Peering through his night vision visor, Vincent saw the demonic possession stop on the grand staircase directly above him. Its head craned sideways and down, down, down, neck bending at an unnatural angle. Hair hung over its face like marsh lichens, and Vincent couldn’t tell what it was focusing on, but the fact that it was trying at all was not a good sign.

“Go!” Vincent’s throat felt rough, but he squeezed out the command all the same. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the growl of the werewolf, its claws scratching threats against the wooden floorboards as it bounded towards him and the young policewoman. It was close enough for Vincent to make out its rough breaths.

No matter. He had to trust the police squad to take it out - it was flesh and bone after all, even if it was in a slightly unconventional four-legged package. He had his own appointment to make.

The “appointment” let its presence be known with a wild, bone-chilling screech, stumbling down the spiraling staircase three steps at a time, arms and tattered remains of clothes flailing at angles that made Vincent’s stomach churn. His visor outlined the Possession’s figure in fashionable hazard red — along with one of the subjects in the painted portraits on the scratch-ridden wall behind it. The visor thought, for a moment, then marked both with a helpful little asterisked “unknown”.

For all its grandiose posturing about being “the shining beacon of humanity”, the Church of Light still couldn’t scrounge enough money in its coffers to pay for a proper threat identification algorithm.

Vincent spread his feet wide, knees bent, staff fully extended.

“Oh heavenly Father…” He began the first line of the First Chant, trying to center himself, and slip back into the peaceful calm of the afternoon prayer hall. The holy seal on the tip of his staff crackled to life. That was, at least, good news - the last-minute addition to his trusty weapon of choice had not been smudged enough to render it inoperable. He had one chance at this - well, one good chance, where the odds were actually in his favor. If he missed…

Missing was messy.

“…please give thy blessing to thy wayward sons…” The sun. The sun, on the walls of the prayer hall, shining in a kaleidoscope of colors. He spun his staff, gathering the threads of the blessed Aether with the seal that sat atop his weapon. The steady blue light of gathering energy created a halo between him and the possession, casting its ghastly features in cold, clinical precision. Behind him, he heard an animal roar; several shots rang out in quick succession, followed by a human scream and the crackling of a discharging tazer.

7 steps.

“…use this humble servant as an instrument of thy grace…”

4 steps. Technically, using the Third Chant was the safest bet - but Vincent wasn’t sure he’d have the time to utter all of it before the possession was on top of him. Besides, it wasn’t like a Cognizant demon was going to allow the indignity of being crammed into a corpse; First Chant had to work.

The light. The warm sunlight, pouring through the stained-glass windows.

“…render the world in the glory of thy Light…”

The possession lunged at him with a blood-curdling demonic snarl. Its face was slack, jaw loose, eyes unseeing. It stretched out its arms towards Vincent — one of the fingers had a bit of bone poking out, where the flesh had started to rot off the skeleton.

The smell of incense, and candles flickering in the movement of the thurible.

Love, Vincent. Fill your heart with compassion and love for the - screeching, clawing, rotting—  

“…andraisethiswretchedsoultothyheartamen!” He struck out with the staff, dead center to the possession’s heart. The rotting flesh made a disgusting squelching sound beneath his staff, giving way and compressing under the force of the strike. The seal flashed a brilliant blue, temporarily illuminating the dingy manor all the way up to the farthest reaches of the vaulted ceiling. The shadows of the night scattered, running up - the walls, the columns, the stairs. There was another inhuman shriek; a crackle and the tell-tale smell of ionized air and putrid, sweet smoke.

The dead body, free of its hellish occupant, collapsed straight into Vincent’s arms, smearing congealed blood and bits of decomposing tissue all across the chest of his tactical vest, covering the white cross of his body armor in a trail of darkness. He caught the body, stumbling backwards; it took all his willpower not to retch when the smell finally hit his nostrils, seeping through the aftermath of the successful exorcism.