"Let the Rites of Initi-"

Bakula's pronouncement from my right interrupted my macabre musings. Reactive instinct told me to turn my head in that direction, even though I knew I couldn't see anything. Before reflex could transform into thought then motion, a command thundered out of the darkness- a command I was compelled to obey.

"DON'T MOVE, PET!!"

I froze, not even daring to draw breath. I couldn't tell which direction the voice came from. It seemed to come from everywhere, every point on the compass, at once. I didn't just hear it with my ears, I felt it with every exposed inch of flesh, I tasted it on every single tastebud, smelt it with every olfactory neuron.

It used Bakula's voice, his usual tenor lowered to a deep, rumbling bass, but it was not Bakula. Bakula was just the vessel. This was Pure Evil-- capital P, capital E.

I was shocked that It would make It's presence known so soon, had thought It would have to be summoned from It's hellish home, lured and coaxed by offerings of flesh and blood and innocence.

Or had It been there all along? Lurking in the body and soul of the man who had whipped and orally raped me during the banquet feast? Hiding in plain sight-- **hiding in the light,** I heard Gary Lambert whispering to me-- while I was touched and tasted?

A new and frightening thought occurred to me. What if my presence at the Count's party was all that was needed to draw It out of hiding? I had felt It's evil breath before, been warned numerous times that It knew about me, coveted me.

More voices from the past whispered to me.

**It is over, for now. But you must be careful. It knows you.**

and

**Only It can find you...Maybe... It already has.**

"Yes, I found you a long, long time ago," It whispered as It approached me. Its voice and scent was intimately familiar to me. It had been with me, inside me, urging me on every time I had lost control and struck out at those who had hurt the ones I loved or denied me things I had hunted for a lifetime.

I remained absolutely still, not saying a word though I started to breathe again, quick, shallow inhalations that didn't deliver anywhere near the amount of oxygen my body required.

"I've enjoyed the hunt, the wonderful sport you've given me over the years, but the time for play is over, my sweet one."

I knew then that I was doomed, knew It had finally captured me and would never let me go. I couldn't save myself, but maybe I could save some innocent lives from being needlessly sacrificed.

"It is time for you to take your rightful place at my feet."

"Yes, Master," I replied. "I have waited for you to come and claim me. I have longed to begin serving you in which ever way you require." The words poured out of my mouth before I was aware I had spoken them.

"I know, my pet. You need wait only a little longer." He circled me where I knelt, his breath like kisses of fire on my naked flesh. "Endure just a little pain so you can provide and receive pleasure of a kind you never dreamed existed, not even in your wildest fantasies."

If I had known then what was to come, I would have preferred to have died there and then. No amount of pleasure, sexual or otherwise, no matter its source or intensity, was worth the pain, both mental and physical, I was to experience in the coming hours. And I wasn't alone. Others suffered as much, if not more, than me. And none of them had any promises of pleasure to look forward to. Only death, of the most painful kind imaginable, awaited them.

I took a deep breath, wondering if the words I was about to speak would be my last.

"Now that you have me at your mercy, Master, I humbly beg of you to spare the lives of the others that have been promised to you." I was trembling with fear, sure that I would be killed in an instant for even thinking of such an outrageously presumptuous request, let alone voicing it out loud.

"Ahhh, but they are my main source of sustenance and power. You, my dear, are merely the icing on the cake." The demon laughed out loud, a deep throaty chuckle that sent an icy shiver up my spine and deep into my groin. It held Bakula's substantial gut between two scaly hands. Each hand had only three fingers and no thumbs, each finger ending in sharp curving talons that were at least three inches long.

"But that's what makes you so tantalizingly delicious. Your willingness to sacrifice yourself even for something as inconsequential and pitiful as your precious truth," It mocked me. "You place yourself in mortal danger to save others, many far less deserving of life than you. You have been in my grasp and escaped so many times, I wondered whether you were truly destined to be mine at all."

The demon spoke the truth. I had felt Its fingertips brush the edge of my soul too many times to count-- in various hospitals around the country where I hovered on the brink of death after some life threatening injury sustained in the line of duty or, more often than not, in my passionate-Scully called it blinding- search for my Almighty Truth; inside a submarine poking up through the ice in a remote corner of Alaska; in a buried boxcar in a quarry outside of Farmington, New Mexico; in a travel agency in Richmond, Virginia; in a cafeteria of a telemarketing company in Oak Brook, Illinois.

It bent forward, Its hideous face close to my left cheek. A forked tongue flicked out and licked me from jawbone to eyebrow, leaving a burning trail of acidic saliva in its wake. The stench of Its breath, reminiscent of rancid meat and rotten eggs but a hundred times worse, was almost overwhelming, sending a tidal wave of bile, semen and milk up my oesophagus and into my mouth.

"I have a very, very sweet tooth, not to mention an enormous appetite, and you, my lovely Fox, are very sweet and tasty indeed."

It occurred to me then that I could *see* the demon even though I was deprived of sight. It looked like a shadow, easily seen but without substance or color. Bakula's massive frame surrounded its skinny, reptilian body like a poorly tailored suit many sizes too large. I could still feel the cloth of the blindfold painfully tight against my eyes, too tight to even blink and yet the demon's tongue never lost contact with my skin. There was an unbroken line of fire the length of my face, with the blindfold no barrier at all.

Another trail of fire blazed its way in a zigzag down my chest in the wake of the demon's razor-sharp claw. Fighting fear and revulsion, I somehow managed to look down at my chest and immediately wished I hadn't. The skin sizzled and split open, charred black and crispy. Surprisingly there was little pain, just the dull throb like you'd get after a bad case of sunburn. Foul smelling pus oozed from the wound, gangrene having already set in.

The demon's tongue followed the path its claw had carved, licking away the seeping fluid. The caustic saliva cleaned and cauterized the wound, leaving behind a raised, red welt.

Was I hallucinating? A waking dream maybe? It would explain the weird, out-of-body feeling of being in two places at once, the distance between realities no more than the thickness of a few layers of skin and cloth. I'd had visions that later became reality. Perhaps I was somehow seeing a few minutes or maybe hours into the future.

"Ahhh, yes. You are a delicacy, my sweet fox, in more ways than one. I shall enjoy you very, very much." The demon's form flickered like a light bulb about to fail. It was obviously losing what little strength it had. It would have to retreat and refuel, feast on the flesh and blood of the upcoming sacrifices. Before fading completely, it managed one last gentle caress of my face, soft as a feather and sweet as a lover's kiss. "Soon, my pet, I shall return and then we will never be apart."

There was a sudden jolt as I "fell" a couple of inches back into my body. It was like that strange little jerk you experience sometimes on the verge of sleep.

"-ation and Binding commence."

I was totally blind once more as Bakula, the demon-free version, finished speaking from his position about four or five yards to my right. The hallucination, or whatever the hell it was, had taken place in the blink of eye, in the time between two syllables. My cheek and chest were still sore, but they could have been psychosomatic injuries brought on by the vivid intensity of the "encounter".

Bakula carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, totally unaware of being briefly possessed. The acolytes continued to chant, the boy on the altar still whimpered softly. One of the acolytes came to a halt on my right, the heavy fabric of the ceremonial cloak soft and warm against my fear chilled skin.

"I am Shabriri, Stealer of sight." Female voice, young and trembling with nervousness.

I heard metal scraping on stone as the dagger was picked up. Then an almost suppressed gasp as the first cut was made, the first blood drawn.

"I share this sacred sacrifice."

A warm, blood-slicked finger drew two intersecting lines on my right bicep.

"Lord and Master of Darkness witness us united as one with an offering of blood from brother to sister to brother."

There was the sizzle of a match being lit. I could feel the heat of the flame as it passed close by my left ear on its short journey to one of the candles behind me.

Barely had the first Coven member left than the next one took her place, this time approaching from my left.

"I am Alastor, the Executioner." Another female, this one older and more confident.

Another moan, louder and more pain-filled as a second cut was made somewhere on the boy's body.

"I share this sacred sacrifice."

Long nailed fingers drew two bloody lines on my left bicep, a mirror image of the first.

"Lord and Master of Darkness witness us united as one with an offering of blood from brother to sister to brother."

Another match struck, another candle lit and another acolyte approached from directly behind me.

"I am Adramalech, Slayer of children." Yet another female, her words slow and slightly slurred.

"I share this sacred sacrifice."

Same words, same actions. Shaky fingers left lines of blood on my back between my shoulder blades.

"Lord and Master of Darkness witness us united as one with an offering of blood from brother to sister to brother."

It was all becoming rather monotonous, but I suppose that was the point. If not for the adrenaline flooding my system, the repetition of words and actions would have put me to sleep.

A third candle was lit and I started to feel the heat of the flames on the soles of my feet. I still have a fear of fire, still hate it, still scared to death of it just like I was when I confided in Scully during Phoebe's last visit all those years ago. Against my will, my mind projected forward a few minutes. I saw myself trapped inside the ring of burning candles; yellow, orange and blue flames leaping high into the air, too high for me to step over without getting burnt.

I could feel the sweat start to bead on my forehead, my pulse begin to race, my breathing becoming faster and shallower- the classic signs of an imminent panic attack. Fear froze me in place, my heartbeat stopped by an invisible fist, as I struggled to regain control of my phobia.

*You conquered it once before,* A voice, defiant and strong, one that I hardly recognized as my own, reminded me. *You can do it again.*

*But I had children, innocent children, depending on me to save them,* I replied.

*You've done it once, you can do it again,* it repeated.

*I've done it once before, I can do it again.* I said over and over to myself. It was my own private chant, as silent as the other was loud.

The panic receded and my pulse returned to normal as the third acolyte retreated.

After the fourth Coven member and last female had come to me, had sliced, spoken and scribed, I heard the unmistakable sound of blood dripping from the altar into the crystal chalice.

Plop.

Plop.

Plop.

The sacrificial victim had started screaming in earnest by then, easily heard even over the chanting and drums.

After the ninth Coven member had come and gone, the sound of individual drops falling from altar to chalice ceased. It wasn't because the blood had stopped flowing, but because it was now a steady stream. In my mind's eye, I could see a waterfall of oxygen-rich red liquid tumbling over the side of the altar, splashing against the rim of the glass.

The design on my right arm was complete; the others, on my left arm, back and chest were three-quarters done. I figured barely five minutes had passed since the start of the ceremony. The speed of the proceedings didn't surprise me. After all, it wouldn't be right for the victim to bleed to death before the initiation could be completed.

Acolytes ten and eleven played their grisly roles and then Bakula was standing in front of me once more.

"I am Lucifer, Commander of Hell and Lord of all Eternity." I detected the demon's distinctive accent, deep and rhythmical, replace Bakula's higher pitched voice. I knew without doubt that it was meant for my ears only. It was a warning and reminder that my soon-to-be new Master was still very close-- way too close for my liking.

Eleven of the thirteen candles had been lit and I was surrounded by fire, adorned with bloody markings and inhaling smoke infused with incense and other unknown herbs. The boy's tortured screams had ceased after the tenth incision. The longer I'd had to listen to him, the younger he sounded, barely in his teens now. I hoped and prayed the poor kid had passed out and was not suffering any longer, but soon found out that was not to be. The chant had died back to a soft murmuring that I could barely hear. In perfect rhythm with the chanting was the boy's own mantra:

"Take me now, Master. I am yours. Take me now, Master. I am yours."

He sounded remarkably peaceful considering the pain he must have been feeling. He was probably in shock from blood loss, which would act as a sort of painkiller. He never missed a beat as Bakula made his own cut so he could complete the last sigil on my chest.

"I share this sacred sacrifice," Bakula intoned as he painted two lines that ran from my nipples and intersected just above my navel. He had smothered my tits in blood, fondling them until they were hard and erect. Thankfully, my cock stayed limp and uninterested. "Lord and Master of Darkness witness us united as one with an offering of blood from son to Sire to son."

Oh Shit!! Bakula was sacrificing his own son, murdering his own child, slaughtering his own flesh and blood. Even though the use of familial terms was just part of the ceremony, I knew somehow without a doubt that the boy was truly Bakula's son. This revelation hit me like a ton of bricks, freezing the blood in my veins. It was far too close to home not to have a devastating effect on me. If not for his tight grip on my shoulder I'm sure I would have collapsed to the ground. I had never felt so helpless and alone.

"Father, help me." I whispered desperately, subconsciously knowing that the mental link I had with Father was being blocked in some way. I suspected it was the "power" of the initiation rites severing the connection with my former Master whilst at the same time binding me to a new one. "I need you, Mast-"

"NO! You have but one Master. " Bakula roared, shattering the silence. "You belong to Him now and Him alone! No one can help you! No one can save you!"

With every word spoken, I was being bound by threads of evil to a demonic entity that was gaining strength and substance with every drop of shed blood. I was like a fly caught in a sticky, gossamer thin web, unable to escape or even struggle.

Bakula tore off my blindfold, ripping out strands of hair in the process. I winced at the pain but didn't protest his rough treatment. It was nothing compared to what I knew the demon could inflict. I simply bowed my head, casting my gaze submissively towards the floor. Through half open eyes, I caught sight of the ragged cut the demon had carved into my flesh and nearly threw up at the memory it invoked.

The sigil, a simple inverted pentagram finger-painted in child's blood on my chest, was broken in a couple of places where it crossed the raised scar tissue. The blood had either been repelled or absorbed, I couldn't tell which.

So the demon *was* real. Not that deep, deep down, I ever really doubted that fact. I could sense its presence, just on the edge of my awareness, waiting for me to be fully initiated and step through the ring of fire into its embrace. The very thought and inevitability of it made me sick to my stomach. It brought forth all too familiar feelings of rage and hatred and anger. Feelings that had engulfed me on the few times I had lost control and attacked a suspect or witness. Memories of violent outbursts involving Duane Barry, John Mostow and Calderon flashed through my mind as I recalled the sensation of being "pushed" out of my body by some sort of force or entity.

My musings were interrupted by Bakula's voice. "Pick up the chalice, neophyte."

I didn't resist his command- couldn't resist even if I tried- knowing such action was hopelessly futile. Besides, I wanted this whole horrific ordeal over and done as soon as possible.

The glass goblet was three-quarters full of blood, deep scarlet in colour. I did my best not to think about where it originated or where it would end up. I tried to pretend it was a vintage merlot, but the bouquet was all wrong. It was the freshly drained blood of an innocent child and I would soon have to drink it.

I held the goblet up, offering it to the Count and praying I was doing what was expected of me. I'm not the expert in cult ritual sacrifice that he thought I was. I was operating purely on instinct, picking up subtle clues from those around me and guessing the rest.

I couldn't avoid looking at the body laid out on the altar in front of me. The physical similarities between Bakula and the boy were very obvious, exact same shade of emerald green eyes and sandy blonde hair. They shared the same large, flabby build. In Bakula's case it was due to extreme overeating, in the boy's it was puppy fat. Puppy fat that would never be converted to muscle during puberty. I'd guessed his age at no older than eleven or twelve, poor little kid.

He didn't move and was barely making a sound, just those pitiful little whimpers I had first heard when he was laid upon the altar less than ten minutes before. The little bit of skin that wasn't covered in blood was white as snow. There were slashes on both arms, legs and chest, criss-crossing veins and arteries, some shallow, others deep. Even if medical treatment were available and immediately administered, I doubt he would have survived. He had simply lost too much of the life-sustaining liquid. Sluggish streams of blood- blood that would have coagulated within a couple of minutes in a non-Bleeder- still trickled from each cut into the channel around the edge of the altar. The drainage hole had been plugged, causing the channel to fill almost to the verge of overflowing down the side of the stone table. I figured the excess would be collected later to re-dye Bakula's crimson cloak.

The eleven black-cloaked acolytes stood on the other side of the burning candles, towering above me where I knelt like tall trees in a forest. Hoods covered their heads and the flickering light cast by the torches and candles wasn't enough to illuminate their faces.

A naked slave, no older than the boy being sacrificed, approached Bakula, holding a silver tray. Bakula placed the chalice and blood-stained dagger on it, speaking a few words in an unfamiliar language. The slave carried the items slowly around the circle of acolytes, stopping briefly in front of each one. Each Coven member sliced a long slash into their palm with the dagger and squeezed the resultant dripping blood into the chalice, repeating the same words Bakula had spoken.

Barely a minute later and the chalice was handed back to the Count. He dipped the dagger into it, stirring in the latest offerings, and anointed my forehead and cheeks with sticky, warm blood. To my surprise and relief, he was very careful not to cut me with the razor sharp blade. I think- no, I *know* - he wanted to, but Father's warning was obviously enough of a threat.

He raised the goblet to my lips. "Drink."

I baulked, unable to obey. It wasn't a deliberate show of defiance or even a conscious decision. I knew I didn't have any choice or say in the matter. I was simply unable to open my mouth, as if the neural pathways from my brain to my jaw muscles had been severed.

All of a sudden a gust of icy wind came out of nowhere, sweeping up my back like a blast of liquid nitrogen. Simultaneously, fire scorched the sole of my left foot from heel to toe. I screamed in agony, unable to move, unable to escape the pain. It didn't last more than a second but it felt like an eternity. As if I had eyes in the back of my head, I had seen the candle flame forced horizontal by the mysterious wind and lengthen, flicking out from the wick like a serpent's tongue. Recalling the demon's action earlier made the analogy all too accurate.

No-one around me reacted at all, no-one came to my aid. The wind didn't have any effect on anyone or anything else. Bakula's crimson cloak remained completely still, the candles I could see in my peripheral vision continued to burn normally, the flames vertical and barely disturbed. I looked for Father but he was hidden from my view behind the wall of Coven members. Not that he could have helped me anyway, but it would have been so good to be able to see him, to connect with him in any way at all.

Bakula took advantage of my predicament, brutally pushing the chalice against my slightly open mouth and tipping it upwards. I was forced to swallow the contents or risk choking to death. Blood flooded my mouth and poured down my throat in a seemingly never-ending flow. I tried to draw breath and ended up gagging and coughing. Blood and spit sprayed out of my mouth, splattering myself, Bakula and the attending slave.

Seemingly oblivious to my distress, Bakula held the goblet in place. My panic increased quickly as I used up the last of the oxygen in my lungs. I raised my hands to force away the goblet, only to have them gripped painfully behind my back.

"Breathe through your nose, child," he instructed me in a calm, soothing tone. "You must consume all the offering. Just relax and breathe slowly."

I struggled to do as he said. It seemed like an eternity before I managed to inhale enough air to satisfy my body's needs. The panic started to recede and I was eventually able to swallow the remaining blood. I was sure I was going to throw up but it didn't happen. Maybe all the milk and semen I had consumed earlier had coated my stomach, settling the gastric juices.

I had barely recovered before Bakula thrust the dagger into my left hand.

"Send this most sacred of offerings to our Lord and Master," he commanded me. "Only in His glorious embrace will his suffering cease and he can begin to truly serve his Master."

I looked down at the object in my hand as if I had never seen it before and had no idea of its purpose. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, seconds stretching into minutes, minutes into hours.

I felt Bakula grasp my wrist and position the dagger over the boy's throat.

The air around me rippled, every colour of the spectrum flashing before my eyes. My surroundings morphed seamlessly into another scene, another time and place but instantly recognizable.

The Temple Abyss cavern became the First Sovereign Bank in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; the blood on my face became a rubbery Dracula mask; the dagger, an automatic rifle; the boy bleeding to death on the altar transforming into a teller with an abdominal gunshot wound.

I couldn't murder the teller back in '98 and I couldn't euthanise the boy now, despite the obvious fact that I would be putting him out of excruciating misery.

The decision was taken out of my control as I felt an enormously heavy weight on my left hand.

"I am..." I hesitated, knowing I had a script to follow but not knowing what my lines were. I had no name, no function. I was like a newborn creature without identity or self awareness.

The same force took over my mind, making me speak words not of my own choosing.

"I offer this sacred sacrifice." The voice did not sound like my own, as if I was using my vocal cords for the very first time.

My hand was forced down towards the boy's vulnerable throat, closer and closer to his jugular. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the dagger from pressing against the pasty white skin.

"Lord and Master of Darkness witness us united as one with an offering of blood from brother to brother to Supreme and Eternal Master."

I felt like a ventriloquist's dummy with someone, or something, else supplying the words and controlling my actions.

Just before the skin was broken, I managed to glance at the boy's face. Although it was absolutely, positively against my will, I was about to take the kid's life. The least I could do was look him in the eye as I did it.

His lips moved, barely perceptible, but they moved. As the knife sunk into flesh and muscle and was drawn from left to right, severing veins and arteries and vocal cords, he mouthed four words. He made no sound, but his final words were as loud as thunder and are permanently imprinted on my brain.

"My name is Alex."

Lip reading those four words was the final blow to my already traumatized psyche. I didn't see a pre-pubescent boy laid out on a stone altar, his lifeblood draining quickly from his chubby body. I saw a slender, long limbed adult. I saw his namesake, my ex-lover, my sweet Alexander. He hated me calling him that as much, if not more, than I hated him calling me by my given name.

I collapsed to the rough stone ground, not caring what happened to me, not caring if I lived or died. I didn't cry out for my father whom I was so sure not only knew what would take place but had orchestrated the whole horrible affair. I didn't scream curses at the evil, sadistic entity that would demand the life of a child. I didn't feel the ground underneath me, nor the heat of the candle flames singeing my hair and searing my skin. I was totally void of all feeling and emotion as if pumped full of some powerful sedative.

I don't know how long I lay there nor what was happening around me. One second I was lying on the cold floor of the ritual cavern, surrounded by fire and blood and death, the next I was standing upright in the centre of a tight group, cloistered by my new Brothers and Sisters, being welcomed into my new Family.

I have a vague, dreamy recollection of rising to my feet, lighting the thirteenth and last candle and passing through the ring of fire, totally unafraid, totally confident that I would be protected against harm by the supreme power and love of my new Master. I'm not sure if that really happened or whether I was simply transported? beamed? the tiny distance away from the low, blood drenched altar and ring of fire.

I was caressed by twenty-two bloody hands; male and female; large and small, rough and soft. Eleven pairs of blood-smeared lips smothered every part of my body with sensual fragrant kisses. The continual touching was electric and very, very arousing. I was hard and leaking pre-cum within seconds.

Alex's blood adorned my flesh and filled my stomach. His uniquely boyish aroma coated my nasal passages and flooded my tastebuds. It tasted sweet and thick and dangerous, just as Kristen told me many years ago.

One by one, each of my Coven siblings knelt before me. One by one they took my engorged cock in their mouth, worshipped me with tongue, teeth and lips and drank of my essence. The other ten continued stroking and touching me. It was the most erotic experience of my life, surpassed only by my first coupling with our Master. I orgasmed over and over and over, (eleven times in all) never feeling as if I would run dry, my cock never going the slightest bit soft. As each one stood, they kissed Bakula deeply, sharing the taste of me with our Coven Sire. Then Bakula took me in his arms and we French-kissed for what seemed like hours, never running out of breath, never wanting to let each other go.

When we finally did part, I was still as hard as ever and twice as horny. I knew of only one being that could drain me completely, one lover that could satisfy my insatiable sexual cravings.

"Fuck me now, Master. I am yours. Fuck me now, Master. I am yours," I cried out both mentally and vocally. It's only now that I realize how similar my words were to those spoken by Alex in the minutes before his death.

Sire Bakula took two steps backwards, transforming before my eyes into my demon Master, my beautiful, cruel Master. He emerged from Bakula's already lifeless body like a stunningly beautiful butterfly breaking free from the cocoon of an ugly, hairy caterpillar. Giant iridescent wings unfurled from behind him reaching fifteen feet into the air. I longed to be enveloped in them, knowing they would be as soft as the finest kidskin leather. No longer just an insubstantial shadow trapped inside a mortal body, Master was as solid and real as I, perhaps more so.

A magnificent gold plated, gem encrusted throne materialized out of thin air. He collapsed back into it, but it was a movement of exquisite control and fluidity. His wings lifted gracefully so they wouldn't be crushed against the back of the throne.

"I am here, my sweet child. Here to claim what has been, and what always will be, mine for all eternity." His voice was a low rumbling growl, like honey coated gravel. It was the most sexually arousing thing I had ever heard. My body felt like one giant penis, the millions of nerves like prostates being stimulated all at the same time.

I gazed in awe at His glorious naked body covered with glistening scales that caught the candlelight, reflecting back every color of the rainbow. His face was chiselled and angular with a striking nose and lusciously plump lips. Two long, thick horns sprouted from the top of His head which was covered in a thick mane of coal black hair that fell to his waist. They curved and draped over his pectoral muscles, ending in sensitive looking tentacles that teased His prominent nipples. I at once imagined my cock trapped between His lips whilst He fucked me into oblivion with one, or both, of those flexible appendages.

Every muscle, tendon and ligament was perfectly formed and defined, like a fresh cadaver minus its skin. He was at least eight feet tall, with broad shoulders and chest tapering down to a slender waist. My eyes were quickly drawn lower, past His flat belly before stopping, fixed on the most wondrous sight I had ever seen.

A massive cock, eighteen inches long and a minimum six inches thick, stood proudly at attention above two perfectly round balls the size of large grapefruit.

I moved to kneel at His feet, but, in the blink on an eye, Master was surrounded by the Coven acolytes. I was confused and deeply hurt at being denied the opportunity to display my subservience. I struck out at the closest of my new siblings, but was pushed back firmly.

I surged forward once more, determined to force my way through the barrier separating me from my Master, determined to kill with my bare hands any that stood in my way if that's what it took. Before I completed the first step, there was a loud bang like an explosion and a huge crack appeared in the stone floor just in front of my bare feet. It rapidly spread, growing too wide for me to step or even jump over.

My forward momentum almost carried me to my death. Balanced precariously on the edge, my arms flailing uselessly, I knew couldn't prevent myself falling forwards. I also couldn't avoid looking down into the deep dark crevice that would soon be my grave. It was bottomless as far as I could tell and I knew without a doubt I was looking at the Gates of Hell. Thick black smoke, tinged red by the fires of Hades and hotter than the sun, billowed upwards, carrying the stench of death and decay along with the anguish-filled screams of millions of tormented souls.

Time froze as I hung over the chasm. Just as my toes lost their grip on the edge and I began to fall, a strong and familiar gust of icy wind erupted from the far side of the crevice. It caught and cradled me, lifting me up and carrying me backwards to the safety of the stone floor.

Even though we were separated by a dozen or so feet, there was no doubt in my mind that it was my Master who had saved my life. He truly held my life in the palm of His hand. Just as he had punished me earlier for baulking at drinking the boy's blood, he proved to me just then that he could and would protect me. He was able to deliver pain or pleasure at whim, able to sustain or snuff out life as He so desired.

And yet, He had pushed me further away rather than bringing me closer. I was heartbroken. Master obviously didn't consider me attractive enough to want me anywhere near Him. He didn't even want to look upon me. What had I done- or not done- to displease Him so badly?

I sunk to my knees, silent tears coursing down my cheeks, not knowing what else to do, but wanting to stay as close as He would allow.

I was so distraught, I nearly didn't hear the oldest of my Brothers solemnly explain why I had been banished.

"A newborn must first cross the Abyss before being deemed worthy to kneel at our Master's feet."

Only then did I recall Sire Bakula's earlier words to Father: "...needs energy... different experiences of those who cross the Abyss... join those who reside on The Other Side... meet those who seek revenge."

*Mulder.* I thought I heard my name in a barely audible whisper.

*Mulder.* Again, slightly louder. It didn't sound like Master's deep voice, didn't make sense that He would call me by that name, but I couldn't think who else it might be.

*You're going to listen to me.*

I finally noticed that the persistent tingle that had taken up residence in my mind was the source of the voice. It was so gentle and different from what I experienced when Spender thrust his thoughts into my brain, that I was at a lost to explain it. My confusion didn't last long.

CONTINUED IN PART 3