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For a list of all the Devil’s Pact Chapters and other stories click here

This is a revised version of the story that I published on Smashword starting back in 2014. It is rewritten with much-added material. However, I did have to age up some of the characters so no one is underage in this version.

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Click here for Chapter 4.

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Chapter Five

In Rennes-le-Château, a small village in Southern France, can be found the Motherhouse of the Order of Mary Magdalene. From here, the infamous Mother Superior Maryām oversaw her orders fight against the darkness. But her order dwindled, and she saw only one way to preserve any light against the darkness. She turned to the most unlikely pair to safeguard the world.

—excerpt from The History of the Tyrants’ Theocracy, by Tina Allard

Friday, June 21st, 2013 – Tina Allard – Tacoma, WA

The doorbell rang. I wanted to ignore it as I lay huddled on my bed sick with fright for my husband. He had flown out for France yesterday on Mark Glassner’s orders. He was a slave to the man, a pawn being used to hunt down Brandon.

I prayed and prayed, begging God to free my husband from Doug’s power. I knew my husband had lapsed from church, becoming bitter after losing not one but two wives to disease and accident. I loved him. I didn’t want him to be a slave to Mark.

No one deserved to be a slave.

I was paralyzed. There was nothing I could do. If I went near Mark, I would just become his slave. I had seen it. I would end up like those young women that prance naked about his house, used to satiate the lust of Mark and his fiance Mary.

They were despicable people. Tyrants. The world needed to know, but the world increasingly fell under Mark’s control. At least locally. Law enforcement and the media were all declaring Mark Glassner innocent. Jessica St. Pierre, one of his slaves, had spent all last night espousing how wonderful Mark and Mary were.

It made me sick. It made me afraid. Demonic powers had risen and the forces of good were losing. Mark had made one nun his slave and while another one tried to stop him, her plan had failed. Mark couldn’t be stopped.

The doorbell rang again.

I sighed and rolled out of bed. I pulled out a housecoat, belted it tight, and padded to the door. I was a mess, but I didn’t care. I grabbed the doorknob and ripped it open. “Yes?”

A nun stood on my doorstep wearing a gray habit and a white veil. Her face was young and beautiful, though her eyes seemed ancient. She gave me a beatific smile. “Tina Allard?”

“Yes,” I frowned.

“I am Sister Catherine Sarah. May I have a word with you?”

“If you’re collecting for something, I’m not in the mood, okay? Besides, it’s early.” The sun wasn’t even up.

Sister Catherine reached in and grabbed my wrist. Her hand was warm, soothing. “Your prayers were heard.”

“My… prayers?” I frowned. “Who are you?”

“I believe you have heard of my order, the Sisters of Mary Magdalene.”

“You’re the nun who’s dealing with Mark,” I gasped, hope surging through me. “You tried to get Mark obsessed with his sister.”

“No, that was not me.” Sister Catherine looked around. “That’s Sister Theodora Mariam. May I come in? We have much to discuss and you have important decisions to make. It will determine whether or not your husband remains a slave to Mark Glassner. And it will decide whether the world will fall to darkness, or if a small beacon of light can remain to preserve it.”

“Beacon of light?” I blinked. Sincerity spoke in her words. “Come in.”

* * *

Brandon Fitzsimmons – Toulouse, France

I climbed into the taxi at the Toulouse Blagnac Airport in southern France. I was tired, but too excited to rest. It had been a long flight. It was a twelve-hour flight to Toulouse with a five-hour layover in London.

The taxi was a small, white car designed for the narrow, medieval streets that crowded European cities and towns. The taxi driver, a dusky North African, shouted something in French at me. Then, in thick English, “Where to?”

“Rennes-le-Château, the Motherhouse of the Sisters of Mary Magdalene.”

The driver shrugged and pulled out into traffic. It was a little more than an hour’s drive to Rennes-le-Château, a quaint village built upon a hilltop. A road wound up the hill to reach the top. The driver talked in Arabic on his Bluetooth the entire drive.

Finally, we reached the motherhouse. The building was located behind the Church of Mary Magdalene, an old, stone edifice that was partially overgrown with green vines. The front door of the motherhouse was large, made of wood and bound in iron. On the door frame hung a plaque written in French, English, Spanish, and German which described the history of the building. Another sign, handwritten in French, was taped to the front of the door. My French was very rusty, but it seemed to be the phone number of the caretaker who was out.

Sighing in frustration, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number.

“Bonjour, Maryām à l’appareil. Je vous écoute,” a woman answered in rapid French.

“Do you speak English?” I asked hopefully. My high school French was far too rusty to converse with someone.

“Yes, I am Maryām,” the woman answered in a heavy accent.

“Hi, I’m Brandon Fitzsimmons, and I was hoping I could meet with someone at the Motherhouse. There is a book in your collection that I’m just dying to examine.”

The woman on the other end paused for a moment. “Very well, Monsieur Fitzsimmons. Tomorrow at, say, four o’clock.”

“It’s very important; can we possibly meet sooner?” I asked.

“No, no. I am not in Rennes-le-Château,” she answered, in the background I heard something in French being broadcast over cheap speakers. I frowned. It sounded like an airport announcement. “Saturday, four o’clock is the earliest I can meet.”

I sighed, another hour’s drive to Toulouse and then an hour’s drive back here tomorrow. “Very well. Thank you for your time, miss.”

“Until Saturday, then. Au revoir.” The line went dead.

I could wait a day. Mark would have a hard time tracking me down in France. Besides, I really needed to sleep.

* * *

Doug Allard

“The captain has put on the fasten seat belt sign,” the flight attendant announced in her British accent.

I was on British Airways Flight 3471 descending into Toulouse Blagnac Airport in France on the hunt for Brandon Fitzsimmons. He would have landed a few hours before me. The trail would be fresh.

Thirteen hours ago I took off at SeaTac and I was exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. Every time I tried, Mark Glassner’s words came back to me. “Doug, Brandon’s headed for Rennes-le-Château, the Motherhouse of an order of nuns. The Order of Mary Magdalena. You must stop him from getting a book, the Magicks of the Witch of Endor. Do whatever it takes to stop him.”

Do whatever it takes to stop him.

What did Mark mean? Did he want me to steal the book before Brandon could get it? Did he mean for me to delay or stop him? Or did he want me to kill him? Could I kill him? I was a private investigator, not a hit man. There was a reason I hadn’t advocated to kill Mark. I hadn’t used a gun since I was a cop and I used it on duty.

But the more I poured over Mark’s words, the more I came to believe I had to kill Brandon. It was clearly what Mark wanted. Do whatever it takes to stop him. What else could that mean? I had watched enough spy movies to understand what was implied. It went against my instincts, but Mark needed it done.

So I would make sure I did it.

I was so tired when I stumbled off the plane, I could barely fill out the declaration card as I waited to clear customs. And then I stumbled out of customs as a somnambulist creature, barely capable of rational thought. I needed coffee badly as I reached baggage claim. I almost walked off with someone else’s suitcase. Luckily the owner stopped me.

“Too many people with black suitcases these days,” I grumbled as way of an apology.

My suitcase in hand, at least I thought it was mine, I stumbled out to the cab stand. Just my luck; there were no cabs. It was the middle of the afternoon, so I would think there would be one. I groaned, struggling to stay awake.

A phone rang and I glanced over to see a beautiful young woman, olive skin and long, black hair. She spoke rapidly in French and then switched to heavily accented English. “Yes, I am Maryām.”

As tired as I was, I found myself drinking in the beauty of the young woman. She gave me a considering look as she spoke on the phone. I almost wondered why she was staring, but I was too tired to puzzle it out.

“Very well, Monsieur Fitzsimmons. Tomorrow at, say, four o’clock.”

I blinked. Did she say Fitzsimmons? What a small world. I was here to kill a Brandon Fitzsimmons.

“No, no. I am not in …” the woman’s words were drowned out by an announcement over the airport’s speakers in French. “…is the earliest I can meet.” She paused. “Until tomorrow, then. Au revoir.” She hung up the phone and slipped it into her pocket, muttering something in French.

A taxi pulled up. I wanted to take it, but some weird sense of male chauvinism rose up inside me, and I offered to let the lady take this cab. What the hell; she was pretty. And I’m sure another cab would pull up soon.

“Merci,” she replied and then asked, “Maybe we can share, no?”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug.

“I am called Maryām,” she said with a smile, holding out her slim hand.

“Eh, Doug Allard,” I answered, clasping her warm hand and shaking briefly.

“American, no?” and I nodded. “How nice; I’ve always had a soft spot for you Americans.”

She slid into the cab and I followed her. “I always thought the French hated us.”

“Oh, some do,” Maryām laughed. “They are just jealous. Where are you heading, Doug?”

“Eh, Rennes-le-Château,” I answered. It was Brandon’s destination. The best place to start. “Any hotel there will do.”

She smiled. “What a coincidence. I live in Rennes-le-Château.” When she said the name, it sounded so musical and beautiful, not like my mangled pronunciation.

I had to remember I was married and on the hunt for Brandon Fitzsimmons. I didn’t have time to flirt with a pretty girl.

I fell asleep almost immediately, lulled into it by exhaustion and the rocking of the cab. When I woke up the car wound its way up a hill to a village perched at the crest. I sat up, rubbing my eyes as the cab weaved through the narrow streets past ancient stone buildings to the front of a large stone structure.

“Is this a hotel?” I asked, frowning at it. Everything was so old in Europe. You never could tell.

“No,” Maryām replied, sliding out. “It is where I live. Come inside. I have a spare room you can use.”

I was too tired to argue. As much as I needed to find Brandon, I needed to get a few hours’ rest first. “Sure.”

We climbed out of the cab. She paid and gave a smile while I grabbed my bag out of the back. She didn’t have a bag. What was she doing at the airport? I struggled to come up with a perfectly logical explanation, but my mind had been reduced to mush.

She led me to a wooden door bound with iron. There were several signs that I was too tired to read. Maryām produced a cast iron skeleton key and unlocked the door and led me inside. She led me through the foyer into a short hallway lined with narrow doors. She opened one, revealing a tiny room, little more than a square with a cot.

I turned to thank her and blinked in shock.

Maryām stood naked, her lithe, dusky body gorgeous. Her breasts perky with youth and topped with dark nipples. A mat of thick pubic hair covered her pussy, and the smile on her face was both virginal and predatory.

“I…” My tongue was lead.

My cock hardened in my pants as I drank in her beauty. I couldn’t look away from the centerfold standing before me. She walked towards me, her breasts swaying and pressed up against me. Before I could react, her lips were hot and wet on mine.

Fire flashed through me. Sleep was banished. For a moment, I kissed her before my wife’s face floated up in my mind. I pulled away from the kiss and gasped, “Maryām, what are you doing?”

She let out a hungry purr as she shoved her hands into my pants and boxers. I groaned as she found my hard cock, stroking it in her hands. Her thumb ran across the top and suddenly it didn’t matter that I was married. Tina would never know. She was all the way back in Tacoma.

How would she know what I did in France?

Maryām pushed me back and I sat down on the bed. My breath came in ragged gasps. I had to be dreaming. I most have passed out in the cab. But her hand felt so good as she smeared my precum across the crown of my dick.

“Mmm, just relax,” she purred in her exotic accent.

I swallowed and shuddered. She bent down. Her free hand pulled off my jeans. I lifted my ass to help her. Then she yanked off my boxers, exposing my hard cock gripped in her dusky fingers.

“So nice,” she moaned. “Mmm, what a delicious cock. You make me wet.”

“God,” I groaned.

Maryām slid her finger down her taut body. My eyes were locked on it as she slid it through the tangle of her pubic hair. She gasped as she shoved it inside her pussy. Her eyes rolled as she fingered herself. When she pulled them out they were sticky with her juices.

“See.”

I nodded, entranced by her juices.

Maryām straddled my waist and rubbed her fingers on my forehead. I groaned as she smeared the pussy juices on my head. Then she slid her finger down my face to my mouth. I sucked her finger in, savoring her flavor.

“It this a dream?” I groaned as she rubbed my hard cock against her wet pussy as she undulated on my crotch.

“Does this feel like a dream?” she asked.

“No. But… I’m married.”

“I know.” She kissed me on the lips. It was so hard to think. Her pussy slid up and down my cock. I panted when she broke the kiss. She pushed me back. I stretched out on the bed. “Your wife will forgive you this indiscretion. She will understand. I have arranged it.”

Her words made little sense to me, but it was so hard to think with her grinding on my dick. I groaned and nodded my head. I just wanted to be in her. I couldn’t help it. My blood boiled for this woman.

“Mmm, you have a nice cock, Doug.” Her hand grasped my wet shaft. She raised her hips. Her juices dripped from her pubic hair. “I bet you are as eager as I am.”

“Yes,” I groaned.

Maryām sank down my shaft. Her pussy was warm, hot silk. I groaned in pleasure as her cunt sank down on my cock. She was so tight. I tried not to compare her to my wife, but Tina wasn’t young any longer. I loved her, but, damned, my dick was in heaven.

I watched this gorgeous angel ride slowly up and down on my cock, her round breasts heaving. They were so firm and beautiful. I hadn’t seen live breasts like that since I was young. I slid my hands up her smooth sides to cup her mounds. I squeezed, delighting in her pillowy softness. Her pussy tightened on my cock as I ran my fingers across her hard nipple.

“Mmm, you feel so hard inside me,” she purred as she rode me. “So thick. Oh, yes, what a lovely cock.”

I groaned, her cunt was so tight. Her pussy gripped my cock like a silky vice, rubbing silkily up and down as she fucked me. Her hips moved faster. She swiveled them, sliding my dick through her cunt. I just had to lay here and enjoy.

My fingers pinched her nipples as the pleasure raced through me. My balls boiled. I wanted to savor this longer, but she was so tight. Eighteen and delicious. It was too much for me. I hadn’t been with another woman besides my wife for a decade.

“Shit,” I groaned. “Slow down.”

“You want to enjoy my snatch?” she purred. “But I want your cum.” She leaned over me, staring into my eyes. “Cum in me, Doug. Let it out. I want your cum. Mmm, yes.”

Her pussy clenched and relaxed on me as she rocked faster and faster. I groaned as my balls tightened. Her juicy cunt slid up and down my dick. I couldn’t take the pressure any longer. I thrust up into her.

“I’m gonna cum!” I moaned. “Let me pull out! I’m not wearing a condom.”

“No, cum in me,” she gasped. “Let me feel your lust shoot inside me! Oh, yes! Please, oh, yes, cum in me, Doug. Yes, yes, yes!”

Maryām came on my dick. Her pussy spasmed on my cock. The contractions were intense. She moaned over and over for my cum, begging me as her orgasm shuddered through her. I groaned. I had never had a woman beg for my jizz. It was hot. My balls boiled over.

My cock erupted into her cunt.

“Shalak!” she screamed as my orgasm burst out of me.

I felt something inside me snap. A chain burst free from my soul, binding my will to another. I felt freedom. I bucked up into her, my pleasure and my liberation crashing through me. Tears brimmed in my eyes as my soul sang in joy.

“Wh-what just happened?” I stammered as she slid off me.

Maryām was suddenly shy, covering her body with the blanket, a virginal flush on her cheeks. “You were a Thrall, Doug,” she answered. “I have freed you from the Warlock’s power.”

My eyes widened. “That motherfucker. He had his claws in me. It felt so natural to obey him. I knew I was under his powers, and yet I just wanted to obey him.” I shook. “Thank you.”

Tears burned in my eyes. I couldn’t help them falling to my lap. I had been Mark Glassner’s slave. He would have used me to kill Brandon Fitzsimmons. And then what would he have done? Would I have to watch him fuck my wife in front of me? Would he make me bring her to him?

Her hands touched mine, lifting my face up to hers. I stared into Maryām’s dark eyes. “The Creator has a purpose for you, Doug.”

I could feel it in my soul. I had been touched by God when she freed me. “What?” I asked. It didn’t matter what the purpose was. When the Creator called, how could you say no?

The door opened and a young woman entered, maybe eighteen, her hair a black as night, falling about her naked body. Her skin was ivory, her breasts large and topped with dark nipples. Her pussy was shaved bare, her labia swollen with desire and juices leaked down her leg.

“This is Sister Frances Joan, and she has a Gift for you, Doug,” Maryām said as the beautiful woman walked towards me. My cock hardened even though I had just cum.

Sister Frances sat down on the bed next to me, her lips tasted sweet as she kissed me. Her hand reached down and stroked my hardening cock. Her fingers were silk as she rubbed my cock to life. I touched her breast, gently, reverently. I gave her firm orbs soft squeezes. My palm brushed her hard nipples, bringing a soft moan from her lips.

“Come, let me feel you in me,” Sister Frances moaned. “Let us join as one.”

“Yes,” I nodded. This felt right.

Sister Frances pulled me on top of her. She was warm and lithe beneath me. Her hard nipples rubbed into my chest as she guided my cock to the wet entrance of her pussy. She rubbed me up and down.

“Enter me and accept my gift.”

“Yes,” I groaned as I slid into her inviting, tight depth. She was as tight as Maryām.

Her lips played with my ear as her legs wrapped around my hips, pulling me tightly into her. “You have such a nice cock.”

I fucked her slowly, staring into her deep, brown eyes. No, I didn’t fuck her; I made love to her. It was like my wedding night, and I was making love to my bride for the first time. Our hips moved in unison, our lips kissing each other, murmuring our pleasure into the other’s ears. Our hands roamed each other’s bodies. I felt her slim thighs, her tight ass, her smooth sides, and her full breasts. Her hands slid across my torso, playing with my chest hair. Then she rubbed my back, and squeezed my ass, urging me to go faster and faster.

“Yes, harder,” she moaned. “Faster! Let me feel your passion!”

Our passion built between as as my cock slid in and out of her pussy. She was hot and tight. I kissed her and loved her. Every stroke was building both of our orgasms. In and out, rubbing deliciously against each other. I found her hard nipple with one hand, rolling it between my fingers. My orgasm grew faster in my balls.

The bed creaked as I pounded her pussy. Her moans of passion filled my ears as we both approached the precipice. The cum heated to a boil in my balls. I couldn’t take much more of her delicious sheath. Her fingernails bit into my back, her orgasm only a few thrusts away.

“Frances,” I gasped.

“Doug,” she moaned. “Cum with me.”

I slammed into her pussy and orgasmed inside the beautiful creature. Her body shuddered beneath me, her cunt clenching at my cock, milking my cum out of my balls. The pleasure washed through me as we moaned together.

And then she gasped a single word.

“Zebed!”

Her Gift flowed into me. From deep within her womb, through her tight pussy, then into my cock. A golden power suffused through every fiber of my body, being, and soul. It transformed me. I was baptized in the ecstasy of light and reborn as a new man.

* * *

Tina Allard – Tacoma, WA

Sister Catherine and I came together. I moaned into her wet pussy as she moaned into mine. I had made love to the woman, given myself to her fully. I had never desired a woman before. But it felt right as we licked and nuzzled each other’s pussy.

And now the pleasure burst through us. Her juices anointed my face as they flowed out of her pussy, and she drank down my cream. I shuddered and gasped, the bliss flowing through every inch of my body.

“Zebed!” shouted Sister Catherine.

Her Gift flowed out of her pussy and into my open mouth. I drank in the Gift as I drank in her juices. I trembled as I writhed in the passion of her embrace. The Gift inhabited me. Changed me. I became something more than who I was before.

The Creator had chosen me for a mission. I would see it through.

* * *

Ramiel – Heaven

“Gabriel,” I greet the Archangel as he floated near me.

“Dominion Ramiel,” he responded, his voice a mighty choir. “I sense your doubts, brother.”

“I have followed the threads. The longer we wait the stronger the Warlocks become,” I answered. “Theodora and her sisters have three soldiers and surprise on their side. They have seventy percent chance of slaying the Warlocks today.”

“With two of our Priestesses dead,” Gabriel pointed out. “Our Priestesses are too few to spend so recklessly.”

“By the time they have recruited the twelve soldiers, the Warlocks will have tripled their guard,” I fumed with righteous anger. “Let us strike now before the odds are even worst. After Monday, even with twelve, there will only be a twenty-seven percent chance of slaying the Warlocks. And still two of our Priestesses will die.”

“The soldiers are only a last resort.”

Curiosity drowned out my anger. “What have you seen in the future that I have not, Gabriel?”

“Observe,” Gabriel stated and drew up the threads of mankind. He pointed to a silver—the color of a normal human—thread. “This thread belongs to Alice Perry.” He led me into the past, eight mortal years. Alice’s silver thread brushed the red thread of the Warlock Mary Sullivan. “At seventeen, Alice develops an infatuation with Mary,” Gabriel informed. “But, slowly it is forgotten as she goes off to college.” The silver thread spiraled about the red thread, slowly drifting farther apart as the years went on.

I followed the silver thread through the years as it drifted farther from Mary’s and became entwined with another silver thread. Then the threads knotted as Alice married a man six months ago. But Alice and her husband’s thread drifted apart and then were separated as Alice’s thread became deeply entwined for a few weeks about another man’s.

“Adultery,” Gabriel said with disgust. “The marriage was broken, probably beyond repair, though the husband knows it not.”

Alice’s thread brushed once more with Mary’s. It circling the Warlock’s thread. “Here, the infatuation was rekindled,” Gabriel explained. “This was almost two weeks ago, on the very day Sister Louise made her disastrous attempt to exorcise Mark.” Alice’s thread spiraled closer and closer to Mary’s. Gabriel pointed to Alice’s thread last Tuesday morning. There Alice’s thread tried to work its way between Mary and Mark’s thread. The two Warlock threads were bound as tightly as any lovers Ramiel had ever observed.

“A declaration of love?” I asked, staring at the pattern. I was not as skilled at reading Love, or other emotions, in the threads. My expertise lay in identifying conflict.

“Yes,” Gabriel nodded. “Alice Perry declared her love to Mary and it was ignored. Mary was too preoccupied with her problems that she didn’t even hear what Alice told her. Mark was under the effects of the Bond of Avvah, and Mary had just realized his behavior wasn’t natural. Alice declared her love, and it was not reciprocated. Unrequited love is a very powerful emotion.”

I followed Alice’s thread. In the future, Alice would again attempt to get between Mark and Mary. Next Wednesday afternoon.

“Do you see the opportunity the Bond of Avvah has created?” Gabriel asked.

I frowned, shaking my head.

“Alice never would have made her confession to Mary without it,” Gabriel explained. “Alice was too afraid of losing Mary. Alice believed it was inevitable that Mark and Mary’s relationship would break up. So she waited, biding her time for the moment when it seemed Mary would leave Mark, and then she would act. Now that she made her declaration of love, it is all Alice can think of. On Wednesday afternoon, in the room of the Blue Spruce motel, Alice will try once more to have Mary all to herself. When Mary rejects Alice’s love, she will be vulnerable.”

“To the Prayer of Qannow?” I asked in shock. “That Prayer is very dangerous.”

“Watch what happens when Theodora exploits this opportunity,” Gabriel said and drew Theodora’s golden thread until it touched April’s. I watched in amazement as I followed Alice’s thread into the most probable future, studying the variable and calculating the percentage of success.

“Ninety-nine percent chance of the Warlock Mark’s death,” I said in awe.

“Yes, and Mary’s as well,” Gabriel pointed out. “The foolish mortal tied her life to Mark’s when she made her Pact. When Mark dies, so shall Mary. Then we shall have two less Warlocks plaguing the world.”

“So the Bond of Avvah was meant to fail?” I asked in astonishment. “It was all a set up to create this one opportunity?”

“There was good odds of the Bond working,” Gabriel answered. “But it also created this opportunity.”

“Then why gather the soldiers at all?” I asked in confusion. “Ninety-nine percent. Only the Creator can predict the future with more accuracy.”

“Because, Mark Glassner must die or be exorcised,” Gabriel stated. “If Alice fails, then it will fall to Theodora and her sisters. And as you said, the odds are slim, and we shall never again have the power to challenge Mark with our diminished resources.”

Gabriel showed me the future and he was right. “The Lord shelter us with his mercy,” I whispered. The Warlock Mark Glassner must be stopped. “Is that why you dispatched two more Priestesses? You told me that only Theodora was available? What changed?”

“Only when Mary used her last boon was this pattern set,” Gabriel admitted. “Our brother, Lucifer, is setting brush fires across the world, trying to distract us from Mark. I could not move Isabella or Agnes until I was sure they were needed here. That these are the Warlocks he is using.”

“What do we do if Theodora fails, Gabriel?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Gabriel answered sadly. “We will have lost, Ramiel. But Maryām will see that the fire of hope keeps burning in the Wilderness. She is already taking steps. She is not nearly as confident as I am in this plan.”

To be continued…

Click here for Sexy Stewardess Delight, Chapter 1.

Click here for Tales from the Orgy Chapter 5.

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