolted awake, gasping. Where was I? Why was I lying on the floor? Damian crouched over me, my head cradled in his arms. Slowly, remembrance returned. The exorcism...Hanson...something had come at me...

I sat up slowly, Damian giving me the space to rub my aching head. Behind him, Mrs. Dagwood was holding her son close, praying aloud in thanks. Her boy was alive. Tired, his eyes weary as he rested against her, but alive.

"You dropped flat on your back," Damian said. "The moment the exorcism ended. What happened?"

I shook my head slowly. "Something...dark...came at me. That's all I remember. I dreamed..." I frowned. That dream. Why had I dreamed from Damian's perspective?

"You were out less than a minute," he said, and carefully tucked back my unruly hair, his nervous hands seeking to straighten the collar on my dress and brush the dust from my skirt. He stood, and carefully helped me up. Despite my insistence that I was fine, he kept one arm around my waist, supporting me.

Shax wanted to be let in, but that's not allowed. Not for little rats.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Damian was watching me carefully. I didn't doubt he had seen my expression change as I listened to the voices.

"They're saying that Shax tried to get in," I said softly, and felt him stiffen. "But they wouldn't let him."

"I suppose they're good for something then," he sighed heavily, his arm still tight around me. I couldn't get that vision out of my head. It had been his pistol, his hand, his voice - of that I had no doubt. But why had I seen such a thing? Was it even real? A final lie the demon had used to taunt me, to frighten me?

Or...or had it been more real than I wanted to believe?

I sat at the dirty kitchen table as Damian spoke with the Dagwood's one final time. They all still looked shaken - and truly, how could one recover from such a thing? How could a family patch itself back together after such horror? He suggested herbs for calming nerves and that Hanson spend time outside, recovering in fresh air and sunshine.

"Get out of this apartment if you can," he advised. "Ill energies can linger."

He refused their offers of payment, and we left together. We made our way down the stairs, and he put his arm around me and pulled me close, kissing me upon the head.

"I'm proud of you," he said. "You were brave. You were strong. You did very well."

Outside the apartments, Jacobi was waiting with the coach. The streets were dark and quiet at such a late hour, and I found myself pushing closer to Damian, just to be encompassed in his warmth. We climbed into the carriage, and I stared out the window as the horses began to pull us away. A woman stood outside the apartments we had just left, dressed in black. She watched us leave, her bright eyes making goosebumps move up my back. She was merely a stranger, another face in the endless Jazz City.

But she had flaming red hair that felt all-too-familiar.