“Of course,” I said as I took my seat, and bowed my head.
For an instant, I was sixteen years old again, pinned beneath his hands as church elders called for the devil to leave me. My heart raced, throat tightening.
My mouth went dry with the sudden, overwhelming urge to nurse at Ezra's chest, to find safety in that intimate connection. The phantom sensation of his nipple between my lips made my body ache with longing. How proud Daddy would be to see me now, turning predator into prey. The thought steadied me.
"Bless us, O Lord," he began, eyes closed.
I studied him as he prayed, noting the deep lines etched around his mouth from decades of pronouncing judgment. The slight tremor in his left hand suggesting early Parkinson's. The cords of his neck standing out as he bowed his head. Magnificent bone beneath aging flesh. A face made for revelation.
"Amen," he concluded, opening his eyes to find me watching him intently.
"Amen. Please, eat while it's hot."
"You've become quite the accomplished cook," he observed, taking a bite.
"I've learned a lot," I replied, thinking of Ezra's patient instruction.
Reverend Morris nodded, oblivious to the double meaning. He took a sip of the wine I had poured, a vintage Ezra had selected specifically for tonight's purpose.
"Excellent," he murmured, clearly surprised by the quality. "A special occasion?"
"The most special," I confirmed. "A night of transformation."
His expression softened, misinterpreting my meaning entirely. "I'm pleased to hear it. The first step toward redemption is recognizing one's fallen state."
I watched him take another sip, then another bite of meat. The compounds Ezra had provided were tasteless, odorless, impossible to detect until their effects began manifesting. First would come slight numbness in the extremities. Then, growing difficulty with motor control. Finally, complete paralysis without loss of consciousness or sensation.
Perfect for artistic purposes.
The candle flames reflected in his wineglass as tiny points of light suspended in liquid darkness. The same contrast appeared in his eyes, terror gradually surfacing beneath their pious surface. Light revealing truth within shadow. The beginning of revelation.
"Tell me, Micah," Reverend Morris continued, reaching for his wine again. "What aspects of Professor Bishop's mentorship have troubled your spirit?"
"Not his mentorship," I clarified. "My response to it."
His eyes sharpened, the same expression I remembered from childhood exorcism sessions. "Ah, the homosexual tendencies. We’ve grappled with that particular demon before, you and I.”
“Indeed, we have.”
“Young men without strong father figures in their lives often struggle with this sin,” he said, sawing through his meat roughly. “It takes a man of God to raise a man of God. Your grandmother understood. That’s why she had you in the church so much.”
I noted the slight tremor in his hand as he placed his glass down, the growing effort required to maintain a proper grip on his cutlery. The compound worked through his system elegantly and efficiently.
"Do you remember what you told me during those sessions?" I asked, my voice softening, becoming more intimate. "While the elders held me down?"
A flicker of discomfort crossed his features. The candlelight caught the perspiration beginning to form on his brow, tiny droplets glistening like sanctified oil.
"That pain opens the doorway to salvation," he replied, frowning slightly as he flexed his fingers. "That suffering purifies the soul."
"Yes," I agreed, watching his growing confusion as his fork slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. "I've been thinking about that concept extensively. The transformative potential of suffering. The artistic possibilities of pain."
Alarm registered in his eyes as he attempted to lift his wineglass and found his hand unresponsive. "What's... happening?"
"Transformation," I explained, rising from my chair to stand behind him. My hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just as you promised all those years ago."
He attempted to stand but found his legs uncooperative, his body increasingly beyond his control. "What have you done?" His voice trembled.
"Created the perfect artistic conditions," I explained, moving around the table to face him. "You're experiencing a specialized compound that paralyzes motor function without affecting consciousness or sensation. You'll remain fully aware of everything that happens next."
