Seize the Night

out of him, or the blood supply to the brain that I pinched off.
    He bucked, trying to throw me over his head and off his back, bucked again and more furiously.
    I was aware of Sasha shouting, but I didn't listen to what she was saying until the priest bucked a fourth time and nearly did pitch me off. My choke-hold slipped, and he snarled as if sensing triumph, and I finally heard Sasha saying, “Get out of the way! Chris! Chris, get out of the way!”
    Doing what she demanded took some trust, but then it's always about trust, every time, whether it's deadly combat or a kiss, so I released my faltering choke-hold, and the priest threw me off even before I could scramble away.
    Father Tom rose to his full height, and he appeared to be taller than before. I think that must have been an illusion. His demonic fury had attained such intensity, such blazing power, that I expected electric arcs to leap from him to any nearby metal object. Rage made him appear to be larger than he was. His radiant yellow gaze seemed brighter than mere eye shine, as if inside his skull was not merely a new creature becoming but the elemental nuclear fire of an entire new universe aborning.
    I retreated, gasping for breath, stupidly groping for the gun that Manuel had taken from me.
    Sasha was holding a bed pillow, which she evidently had jerked out from under the head of one of the suicides. This seemed as crazy as everything else that was happening, as if she intended to smother Father Tom or to batter him into submission with a sack of goose down.
    But then, as she ordered him to back off and sit down, I understood that the pillow was folded around her .38 Chiefs Special, to muffle the report of the revolver if she was forced to use it, because this bedroom was at the front of the house, where the sound might carry to the street.
    You could tell that the priest wasn't listening to Sasha. Maybe by this time he wasn't capable of listening to anything except to what was happening inside him, to the internal hurricane-roar of his becoming.
    His mouth opened wide, and his lips skinned back from his teeth.
    An unearthly shriek came from him, then another, more chilling than the first, followed by squeals and cries and wretched groans, which alternately seemed to express pain and pleasure, despair and joy, blind rage and poignant remorse, as if there were multitudes within this one tortured body.
    Instead of ordering Father Tom to desist, Sasha was now pleading with him. Maybe because she didn't want to be forced to use the gun.
    Maybe because she was afraid his crazed shouting would be heard in the street and draw unwanted attention. Her pleas were tremulous, and tears stood in her eyes, but I could tell that she would be able to do whatever needed to be done.
    The shrieking priest raised his arms as if he were calling down the wrath of Heaven upon all of us. He began to shake violently, like one afflicted with Saint Vitus' dance.
    Bobby was standing in the corner where Father Tom had left him, both hands pressed to his left flank, as though stanching the flow of blood from a wound.
    Roosevelt blocked the hall door, holding one hand to his face, where he'd been hit by the bud vase.
    I could tell from their expressions I wasn't alone in believing that the priest was building toward an explosion of violence far more fearsome than anything we had witnessed yet. I didn't expect Father Tom to metamorphose before our eyes, from minister to monster in one minute, like a shape-changing alien in a science-fiction movie, half basilisk and half spider, slashing-snapping-stinging-ripping its way through the four of us, then swallowing Mungojerrie as if the hapless cat were an after-dinner mint. Surely flesh and bone couldn't be transformed as quickly as popcorn kernels in a microwave oven. On the other hand, such a fantastic change, pastor to predator, would not have surprised me, either.
    The priest did surprise me, however, surprised all of us, when he turned his rage against himself, though in retrospect, I realized I should have remembered the birds, the veve rats, and Manuel's words about psychological implosion. The cleric let out a wail that seemed to oscillate between rage and grief, and though it wasn't as loud as the preceding cries, it was even more terrifying because it was so devoid of hope. To this marrow-freezing lament, he repeatedly bashed himself in the face with his right fist, and also with the semblance of a fist that he was able to