Twisted Sacrament Read online

  Twisted Sacrament

  Zoe Blake

  Alta Hensley

  Jennifer Bene

  Celia Aaron

  Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  SJ Cole

  Addison Cain

  Contents

  Lilith’s Revenge

  Hell hath no fury…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Author’s Note

  About Zoe Blake

  Also By Zoe

  Last Rites

  Because I am a sinner…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Author’s Note

  About Alta Hensley

  Also by Alta

  Baptized in Eden

  The priests want me to thank God, but the only thing I pray for is death

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Author’s Note

  About Jennifer Bene

  Also by Jennifer

  Communion

  Power comes with a price.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About Celia Aaron

  Also by Celia

  Say Yes

  They become one flesh before God and his witnesses.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Author’s Note

  About Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  Also by Ashleigh

  I’m Better Than You

  Death becomes them.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About SJ Cole

  Also by Stevie

  She Came Before God

  I stare at the crucifix and pray it will end.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About Addison Cain

  Also by Addison

  Copyright 2018 © Zoe Blake, Alta Hensley, Jennifer Bene, Celia Aaron, Ashleigh Giannoccaro, SJ Cole, Addison Cain

  Lilith’s Revenge

  By Zoe Blake

  Hell hath no fury…

  He will forsake heaven to taste her screams of pain

  but her lips only promise the torments of hell.

  Their battle of wills leads to sin and madness.

  There can be only one winner.

  Chapter 1

  The church felt damp and cool despite the crowd. Swirls of dust and smoke danced in the streams of sunlight as the pungent, earthy scent of myrrh enwrapped him. Splashes of crimson from the colors cast by the massive stained-glass depiction of St. Anthony fighting Satan’s demons stained his white vestments. It was a gruesome sight. A pious man stood in the center of the frame while sharp-toothed demons tore at his flesh with their teeth and claws. It was a visceral reminder of both the physical and psychological tortures of evil.

  With a shiver, Samael pressed his palms closer together, mastering his thoughts and focused on the Bishop’s words. After years of study and prayer, he was making the ultimate sacrifice. His brow wrinkled as the thought unfurled and slithered around his mind. How dare he on this of all days consider entering the priesthood a sacrifice? It was an honor, a calling. No longer would he be Samael Robinson. He would be Father Samael, heeding God’s call to administer to and guide his flock, fulfilling his purpose here on earth.

  Chasing the treacherous thoughts away, he once more tried to concentrate on the Bishop’s solemn words as the Litany for Ordination began.

  “Is it your will that Samael Robinson be ordained as a priest?” intoned the Bishop. His long mantel gleamed with gold and scarlet embroidered symbols of Christ and the Holy Spirit as he raised his hand over the congregation. The fourth finger was encircled with an ecclesiastical ring showcasing his exalted office. Samael was in awe and wanted nothing more than to prostrate himself before this spiritual embodiment of his beliefs and kiss the Bishop’s ring while confessing his darkest fear… that he was unworthy of the honor.

  The congregation responded in unison, “It is.”

  Their response felt heavy and monotonous to Samael’s ears.

  “Will you uphold him in this ministry?”

  “We will.”

  Heavier still.

  Samael could feel an itch between his shoulder blades as his body began to chafe and tremble from the weight of their words. Seeking reassurance, his eyes rose to the stone and wood statue of Jesus on the Cross, placed in a position of honor just behind the altar. The sight usually gave him comfort, reminding him that no sacrifice was greater than that of God’s son.

  Instead of seeing the smooth stone of Jesus’ pale body frozen while enduring mortal torment with humble spiritual fortitude, there was the warm, naked flesh of a woman.

  Her heavy breasts rose and fell as her body writhed and struggled against the iron nails impaling each delicate palm. Long ebony hair flowed and wrapped around her limbs, caressing her flesh as if it were alive. Meeting his gaze, her bright viridian eyes pierced him as her red lips stretched obscenely wide with a noiseless howl.

  Alarmed, Samael jerked back. The rapid beating of his heart caused a rushing sound in his ears.

  The Bishop paused in his prayer, frowning. Confused, Samael’s head swiveled to the left and right. Had no one seen the frightful image? Why were they not trembling in horror as he? Breathing heavily through his nose, he resolutely forced his eyes upwards again to behold the wretched sight.

  They were met with the inanimate image of Jesus. Still and pious.

  Samael nervously pulled on the collar of his shirt under his vestments. The once comforting chill of the nave now felt dark and oppressive.

  With a shadow of annoyance still darkening his visage, the Bishop repeated his unanswered question to Samael. “My brother, do you believe that you are truly called by God and his Church to the priesthood?”

  Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Samael choked out a barely audible, “I believe I am so called.”

  Feeling lightheaded, Samael numbly followed the instructions of the presbyter to kneel before the Bishop.

  Was the vision a sign from God? A test of Satan’s? Samael tried to marshal his faith. He thought of Corinthians 7:5: come together again so that Satan will not tempt you because of your lack of self-control. The vision of the woman must be a judgment on his momentarily loss of self-control and focus on his duties ahead by letting the weight of those responsibilities overwhelm him.

  The somber chords of the church organ filled the space as the choir shuffled into position. Soon, lo
w baritones began the chanting rhythms of the Veni Sancte Spiritus. Closing his eyes, Samael was lifted by the heavenly message of light and salvation, allowing the dull ache in his knees to ground him back to the moment at hand. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he realized the atrocious figment was only his imagination, a tool of the Devil, trying to tempt him from God’s path in his final moments.

  Samael took comfort in the reassuring touch of the Bishop’s hands upon his head.

  “…fill him with grace and power…” decreed the Bishop with calm, reassuring confidence.

  The hands on Samael’s head shifted, caressing his scalp as long fingers delved into the short waves. The tip of a finger traced the whorl of his ear as another hand cupped his jaw.

  A high, plaintive feminine voice whispered, “Fill me with your hard length. Your power.”

  Samael was alarmed to feel his body react to the supplicant call of the siren. The Bishop still stood before him, continuing with the consecration prayer, his hands still on Samael’s head, unmoving.

  The brush of delicate fingers trailed over his chest, soiling his vestment robes with their evil intent as they dipped lower… lower. Samael held his breath. A palm brushed his traitorous member as it filled with the blood of the damned. A guttural moan escaped his clenched teeth as he could not help but succumb to the momentary ecstasy of a woman’s touch.

  Desperate to escape her clenching demon grasp, Samael fell forward, prostrating himself before the altar for the final promise of obedience. The frigid bite of the unrelenting marble floor chilled his heated cheek. Lowering his hips, he pressed his member against the stone, willing it to return to flaccid complacency. The Bishop read the Litany of Saints over his prone body. His prostrate form a symbol of his death and rebirth into priestly service. As the Bishop called on the saints to intercede, Samael sent up his own desperate prayer to be strong enough to withstand this test of his faith.

  Again, the sordid touch returned.

  Running down his back and over his buttocks, he could feel his vestment robes being raised. The middle fingers pushed between his clenched cheeks, pressing and prodding. They tickled the sensitive skin of his balls through the thin fabric of his pants. All the while, a warm breath panted into his ear. He was enveloped in the aroma of burning vanilla, an acrid yet sickly-sweet scent.

  Clenching his fists, Samael wondered why God was forsaking him so. Why had he allowed one of Satan’s demons to breach the sanctity of one of his churches? Why couldn’t the Bishop see his tortures and rescue him from this torment?

  Awkwardly rising to his feet, Samael was grateful when the vivid purple chasuble, the sleeveless outer vestment of his office, was draped over his head, hiding the shame of his body’s response to the demon’s ministrations.

  Holding up a simple black leather Bible embossed with gold lettering, the Bishop declared, “You are now a man of God. Receive this Bible as a sign of your devotion.”

  “You are not a man of god,” sneered the demon’s voice over his shoulder. “You are mine and I will never let you go!”

  The rancid smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses as the Bible was placed on his outstretched palm. Ignoring the pain, Samael bowed his head as the Bishop preceded past him. At the first opportunity, he dropped the Bible onto the cold stone floor of the church.

  Burned into the center of his palm was one word.

  MINE.

  Chapter 2

  “It felt real,” lamented Samael.

  “I’m sure it did, my son,” puffed Father Michael as he swiped his brow before reaching for another tomato plant. “But you have only to look at your hand to know it was nothing more than an affectation.”

  Samael caressed the smooth unblemished skin of his palm. His eyes were unable to come to terms with what his mind insisted was truth. It had felt real.

  So had his nightly dreams since then. White supple flesh. The tip of a tongue wetting plump red lips. The curve of her breast. The feel of her hand between his legs. He was finding himself looking forward to each evening’s rest so that he may visit the demon temptress in his mind. It was blasphemous. Proof he was unworthy of God’s grace and the sacrament of holy orders.

  The raspy call of a crow broke through his dark thoughts.

  They were in the enclosed garden of his assigned rectory. With its high stone walls and apple trees, it was an ideal place for solitude and reflection. Father Michael also enjoyed planting vegetables and herbs, saying working with the soil brought him closer to God.

  It would be quite some time before Samael was positioned at a parish of his own. For now, he shared duties with Father Michael, an elderly cleric who was both Samael’s friend and mentor. While sharing most of the details of his strange encounter during his ordination, Samael felt a pang of shame for not sharing all. He couldn’t bring himself to mention his own body’s reaction to the she-demon’s touch.

  “Every young priest thinks his mind and body will be consumed by the Divine the moment he takes holy orders,” bemused Father Michael. “I know one priest who could think of nothing but cheeseburgers the entire time the Bishop was praying over him.”

  Samael smiled at Father Michael’s attempt at levity. Unwilling to burden the man more, he followed along, “And you, Father? What did you think of?”

  “Sally Johnson,” responded Father Michael without hesitation. “We had been schoolmates and she was sitting in the first pew with a tight pink sweater on. All I could think about was everything I was giving up.”

  “Father Michael!”

  “You see, my son. You are not the only one whose mind wanders to devilish deeds and the sacrifice of never knowing a woman.” Father Michael’s eyes twinkled with the wisdom of a priest who had been observing human nature for decades.

  Samael had not fooled him for a moment with his partial admission.

  Nodding his head in the direction of Samael’s foot, Father Michael said, “Hand me that last tomato plant and then hurry along. You don’t want to be late to your first confession.”

  As a priest, Samael now had the honor of bestowing the sacrament of penance. Without delay, he rose, brushing the clinging dirt from his knees as he went into the rectory to retrieve his Bible and stole. He had been unable to use the Bible he received during his holy orders, preferring to use the one he earned after graduating from the seminary. Samael didn’t think he would ever again be able to bring himself to touch the Bible the Bishop had given him.

  Closing his eyes, Samael allowed the peace of the enclosed confessional to quiet his mind. Inhaling deeply, he found the mix of wood varnish and Father Michael’s cologne comforting. He was angry at himself for allowing his imagination to so distort and twist what should have been a pious and glorious day for him. Yet, in the spirit of the very chamber he now presided over, he must forgive himself and focus on his future duties.

  There was the harsh clack of a heel tread on the flagstone tile outside his confessional.

  Straightening up, Samael prepared for another penitent.

  Once he heard the clatter of the brass rings as they trailed the velvet curtain on its small rod to the other side of the confessional, he slid open the small door between the two which revealed a modest lattice window.

  “My child,” he murmured softly.

  Before the parishioner could speak, Samael was assailed by the pungent scent of burnt vanilla.

  There was a deep-throated chuckle before the voice which had haunted his nightmares spoke. “Bless me, Father, for I’ve been a very bad girl.”

  He could just make out a pair of almond-shaped, jade eyes.

  Forcing his fingers through the spaces in the lattice, he rattled the thin wood. “Who are you? Why are you tormenting me like this?”

  “I am you as you are me. We share the same flesh… and the same desires.” Her voice was low, each word pulled from some dark, deep recess.

  “Liar! Blasphemer! You are from Satan sent to test God’s will,” he shouted.

  Turning, h
e tried to release the small brass hook which latched the door. After fumbling in the dark, he lost patience and kicked the light wood-paneled door open. The crash resonated throughout the silent church.

  Flipping around, he grasped the velvet curtain enclosing the parishioner’s side of the confessional and threw it open.

  It was empty.

  A chuckle over his shoulder had him pivoting.

  The she-demon was sitting on the upper portion of a pew. Straddling it, one bare foot rested on the top of the Bibles displayed on a small shelf on the back.

  There was no denying her seductive, otherworldly beauty. Her skin was so pale it was luminous. Impossibly long pitch-black hair moved and swayed about her. She wore a dress which seemed to be made of liquid mercury. Silver streams caught the dim light as they twisted and twirled around every curve of her body in a metallic shimmer.