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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 3.

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There can be no doubt that she fled in the wake of Brandon Fitzsimmons attack. The supposed “goddess” ran like a coward, abandoning her husband to his torment.

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

Mark Glassner – Tacoma, WA

A soothing, cold wave of relief washed through me. Mary and my family were safe. That was one less thing to worry about.

I lay face down on the street, a soldier’s boot pressed into the back of my neck, the cold barrel of his M16 touching my cheek. My hands were zip-tied behind my back. A soldier shoved a disgusting rag into my mouth and tied it in place by a strip of cloth. 51 lay next to me, the butt of a rifle had slammed into her face, opening a gash across her forehead.

“Up!” a soldier shouted. The one standing on my neck released me and hauled me to my feet.

Several tan Humvees rolled up. I saw 27 in the backseat of one of the Humvees. Desiree sat next to her. But I didn’t see Violet or Leah. Maybe they got away? Unless they were dead. I pushed that thought away as they forced me into the second Humvee. 51 was pushed in after me, her body leaning up against mine. Her eyes were dazed, unfocused. Blood trickled down her face

The Humvee drove back down to the courthouse. We passed columns of big, bulky armored vehicles bristling with weapons. Strykers, I think they were called, carrying infantry. More soldiers were guarding every intersection in teams of three. One would be manning a .50 machine gun while two more stood by holding M16s. In minutes, we passed the wreckage of the firefight in front of the courthouse. Some of the soldiers were clearing away the shot-up police cruisers, while others carried bodies to a waiting truck. And it wasn’t only dead police officers they carried, but civilians who were attending the gun buyback and were caught in the crossfire.

More civilians sat on their hands in the square before the courthouse, watched over by dozens of soldiers. Some of the crowd looked scared, others were bewildered. They couldn’t believe that US soldiers would attack them. That didn’t happen in America. That happened overseas in some despotic country like Syria or North Korea. Not here. Not in America. A few had defiant looks on their faces, staring angrily at the soldiers. Off to the side, the media were guarded by more soldiers, but they were being allowed to continue reporting. I could see all the cameras pointing at the convoy of Humvees, ready to broadcast my humiliation to the world.

A bleak thought struck me: they would broadcast my execution, too.

The Humvees stopped in front of the courthouse, the door opened, and a soldier hauled me out. I saw his face. He was young, maybe eighteen, his eyes bright blue. There was a hard cast to his youthful features, his grip iron on my arm as he pushed me forward. I stood up straight as the eyes of the captured civilians fell on me. Shock and horror filled the faces of those who believed I was a god. Then despair filled their eyes.

Guilt filled me. I had let them down. I wasn’t strong enough to protect them. But what could I do against an army? My greatest power was nullified by the Zimmah ritual. How could a Warlock put so many under his power? Every soldier I saw had their black aura fringed with a trace of red, the sign that they were bound by the spell. What could I do? What could Mary do? Despair crashed through my soul.

How was I getting out of this?

As we approached the courthouse, the glass doors opened and a short, fat man in an expensive, charcoal-gray, Italian suit stepped out. He was balding, his remaining hair gray. He had a burning look of triumph in his eyes.

Brandon Fitzsimmons.

How the hell had Brandon bound anyone with the Zimmah spell? His mother was dead. A male Warlock needed his mother to perform the spell.

Brandon wasn’t alone. Flanking him were two women, scantily clad, who could be Mary’s long-lost sisters. They were twins, with auburn hair, green eyes, and Mary’s heart-shaped face. Other beautiful women, those who had vanished in the Midwest over the summer, lurked in the background. Brandon had his own harem of sluts.

At least I didn’t kill their families or the ones who didn’t please me enough.

“Kneel before your god!” the soldier leading me barked. Then he kicked me in the back of the knee. My leg folded out from under me, and I fell painfully to my knees.

Brandon stepped up to the microphone. “I am Brandon Fitzsimmons!” his voice boomed through the speakers. “I have defeated the false God, Mark Glassner!” He paused, his words echoing through the air. “I am your god and king! Worship me! Obey me!”

I could hear the crowd behind me change as his commands sank in. I glanced behind me to see all the fear, the despair, the anger melt away, replaced by peace. They all had black auras, and I could just make out a fringe of red. It was even worse than I could have imagined. He somehow was binding people to him without using the Zimmah spell. He did it just by speaking.

I was immune to his powers, one of the benefits of the Gift of the Holy Spirit Tiffany gave me. But Mary wasn’t immune. She wasn’t bound by the Zimmah spell to me or warded by Heavenly powers. She was vulnerable.

Mary, the Warlock is Brandon Fitzsimmons. Do not listen to anything he says. You cannot afford to fall under his power. His words bind people with the Zimmah spell.

I let Brandon’s speech roll over me as Mary’s reply came back, What am I going to do, Mark? I need you. I feel like I’m falling apart.

You have to be strong, Mare.

How?

You’re the only hope we have. I need you. I love you. I know you can be strong! I believe in you! I had to believe in her. She was the only hope I had. And only if Brandon didn’t immediately execute me.

Why are you comforting me? I’m the one who’s safe. I should be comforting you. I could sense that she was calming down. I will find a way to save you, Mark. I promise!

The crowd hushed. I blinked and realized Brandon stood before me. I stared defiantly up at him. “You’re immune to my powers, I see,” Brandon grimaced, then glanced at Desiree. “And my wife, too.”

“I’m not your wife any longer,” Desiree snarled. The Zimmah bond chaining her soul to me protected her from another person’s domination. “I dumped you for someone better.”

“Quiet, woman! I’ll deal with you soon enough.” He motioned his hand, and a pair of female soldiers led her away. Then Brandon turned to another soldier. “Where’s his wife, Lieutenant?”

“My Lord, two women escaped in the confusion, we are hunting them down,” the soldier reported. “I do not think either is Mary. Both appeared to be brunettes.”

“Dammit,” Brandon hissed. “Did you secure that Gulfstream of his at least?”

“Yes, My Lord,” an older soldier reported. He had eagles on his epaulets, so I think that made him a Colonel.

Brandon smiled, “Good, they’re trapped in the State. Our troops are heading for the passes?” The soldier nodded. He must mean the passes over the Cascade Mountains to Eastern Washington. “What about his house? Did you find anyone there?”

“Empty, my Lord,” the Colonel reported. “We missed everyone. The entire neighborhood was abandoned.”

“Fuck! Burn the neighborhood,” Brandon ordered. “And that damned tent where his worshipers meet. Kill any who resist. Find where his servants went! You’ll find his wife with them.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Colonel saluted.

Brandon turned to the crowd and took a microphone from one of the auburn-haired twins. “Here is your false God!”

A boo rose up from the crowd. Just an hour ago these people cheered me. I never realized just how frightening my powers were. In the hands of a monster like Brandon, a man who could so callously kill, it would be horrible. People would suffer.

Why wasn’t one of the fucking Nuns trying to exorcise him? They wasted all that time with me. Who did I hurt?

A flash of Chastity and the other dead bodyguards shot through my mind.

“He is only flesh and blood! He is weak and was defeated by the merest fraction of my power!” Brandon continued. “Let me show you just how weak and human he really is!” He motioned to the soldiers.

They ripped the gag from my mouth. Two soldiers grabbed my head, prying my lips open. I fought, struggling to get free of their grasp, to close my mouth. I was strong, but so were they. A third soldier drew a knife. I struggled harder.

What were they doing?

I fought in vain to break free, to keep that glinting knife away from me. The third soldier forced his dirty fingers into my mouth, gripping my tongue. The blade flashed and blood filled my mouth.

“Master!” Desiree cried out, barely heard over the crowd’s roar.

Disbelief almost drowned out the pain. They had cut my tongue off. How could I use any of my powers without my tongue? One of the soldiers held my severed tongue out to the crowd before throwing it to the ground.

I was thrown down onto my back. I grunted, choking on blood. Then the kicking started. Pain exploded in my back, my stomach, my legs. I curled up into a ball, trying to protect myself as booted foot after booted foot slammed into me.

I howled wordlessly in agony.

Over the pain, I heard Brandon’s voice roar, “Mary Glassner! Your husband will be abused day and night until you turn yourself in. Submit to me and be my concubine, and your husband shall go free!”

* * *

Mary Glassner – Somewhere over Idaho

I was sitting in first class alone, save for my mom and little sister. I couldn’t stand everyone looking at me so I ordered them back to coach. Mom and Missy ignored me, sitting with me and holding my hands. Back in coach, they were watching the news. I was the only one that couldn’t watch it, the only one who couldn’t witness what was happening to my husband. Everyone on the plane but me was bound by the Zimmah ritual. I was the only one susceptible to Brandon’s power, and I could not afford to become his slave.

I needed to be strong. For Mark, for our family.

We were all dead if Mark died. My life was tied to his, our loved ones’ lives tied to ours. It all rested on my shoulders. And I felt like I was about to be crushed beneath the weight. How could I bear all this responsibility? I was only twenty-one, barely an adult. My shoulders were just too slim to support this weight.

I thought of Mark, his boyish grin and deep-blue eyes. He needed me to be strong, to save him. I couldn’t afford to wallow in self-pity. I pushed at the despair, forcing it back. We were all lost if I fell apart. There had to be a way out of this. “Just stay calm and think, Mary.”

But I couldn’t.

My mind kept drifting back to Mark. I would struggle, trying to focus on the problem, and an image of Mark being hit would fill my mind. Of Mark placed before a firing squad, shot dead. Of Mark being hung. I would force the images away, and even worse ones would slip into my mind.

Dad walked up from coach, standing in the aisle, staring at me. His presence dragging me out of my morbid thoughts. He looked haggard, eyes baggy, skin sallow. He swallowed, then opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. His long, red hair, streaked with gray, fell loosely about his shoulders, not pulled back into his usual ponytail.

My stomach sank. “What, Dad?” I wearily asked.

“Mark’s on TV. They’re beating him.”

“What else?” I asked, sensing he was holding back on me.

“You can’t go back,” he said, his eyes suddenly firm, hard.

Tears stung my eyes. “I know.”

“This Brandon, he says Mark will be beaten day and night until you surrender yourself to him and be his concubine.”

I felt hysteria bubbling up inside me, almost bursting out in a laugh. Of course, the asshole wanted to do to me what we did to Desiree. Mark humiliated Brandon that day, fucking his wife in front of him. He wanted revenge.

Mark, I am going to save you! I sent, mustering all my confidence and determination.

I’m fine. Do not turn yourself in. I can take it. I could feel his pain. I wanted to cry, but I had done enough of that.

I won’t turn myself in. But I’m going to save you! Somehow! Be strong, Mark!I looked at Dad, and ordered, “Get Sam.”

A steely resolve grew inside me. I would save Mark. We had the Book, the Magicks of the Witch of Endor. The answer must be in there, somewhere. A way to neutralize Brandon’s powers or give me more strength or something.

* * *

President Baumgarten – Washington D.C.

“Mr. President,” Eustace Smyth, my Chief of Staff, said, holding up the phone. “He wants to speak with you.”

I frowned, watching the TV. They were still beating the despicable Mark Glassner. For the last few months my cabinet and I had argued what to do about him. He was a dangerous man, somehow corrupting anyone that came into contact with him. My cabinet was split. Some championed Mark and his sexual politics while others thought he was the most dangerous threat to the US since the war of 1812. My Secretary of Education even said he should be assassinated.

But that was illegal.

I was the President of the United States, sworn to uphold the Constitution, sworn to obey the laws. I would not, could not, approve assassinating a US citizen.

“Who’s on the phone?” I asked. The world had changed today. My new God, Brandon Fitzsimmons, had finally overthrown the false God Mark and was hunting down his wife, Mary.

“Him,” Eustace said with emphasis and I finally understood.

I trembled as I snatched the phone from him. The moment Brandon had spoken during his press conference, it all became suddenly clear. Brandon was the true God and had soundly defeated the false one. No, Brandon wasn’t a God, he was the God.

My God.

“This is the President, my Lord,” I respectfully said.

I found myself to be suddenly nervous as I spoke to an actual God. I had spoken to almost every Head of State on the planet, knowing every time that I was more powerful than any of them. For the first time since I was elected President of the United States, I was the lesser power.

It was humbling.

“You shall fly to Tacoma with your cabinet and surrender the country to me,” my God ordered.

“Absolutely, my Lord,” I answered. The phone clicked as my God hung up on me.

I was going to meet my God in person. I never thought it would happen while I was alive.

* * *

Mark Glassner – Tacoma, WA

The beating lasted for an eternity. An eternity of pain and suffering. This must be hell, I thought with bleak amusement. I had sold my soul, and my punishment was to be beaten by the followers of a man I had wronged.

It was poetic.

I had used my powers for my own pleasures, not caring about the lives I hurt or destroyed. Mary was right to have us free our slaves. And to tell me not to break up relationships just because I was horny or feeling vindictive. I needed to be responsible with my powers.

I passed out sometime during the beating.

Slowly, the pain brought me back to consciousness. I lay on something hard, cold. The agony slowed my mind. I fought through the fog, struggling to move, to survey my surroundings. Metal clinked, digging into my wrists and ankles. They had manacled me hand and foot then dumped me onto the floor of a jail cell. Two soldiers stood outside the bars, M16s grasped in their hands, uncaring eyes fixed on me like I was an insect pinned to a cork board.

My mouth was parched. I spotted a sink. I struggled to move, desperate for water. It was excruciating just stretching my legs, the metal of the leg irons biting into my ankles, constricting my movement. I did not know why I was still alive. I think it was the Gift. A lesser man surely could not have survived. I grit my teeth, mustered the will to fight through the pain, and pulled myself across the rough floor.

It was an effort. Each pull left me gasping, agony surging through me.

And then the metal sink was above me. I tried to grab the rim with my right arm, momentarily forgetting the foot-long chain connecting my wrist manacles together. Grunting, I pushed myself up onto my knees. With a final heave, I grasped it with both hands, pulling myself up and staring at my reflection in the polished stainless steel mirror.

My face was a bloody ruin, swollen so badly that I couldn’t recognize myself. I opened my mouth, spotting the ruins of my teeth and the severed stump of my throbbing tongue. I inspected the damage: gums bleeding, shattered molars throbbing in pain, gaps where front teeth were missing. I shivered. I was naked except for the manacles biting into wrists and ankles. I didn’t even remember them stripping off my clothes. I looked at my body in the reflection. Blacks and blues and yellows covered me. There didn’t seem to be any part of me that wasn’t bruised.

I cupped cold water in my hands, the chains rattling, and slowly sipped it tenderly, trying not to brush my swollen face. The shooting pain in my broken teeth increased as the cold water poured into my lips. I closed my eyes, and forced myself to keep drinking through the pain. I gulped down water until my stomach felt ready to burst. Then I stumbled to the cot.

We’ve landed in Kansas, Mary sent me as I curled up on the hard mattress, trying to get comfortable despite the metal restraining me.

Good. The beatings have stopped. I think I’m going to sleep.

I love you! Your filly is going to save you. There was such certainty in her voice.

I know you will. I sent with all the confidence I could muster to her, fighting back my despair. Mary was free. As long as she was, there was still hope. Love you.

All I could do was sleep. I was so exhausted. I closed my eyes and was letting sweet unconsciousness take me when I realized something. I had ignored my Gift, wanting nothing to do with the Heavenly Power. I could afford to ignore the power no longer. I concentrated, thinking of the Angel Azrael, as I drifted off into unconsciousness.

Summoning the Angel of Death to my dreams.

* * *

Mary Glassner – Osage Field, KS

I stepped off the 747. We were in an airport in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. It was a decommissioned airfield from the Cold War called Osage Field. It was used to service Atlas E Missile Silos before they were decommissioned. Exactly like the missile silo we bought that was only a few minutes drive from here. Our bolthole. Tiffany had found the site, and George, my older sister’s fiance, had purchased it under the cover of his business trips.

A burly man with an MP5 awaited us, along with several women. More burly men guarded the perimeter. The man was Duncan Barber, one of the SWAT officers who attacked us back in June. He wasn’t to blame for the attack. None of the SWAT officers that day were to blame. They were under the Nuns’ control. Three of them had died, but the other nine had lived. Mark gave them the choice to go to prison or he could fake their deaths and put them to work. They chose freedom and work. So Mark and I fixed their broken relationships—it was our fault that they were broken—and relocated them and their families out here.

“Ma’am,” Duncan said. His aura was black, fringed with red. Everyone at this airfield and the missile silo were bound to Mark by the Zimmah ritual. This place was just too important to let anyone know about it unless they were bound to us.

“Is it as bad as it seems, ma’am?” Kathanne asked. She was Duncan’s wife.

“Yes,” I sighed.

“What are you going to do, ma’am?” Duncan asked as he escorted me to the waiting SUV.

“I don’t know,” I said, so tired. Sam and I dug into her translation of the Book, looking for some way to neutralize Brandon’s powers or break the control he was exerting on people.

“Shame we don’t have a Nun,” Duncan said. “Don’t they specialize in defeating Warlocks, ma’am?” His eyes flicked to my mom, hardening for a moment.

I stopped, looking at him. That was it. We needed a Nun.

“Sam, you said there was a spell that would allow a Warlock to steal a Nun’s powers?” I asked, hope blossoming in my chest.

“Yeah, the, um, Ganubath ritual,” Sam answered before yawning. “You need to find a Nun and capture her.” A knowing smile appeared on Sam’s lips, but it quickly vanished. “Where are you going to find one, though?”

I grinned at her. I knew only one place in the world that you could find a Nun. “Fuel the plane!” I snapped. “We need to leave as soon as you cast the Naba ritual.” I glanced at Sam and she swallowed.

“I’ll get started right away, ma’am,” she answered, her face pale.

I would be scared, too. It was dangerous to summon the dead.

To be continued…

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