I could run. Disappear. Mexico. All the way down to South America.

The idea was desperate and irrational, yes. But so was the man. How has this happened? Where did I go wrong? True, he'd been wrong before, but typically Timothy Howard made more well-informed decisions.

He'd let the situation at Briarcliff slip his control. And yes, he'd been wrong. Dead wrong. Too many times there. Too blinded by his golden dream and guided by pride, lured by power.

How many innocents had Arthur Arden killed in the name of science? In the name of his own twisted, deluded glory? Jude tried to tell me...

Mary Eunice. He closed his eyes. I murdered her. His hands clenched in the cooling bath water. I lacked the strength for the proper exorcism. I let the demon break me.

His eyes stung as the images clouded his mind again. The red slip. Her gagging grin. A fall of blonde hair. The surprising oily blackness of her once bright eyes as she took his virtue by force and the shocking loss of control, body bracing for irresistible pleasure.

And the pleasure had been good. Too good. Unforgettable. It daunted him. Called to him. As if the demon haunted him still.

Though he supposed, if memories were demons, yes he had his share. He cupped his palms and lifted them out of the tub. Water pooled in them and magnified the scars. Leigh Emerson. Why didn't I die on that cross? Because Shachath wouldn't take him. Why? Was I so sullied already? Did she already know my sins of ignorance? My sins of neglect? Or did she truly see me as the one to free Mary Eunice? She had walked away from him. Left him to dirty work. But even her counsel had failed him.

Jude's counsel, though. "Kill her." As usual, it hadn't failed him. Jude… He supposed she was still there. Rotting away if not already destroyed by madness. I suppose I've murdered Jude, too. After all, he had murdered her on paper. A report existed, condemning Judy Martin to death by suicide.

His throat hurt sharply. He resisted tears. It was Jude's slip. The day Mary Eunice had shown it to him, he'd imagined it on Jude's body. Unbidden. Images ran rampant and he'd hoped the young nun didn't notice. But it was the demon who noticed, the demon who knew his deepest, darkest secrets.

If it had been Jude… He could imagine relinquishing his virtue to Jude. A "loving woman." He'd seen it well enough in Jude's eyes. Worshipfulness. She would have yielded to him so sweetly. She'd trembled when he touched her hand. He wondered how her body might have quaked beneath him. He was damned for his lust for her and damned for his want of her idolatry: himself.

But that was over. All of that. Now he had Lana Winters to deal with. Her investigation into Briarcliff had indeed resulted in a projected shut-down of the Institution. Probably best for everyone. But it also resulted in further investigation into Timothy Howard, and the skeletons in that closet would reflect poorly on the Cardinal of New York.

No more magic carpet ride to Rome. Again tears threatened. He clenched his eyes tighter. I could go to the Diocese myself. Request a transfer. They will want to avoid any scandal. Honesty is after all the best policy. Perhaps there is still time, and space, to...present a better picture?

To manipulate. As he'd manipulated Jude and the Mother Superior and so many others. But his manipulations had caught up with him now. Had put him in this position.

He opened his eyes on the most frightening option. The bottle of pills. They were given to him weeks earlier for his insomnia. But he'd found the insomnia was better than the nightmares slumber wrought.

There were 22 of them in the bottle. 22 white oval mistake-erasers. He could count them like rosary beads. Perhaps a prayer on each pill? One for every mistake he'd made. Apologies for each regret. At least 15 for Jude… Would it lessen the stigma of suicide? No. He would burn.

But he had a feeling he would burn, anyway.

Would she come for me again? Shachath? Unfurl her great black wings, embrace me, kiss me gently? No loss of virtue in such a kiss. No virtue to lose. His eyes squeezed shut and he bit back tears. No judgment from the Demon of Peace… But forgiveness? For all of my sins? Is that possible? No way to know. No right to ask. Please...just take me.

Perhaps just holding the bottle could bring him the clarity. He rose. Slapped wet across the marble floor and took the bottle back to the bath. The water embraced him. He set the bottle on his bath rack, and it sent his razor slipping through the grate into the drink. He left it settled on his thigh as he regarded the pills with dead eyes.

The faucet dripped. Echoed in the enormous bathroom's chamber. It was so quiet.

In this quiet, even her whisper would resound. Shachath's. Her dark tenderness. He ached for it. Longed for it. To feel - even briefly - cherished. Blessed.

So the sound of the door closing softly behind him was practically a slam. A soft, feminine gait approaching. She's come.

It was nearly a relief, even as his heart seized fear. But he closed his eyes, prayed for peace, and spoke: "You've come to kiss me, then?"

A deep, throaty chuckle. "Oh, there was a time, Fathah, when that would have been my greatest pleasure." Not the musical lilt of Shachath.

Who? His eyes opened to red satin. She perched on the rim of his bath, split revealing creamy thigh and white garter. "Jude?" His voice, high and uncertain, was alien to himself. It simply wasn't possible she was here.

"I think so." She cocked her head. A halo of warm golden curls slipped to reveal soft red lips and eyes like a contented cat's. "Or is it Betty now?"

He sat up, suddenly aware of his nudity, his vulnerability. "Jude, I -"

"Shhh." She stopped his shoulder with a strong hand. "Enjoy ya bath, Monsignor. I only came ta offer my counsel. Ya always seemed to value it so… Or at least, that's what ya said to me once."

"I do! Jude, I do value your counsel. But -"

"Course - ya said a lot of things to me. And most of them were lies, weren't they?"

"Jude…" The ceramic tub was cold against his neck. He stared up at her. "You're not real."

"Oh?" She shifted. Stretched her long arm into his bath. Underneath the tub rack until she reached his calf. She stroked his leg allllll the way back up to his thigh, skating past his suddenly burgeoning erection. Took hold of his wet, cooling hand. Kissed his palm. Encouraged him to cup her face. She nuzzled the caress.

"Jude…" His thumb brushed over her lips. So red. They parted, and just barely, she bit. "Ahhhh."

His eyes drifted shut. Perhaps if I don't look. Perhaps I will wake. But she was not disappearing, and his hand was drifting, sliding down the curve of her long neck, over full bosom, lace tickling. Her belly lurched at his touch and she gasped as his fingers explored exposed thigh, intrigued by garter and cool skin.

"I Feel real, don't I?" She collected the razor that rested on his thigh as an afterthought, fingertips just grazing near his groin.

"You...do feel real." He allowed. He felt ashamed of the arousal he felt. Crossed a forearm over his groin.

"No need to be modest, Fathah." Jude noticed. "Yar rare bird's interest waned entirely with yar betrayal. Trust me."

"I never meant to betray you, Jude."

"Didn't ya, Timothy?" A soft halo lit her. She was beautiful in her accusation.

"I wanted to help you!" He stammered, for some reason still clutching that garter. "But you were so…"

"Angry?" She cupped his face this time. "Poor Timothy. Justifiably resented far his failings." She smiled. Stroked his brow. "Far his broken promises." Her look darkened - brown swirling into black. Her eyes were an abyss. "I thought I was alone, you know. In the lust." The leg he was still touching rose, dipped into his bath. "But you longed, too, didn't ya? Maybe there was more than one demon in Briarcliff." His hand slid down the leg, unable to resist. Smooth as an eggshell. "So now you see it." Her free hand gestured across her torso. "I fill it out a little bettah than yar demon lover did, eh?"

"Jude." He whispered. Breathless. Helpless.

"I woulda been yars, Fathah. Woulda spread for ya like pages in the Book of Jude. I woulda been yar holiest whore. Your Vatican wife. Woulda worshiped you, yar cock, yar guilt. Like I already did." Her head rolled on her shoulders as if her words brought her ecstasy as they brought him shame. She straightened suddenly. Her foot nudged his hip in the bath. "Ya loved my worship, Timothy. Ya knew I was weak for ya. Ya ate it up like my coq-au-vin. Didn't ya?"

He pressed his forehead to her knee. "I did." He confessed hotly, tears streaking despite his best efforts. "I did, Jude. God forgive me." His mouth opened against her skin and he let his teeth graze his rare bird as if he could devour her.

Her previously caressing hand suddenly gripped his hair, pulled his lips from her skin. "D'ya think God'll forgive ya, Fathah?"

"No!"

"Shall we pray?" She tipped his head back further. He gripped her leg harder.

"Yes!"

She pulled her slick leg from his grip. Knelt near his head. Pressed her mouth to his ear. Her breath was Hell-hot: "I promise thee, O blessed Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favour, to always honour thee as my special and powerful patron - join in, Timothy!" Her mouth slid to his temple and he stuttered, momentarily forgetting until their voices were one in prayer.

"And to gratefully encourage devotion to thee. Amen."

"Again," She hissed, mouth over his eyebrow. Her hand stroked his chest, red nails scratching. He stammered. "I promise thee, O blessed Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favour - " her voice trailed off, leaving him weeping the prayer alone, smiling against his forehead. "...to always honour thee as my special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage devotion to thee. Amen." He took a deep breath. "I promise thee -"

"Now the Norvena." She snapped. Red nails scraped over his abdomen, a knuckle brushed his throbbing, purple shame.

"Ah!" He struggled for the words. "Ap-ap-ap-Apostle and Martyr, great in virtue and rich in miracles, near kinsman of Jesus Christ, faithful intercessor for all who invoke thee -" A hiss as her mouth crossed the bridge of his nose and red nails splayed across pelvis " - special patron in time of need; to thee I have recourse from the depth of my heart, and humbly beg thee -"

"Beg me, Timothy." Her lips just at the corner of his mouth, tickling his lower lip.

He jolted when the red nails scratched again. "Oh! To-to-to whom God hath given such great power, to come to my assistance; help me now in my urgent need and grant my earnest petition. I will never forget thy graces and the favors thou dost obtain for me and I will do my utmost to spread devotion to thee. Amen."

"Shhhhh, shhhh, shhhhh." She soothed him now. Lips back to his forehead, offering him respite. The red nails retreated, settling palm over his heart.

He panted softly. Covered her hand with his own. Her free arm slipped around his shoulders, a pseudo hug, stroking his resting arm. "Jude, can I apologize? Can you forgive me?" He grabbed her soft forearm, stilling her delicate touches. "Can you help me again, Jude? Find it in your heart?"

Her curls brushed his shoulder. Taking hold of his hands she raised them to awkwardly fold around her own neck, exposing his belly to God. "I'm a bastion of forgiveness," she whispered. His eyes closed in relief, the beginnings of a salvation smile. "But I was nevah one far forgetfulness."

So swiftly, unearthly, precisely, the razor was open in her hand and his arms across her shoulders and his arms were open and blood spurted magnificently, thickly, just once - only a light spatter marring her carved cheek.

Timothy gasped, pulled his arm back to himself, panic rampant. He struggled to rise. Blood poured into the drink. The water was darkening with it. He was slipping on enamel. Again, Jude's hands stilled him, pressing firmly on his shoulders. "Shhhhhh." She moved, still knelt behind him. He breathed heavily, tense against the tub back. "That's it. Relax, Father." The hands moved, too - stroking absently down his chest, back up, up his neck, caressed his jaw, tilted his head back back until his throat strained and he stared into the warm, brown pools of her eyes.

"Jude…"

She stroked his chin. His arms fell limp. "See, Timothy? My mothah told me once, God always answers our prayers - it's just rarely the answer we're looking far."

A whisper. A rasp. He was feeling very weak. Her face blurred, but he saw a smirk form. "Jude…"

Red lips descended. She kissed him, and sent him into the fire.