Quintus arrived last and late—but there are things a man needs to do before undertaking an exorcism, and those things can't be rushed. Quintus was no longer young, and getting himself full of the proper amount of wine without dumping his stomach in the gutter was no longer simply a matter of waving a slave-girl over and downing another bowl. He had stop sometimes to eat. It was all very trying.

And it was a long walk. By the time he arrived at the villa, an ache like a forge hammer had taken up residence in his forehead and he was nearly sober. Sour sweat stuck his tunic to the curve of his belly, and the straps of his sandals felt like knives, and the back of his head itched furiously.

They had begun without him. The girl was bound to the altar in the house temple. A young, tonsured monk held a verdigrised knife at her throat, just denting the skin, while Leutonius, old and fat as Quintus himself, sat on an overturned amphora, mispronouncing the names of saints and angels. The girl's face glistened with tears and snot in the last of the sun. A fog of resinous incense failed to cover the stink of her shit.

Fresh sweat trickled down the back of Quintus's neck. "Leutonius," he said. "Hold a bit, eh?"

The chanting stopped. The old man mopped his brow, and turned. "Ah! He joins us at last."

"Yes, well." Quintus dropped to his knees beside the amphora. He laid out his relics and his clay flasks of oil and holy water on the floor around him.

He looked up to find the girl watching him. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, but otherwise held an unwelcome clarity. A sudden chill passed through him.

"We haven't gotten anything," Leutonius said. "We were about to move on to the bloodletting."

"I think we can wait a bit longer before cutting the girl's throat," Quintus said. Whatever he thought he saw in her eyes, she could still be a fake. Most of them were.

"Cut my throat?" the girl squeaked.

The knife began to shake in the monk's hand. His knuckles turned white. Tendons stood out on his wrist where it stuck out past the end of his sleeve. He looked at the girl, then at Leutonius and Quintus. "I don't—" he began, and then he stabbed himself in the heart.

"Fuck!" Leutonius scrambled backwards. The amphora tipped and shattered. The monk's heels rattled as he gasped out his last breath and fell silent. His blood, near black in the gloom, made a river between the tiles of the floor.

"What happened?" The girl started sobbing. Almost a convincing performance.

Leutonius swore again. "Ready to cut her throat now, Quintus?"

Quintus worked up some spit and swallowed. "I'd like to try to save her first."

"Then you can go to Hell with her," Leutonius said. "I don't get paid enough to die." He stomped past Quintus towards the doors.

Leutonius tugged and tugged, but they didn't budge. Finally, with a scream that rang with pent-up frustration, he stepped back and gave one handle a savage yank. His foot slipped in the blood, and he yelped and tumbled. His head hit a stone step with a sound like the cracking of an egg.

Quintus watched the body for signs of life. He thought of going over to help.

He turned to the girl instead. "Well."

She smiled at him. The sides of her face cracked and bled, and the beast's sharp teeth showed through the cracks. "Well," she said.

"I believe I'll dispense with any further recitation," Quintus said.

"Do what you wish. I'll still kill you."

"Nobody is killing anybody," Quintus said. "Well. Nobody is killing anybody else."

The girl laughed. "Oh?"

Quintus blew out a long sigh. He put his relics away, carefully, one by one. "It's my fault. I was late. Drinking. Barrels of the stuff. Pretty little slave-girl, too. If I'd had a little more time—"

"Yes? What?" The girl's tongue shot out. It's forked tip snaked over her dry lips.

"It was a mistake, killing those two fools," Quintus said. "You've revealed yourself." He heaved himself up and plodded to the altar. He stood over the girl, examining the knots in the ropes that bound her.

"So?"

"You can't hide in this body anymore. You'll have to shed it. Then what? Scuttle in darkness. Eat rats. Sooner or later, it will be silver and fire."

The girl frowned at him.

"Consider what you'll bring back to Hell, then." Quintus slipped his silver belt knife free from its sheath and showed it to the girl. Her face went pale.

"This girl's innocent soul! A true prize!"

"I'm sure the masters of Hell will see it your way," Quintus said. "Certainly they will not punish you for failing in your appointed task, destroying the body they gave you to use, and thwarting their plans on Earth."

The girl frowned at him again. Her tongue shot out to lick the blood from her cheeks. "Why are you saying all of this?"

"I'd rather live." He cut the ropes.

The girl laughed, high and loud. She shook the ropes off and stood. Her body pulsed like a heart; one moment slim, the next swollen, as the beast strained to rip itself free.

"It seems to me," Quintus said, "that we each have something that the other wants. You have the girl."

She sneered at him. "And what do you have, fat priest?" In a breath, she knocked away the silver knife, and her hands were at his throat, squeezing.

"Not a priest," Quintus whispered. Black spots swarmed at the limits of his vision.

"So? What do you have?" After moment, almost too long, the girl let him drag in a breath.

"Wine," he said. "Eel pie. Poppy-milk. The pleasures of the flesh in all their variety. Anything you wish."

The girl's eyes narrowed. "Sin-eater," she said. She let go of his throat as if burned.

Quintus went on. "Why squeeze blood from a stone, when you can drink all you could want, and more, of a better vintage?"

"You are lost already," she said. "Hell owns you, fool, why do you work against me?"

Quintus opened his lungs, his mouth, his deeper places where the restless ones lived, and drew in a breath like the wind off of a stormy sea.

"Wait," the girl said. "No. No!" Her face went slack. Unholy fire scorched Quintus's throat and seared through his stomach down into the pit of his belly. His gut roiled. Pain brought beads of sweat to his forehead and left his hands shaking.

His new demon howled at the old. Howled for blood and pain. So. He would have some new appetites.

Somewhere, far away, a girl cried and a door opened. Someone screamed.

Quintus convulsed and vomited a stream of foamy, bright blood. He took a panting breath. Grimaced at the salt and bile coating his mouth. Blacked out for a minute or an hour.

A slave-boy was standing over him. Quintus motioned for him to bend closer. His eyes were as wide and white as moons.

"Wine," Quintus said. "And meat. Fresh. Alive."

The boy dashed off. Quintus licked his dry lips, careful to keep the halves of his tongue together, in case anyone was watching.