The Covenant of Flesh

The rain fell like judgment over New Montreal's outer ruins, turning the broken pre-gamma streets into rivers of rust and ash. I stood in the loading bay of the transport station, watching the water cascade off the corrugated metal roof, and wondered—not for the first time—why the guilty always called me when it was raining.

My neural interface flickered the warning across my vision, but I dismissed it with a blink. Everything in this city was poison. You either got used to it or you died trying.

"Detective Kade?"

I turned to find a woman in a gray latex habit watching me from the shadows of the bay. The material clung to her body like a second skin, revealing every curve while maintaining the traditional nun's silhouette. She was young—mid-twenties at most—with pale skin that had the luminescent quality of high-grade gamma enhancement.

Her habit was form-fitting but relatively modest compared to what I'd seen in the city's fetish districts. The neckline came up to her collarbone, and the sleeves extended to her wrists, but there was no hiding the way the shiny gray material hugged her full breasts, narrow waist, and flared hips. The skirt portion fell to mid-calf with a single slit up the side, revealing slender legs and bare feet in simple sandals. The latex squeaked softly as she moved.

A traditional wimple framed her face—white fabric that wrapped around her forehead and chin—but even that had been modified with some kind of coating that gave it a subtle sheen. A black veil hung down her back. Where strands of platinum blonde hair escaped at her temples, I could see they'd been cut short and styled to frame her heart-shaped face.

But it was her face that caught my attention first. Delicate features—high cheekbones, small nose, full lips painted a soft rose. And her eyes: brilliant amber, almost glowing in the dim light, with vertical pupils that contracted as she met my gaze.

Feline modifications. Expensive ones.

"Just Kade," I said, stepping closer. The scent of incense clung to her latex habit, mixing with the smell of rain and ozone. Underneath it: fear-sweat and something else. Something chemical and sweet, like overripe fruit.

"Sister Vera." She offered a hand that trembled slightly, and I noticed her fingernails were longer than normal—not quite claws, but sharp enough to be weapons if needed. The nails were painted the same soft rose as her lips. "Mother Celestine sent me to guide you."

Sister Vera. The universe had a sense of humor.

I shook her hand—warm, slightly damp—and held it a moment longer than necessary, watching her pupils dilate. Her breathing quickened, and a flush crept up her pale neck to her cheeks.

"The transport's waiting," Sister Vera said, withdrawing her hand quickly and tucking it against her side. The latex squeaked again. "Mother Celestine wants you at the Covenant before nightfall."

"Of course she does." I grabbed my gear bag and followed her into the rain.

The latex of her habit darkened as the water hit it, clinging even tighter to her body. I watched the way her hips swayed as she walked, the squeak and shine of the material with each step. She moved quickly, almost nervously, like prey that knew it was being watched.

The transport was a battered pre-gamma model that had been retrofitted with a hydrogen cell and enough armor plating to survive the wasteland roads. Sister Vera slid into the driver's seat with practiced ease, the latex of her habit riding up slightly to reveal more of her thigh as she adjusted her position. She caught me looking and quickly tugged the material back down, her cheeks flushing again.

We left the city walls behind and entered the dead zone—that stretch of irradiated emptiness between New Montreal and the outer settlements. The landscape here was a graveyard of the old world: collapsed overpasses, rusted vehicle husks, and the occasional mutated tree reaching skeletal branches toward the gray sky.

I'd been out here before. The wasteland had a way of making you remember what humanity had lost.

The transport's interior was quiet except for the hum of the hydrogen cell and the soft squeak of latex whenever Sister Vera shifted in her seat. I watched her hands on the wheel—delicate but strong, those sharp nails clicking against the polymer surface. Her amber eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept wetting her lips.

"How long have you been at Saint Mara's?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Sister Vera flinched like I'd struck her. "Three years. I took my vows when I was twenty-one."

"Young."

"The Unveiled Mother calls us when we're ready to hear Her." It sounded rehearsed, like something she'd been taught to say. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, and I heard the latex of her habit creak as she tensed.

"Tell me about the deaths," I said.

Her knuckles went white on the wheel, the sharp nails digging in. "Mother Celestine should—"

"I'm going to hear it from her anyway. Might as well get your version first."

She was quiet for so long I thought she wouldn't answer. The only sound was the rain hammering on the transport roof and the whisper of latex as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Then: "Three Sisters. In three weeks. All of them... changed."

"Changed how?"

"You'll see." Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the rain. "When you see them, you'll understand why we need you."

I studied her profile—the delicate line of her jaw, the way her throat worked as she swallowed. Fear, yes, but something else too. Guilt, maybe. Or complicity.

"Were you close to any of them?"

"Sister Lucia was my friend." Her voice cracked slightly. "We took our vows together. She was... she was so beautiful. So faithful. And then—" She stopped, shaking her head. A tear traced down her cheek, catching the gray light from outside.

"And then what?"

"Then the Divine touched her. And she became something else."

The way she said it—like it was both horrible and holy—made my skin crawl.

Saint Mara's Covenant rose from the wasteland like a broken tooth—a pre-gamma monastery that had somehow survived the apocalypse intact. Gothic spires reached toward the clouds, their stone facades stained black with centuries of pollution. High walls surrounded the compound, topped with razor wire that gleamed wetly in the rain.

"Expecting trouble?" I asked as we approached the gate.

Sister Vera didn't answer. She keyed a code into the security panel—I noted the sequence, a habit—and the massive iron gates groaned open.

Inside, the Covenant was a maze of courtyards and cloisters, all of them empty in the rain. I caught glimpses of movement in the windows—pale faces watching our arrival, the shine of latex in candlelight—but no one came out to greet us.

The courtyard was paved with dark stone, already slick with rain. Gothic arches lined the perimeter, leading to shadowed corridors. In the center stood a fountain—pre-gamma construction, cracked and weathered, with a statue of the Virgin Mary that someone had modified. Instead of traditional robes, the statue wore something that looked disturbingly like the latex habits the Sisters wore. Instead of a serene expression, her face was contorted in what could have been ecstasy or agony. Her hands were raised, palms out, and I could see something had been carved into them. Stigmata, maybe, or something worse.

Sister Vera parked the transport near what looked like the main chapel and killed the engine. Rain drummed on the roof above us. Neither of us moved.

"Mother Celestine is waiting in her study," she said finally, not looking at me. Her hands were still gripping the wheel, latex creaking. "I'll take you to her."

"The bodies first," I said.

She turned to stare at me, rain streaming down the windshield between us. Her amber eyes were wide, pupils dilated. "What?"

"I need to see where they died. The bodies, if they're still here. That's how this works."

"Mother Celestine specifically requested—"

"I don't work for Mother Celestine. Your Covenant hired me to investigate three deaths. I investigate by examining the evidence, not by taking meetings." I opened the transport door and stepped into the rain. Cold water immediately soaked through my coat. "So either you show me the bodies, or I get back in this transport and drive myself home."

Sister Vera sat there for a long moment, water hammering on the roof above us. I could see her internal struggle playing out on her face—duty versus self-preservation, obedience versus pragmatism. The latex of her habit squeaked as she shifted, and I saw her take a deep breath that made her breasts rise and fall beneath the shiny gray material.

Then she sighed and climbed out.

"Follow me," she said, her voice barely audible over the rain. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

The morgue was in the basement of the medical wing, down a spiral staircase that felt older than the gamma event itself. The air grew colder with each step, and my breath plumed in the darkness until Sister Vera found a light switch. Her latex habit squeaked with every step, echoing in the stone stairwell.

Fluorescent tubes flickered to life, revealing a room that was part chapel, part laboratory. Religious iconography covered the walls—images of the Unveiled Mother, her face obscured by veils of light that seemed to shift and writhe in the fluorescent glare—but the center of the room was dominated by three steel examination tables.

On each table lay a body covered in white cloth.

The room smelled of disinfectant, incense, and underneath it all, the sweet-sick scent of decay and something else. That same chemical smell I'd detected on Sister Vera, but stronger, concentrated.

"Sister Beatrice prepared them," Sister Vera said, her voice echoing in the stone chamber. She stood near the doorway, as far from the tables as possible, her hands clasped in front of her. The latex of her habit creaked as she shifted her weight nervously. "She's our physician. She... she did what she could."

I approached the first table and pulled back the cloth.

Sister Lucia had been a beautiful woman once. I could see it in the bones of her face, in the curve of her lips, in the way her body had been sculpted by expensive enhancement work. She'd been in her early twenties, with the kind of figure that drew stares even in a city full of modified beauties.

She lay naked on the steel table—the Covenant apparently didn't believe in modesty for the dead. Her breasts were full and high, with small pink nipples that had gone dark and crystalline in death. Her waist was impossibly narrow, her hips flared in that exaggerated hourglass that screamed high-end body modification. Between her legs, she was hairless, smooth.

But the gamma had rewritten her from the inside out.

Crystalline growths erupted from her skin—not the smooth, gem-like mutations I'd seen in some enhancement clinics, but jagged, organic structures that looked like they'd torn their way out of her flesh. They clustered around her hands and wrists, bursting through the delicate skin like broken glass. More crystals erupted from her throat, her temples, the curve of her collarbones. The largest growth emerged from between her breasts, splitting her sternum—a jagged spire of blood-red crystal that rose six inches from her chest, catching the fluorescent light and refracting it into angry rainbows.

Her thighs were covered in smaller growths, like someone had planted a garden of razors in her flesh. Some had pierced through her labia, and I could see crystalline structures inside her vaginal opening, glittering obscenely.

Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. They'd crystallized too—her irises now faceted like gems, frozen in an expression that I couldn't read. Pain? Ecstasy? Both?

I pulled out my forensic scanner and ran it over the body, careful not to touch the crystals. They looked sharp enough to cut.

"She was with someone," I said quietly, watching the readings. "Before she died."

Behind me, Sister Vera's voice was barely a whisper. "We... many of the Sisters share pleasure. It's part of our communion. The flesh is a temple, and we're meant to celebrate it."

I looked back at her. She was still standing by the door, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Her amber eyes were glistening.

"Even while she was dying?"

"We didn't know she was dying." A tear traced down her cheek. "She seemed... transcendent. Sister Beatrice said the crystallization was a blessing, a sign that the Unveiled Mother had chosen her for transformation." Her voice cracked. "We thought she was ascending."

I turned back to the body. "Who was with her? When she died?"

"Several of us. We took turns. Sister Beatrice was monitoring her vitals. Mother Celestine was... present."

"Present how?"

Sister Vera was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was even softer. "Leading the communion. It's... it's an honor. To be chosen for the sacrament."

"The sacrament," I repeated. That word again. I made a note to ask about it later.

I moved to the second table.

Sister Therese's transformation was even worse. Her skin had taken on a greenish cast, and root-like tendrils emerged from her pores, writhing weakly even in death. They were thin, almost hair-like in places, but thicker around her major joints—wrists, elbows, knees, hips. Her abdomen had split open—not violently, but like a seedpod bursting—and I could see strange organic structures inside, half-plant and half-something else. They pulsed slightly, as if still alive, still growing.

Her breasts had partially converted to some kind of fibrous plant tissue, green and veined with chlorophyll. Her nipples had become something like flower buds, dark and tightly furled. Between her legs, the same transformation—her labia had taken on a petal-like quality, and inside I could see more of those strange hybrid structures.

The smell was overwhelming: decay and chlorophyll and that same sweet chemical scent, so strong it made my eyes water.

"When did Sister Therese die?"

"Five days ago." Sister Vera's voice was shaking now. "She worked in the greenhouse. She was always so gentle with the plants. So caring. And then one morning Sister Beatrice found her like... like this."

"Was anyone with her when it happened?"

"No. She was alone. She liked to work at night sometimes, when it was quiet."

I noted that. Alone. Different from Sister Lucia's communal death.

"And the third?"

Sister Vera made a small sound—half sob, half whimper. "Please. Please, you don't need to—"

"Yes," I said firmly. "I do."

I moved to the third table and pulled back the cloth.

The third body made me take a step back.

Sister Margot—or what was left of her—had been opened from the inside. Her ribcage was spread like wings, the sternum split down the middle, ribs bent back at unnatural angles. Her internal organs were... gone. Not removed surgically, but transformed. In their place was a hollow cavity lined with something that looked like mother-of-pearl, slick and iridescent and pulsing with faint bioluminescence. The cavity was shaped wrong, too large, as if something had grown inside her and then... left.

But that wasn't what made my breath catch.

There was blood on the table beneath her—but not nearly enough for this kind of trauma. And her skin, where it remained intact, was flushed with color. Her lips were still pink. Her fingernails still had that healthy shine.

I reached out and touched her arm. Still warm.

"Jesus Christ," I whispered.

"The Unveiled Mother," Sister Vera corrected quietly, automatically, like a child reciting a lesson. "We don't use His name here."

I spun to face her. "When did Sister Margot die?"

"Four days ago. Sister Beatrice pronounced her dead that evening."

"Then why is she still warm?"

Sister Vera's face went pale—even paler than her natural luminescent complexion. "She's... what?"

I pulled out my forensic scanner and ran it over Sister Margot's body. The readings made my stomach turn. Neural activity. Heartbeat—faint, but there. Blood flow. Growth.

"These women weren't killed," I said slowly, my mind racing through the evidence. "They were dosed with something. Something that triggered their gamma mutations to spiral out of control. Some kind of experimental serum." I looked at Sister Vera, really looked at her, at the fear and guilt written across her delicate features. "What have you people been giving them?"

"I don't know what you—"

"Don't lie to me." I stepped closer, and she backed against the wall, latex squeaking. "I can smell it on you. That sweet chemical scent. You're all using something here, aren't you? Some kind of enhancement serum, some drug, something you take during your 'sacrament.'"

Her eyes filled with tears, spilling down her cheeks. "It's the holy wine. The sacrament. Mother Celestine says it helps us commune with the Divine, helps us shed the old flesh and embrace our true forms, helps us become—"

"It's poison." I gestured at the bodies. "It's experimental gamma serum, probably stolen from a corporate lab, and it's killing you."

"No." Sister Vera shook her head violently, platinum hair flying. "No, it's a blessing. Most of us transform beautifully. We become closer to what we're meant to be. Only... only sometimes..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Sometimes it doesn't work right. Sometimes the transformation goes too fast, or wrong, or—"

"How many?" I grabbed her shoulders, feeling the latex compress under my fingers. She was shaking. "How many Sisters have died?"

"Just three. Just these three." She was sobbing now. "The others—the others who've taken the sacrament, they're fine. They're better than fine. They're transcendent. Their enhancements stabilized, their bodies perfected. It's only these three who—"

A sound echoed from above us. Footsteps on the spiral stairs. Confident, measured, deliberate. The click of heels on stone.

Sister Vera's eyes went wide with terror. "That's Mother Celestine. You shouldn't have come down here first. She's going to be—"

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and a voice like honey and smoke drifted down to us.

"Sister Vera," the voice said, each word precisely enunciated, carrying both warmth and threat. "Bring our guest upstairs. Now."

It wasn't a request.

Sister Vera straightened immediately, wiping her tears with trembling hands. "Yes, Mother," she called back, her voice steadier than I expected. Then to me, in a whisper: "Please. Please just do what she says. She can be... difficult when she's displeased."

I looked at the three bodies one more time. Sister Lucia with her crystalline tomb. Sister Therese becoming a garden. Sister Margot hollowed out and still alive, somehow, growing something inside her.

Whatever was happening at Saint Mara's Covenant, it was worse than a simple murder case.

And Mother Celestine was at the center of it.

I covered the bodies and followed Sister Vera up the stairs, my hand resting on the grip of my Kessler P-9. The weight of it was reassuring.

The stairs seemed longer going up, each step echoing in the narrow stone passage. Ahead of me, Sister Vera's latex habit squeaked with each movement, the gray material clinging to her ass as she climbed. She was still shaking, I could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her hands gripped the iron railing.

At the top of the stairs, the woman waiting made me understand immediately why the Sisters followed her.

Mother Celestine was tall—easily six feet, and with the heeled boots I could see beneath her robes, probably closer to six-three. But it wasn't her height that commanded attention.

She looked no older than thirty, with the kind of ageless beauty that only came from extremely high-level gamma enhancements. Pale, luminescent skin that seemed to glow in the dim corridor light. Sharp, aristocratic features—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose. Full lips painted a deep burgundy. And her eyes: violet. Not amber or enhanced blue, but true violet, the color of deep space, with vertical pupils that fixed on me with predatory intensity.

Her hair was raven black shot through with dramatic streaks of silver-white, falling in waves past her waist. It was partially concealed beneath a traditional nun's wimple—white fabric that framed her face—and a black veil that hung down her back, but the contrast between the dark hair and pale skin was striking.

But it was what she wore that made my breath catch.

Her habit was nothing like Sister Vera's modest gray latex. Mother Celestine wore black—shiny, skin-tight black latex that left very little to the imagination. The habit maintained the traditional silhouette, but every line had been modified, corrupted, transformed into something that was equal parts religious garment and fetish wear.

The neckline plunged in a deep V all the way to her navel, the edges held together at three points by ornate silver brooches shaped like eyes. The latex framed her breasts—large, full, pushed up by some kind of corset beneath—creating dramatic cleavage that was impossible not to stare at. I could see the dark circles of her areolae through a layer of sheer purple silk that draped over the corset, and the hard points of her nipples, pierced with silver rings that created small tents in the fabric.

A large ornate cross hung on a silver chain, nestled between her breasts.

Below the plunging neckline, a shortened scapular hung from her shoulders, ending just below her breasts and leaving her entire midriff exposed. Her stomach was toned and perfect, pale skin showing the subtle definition of abs. A silver chain belt hung low on her hips, and from it dangled an ornate rosary with purple gemstones and small silver skulls.

The skirt of her habit was long, made of layered black latex, but it featured slits on both sides that extended all the way to her hips, held together at intervals by silver chains. With each slight movement, the slits revealed her long, muscular legs, clad in thigh-high black leather boots with silver buckles.

And between her legs, clearly visible through the slits when she shifted her weight—

Her cock hung heavy between her legs, barely concealed by the latex skirt, thick and pale with prominent veins, shifting slightly as she moved. The tip was visible, glistening. She wasn't trying to hide it. If anything, the way she stood—weight on one hip, one hand resting casually on that hip—seemed designed to draw attention to it.

Mother Celestine smiled, and it was the smile of someone who knew exactly what I was staring at and enjoyed my reaction.

"Detective Kade," she said, her voice like aged whiskey and smoke, with an underlying purr that I felt in my spine. "Welcome to Saint Mara's Covenant. I apologize for Sister Vera bringing you to the morgue before our proper introduction. She's young, and sometimes forgets her place."

Sister Vera flinched beside me, her head bowing automatically. "Forgive me, Mother."

"Hush, child." Mother Celestine descended the stairs with a predator's grace, latex creaking with each step, heels clicking on stone. Up close, she was even more striking—and more disturbing. Her face was sharp and aristocratic, beautiful in a dangerous way. Those violet eyes seemed to look through me, cataloging, assessing, measuring.

She stopped close enough that I could smell her—exotic perfume mixed with musk and leather and that same sweet chemical scent, but refined, concentrated. The bulge beneath her skirts shifted slightly as she settled her weight, and I forced myself to meet her eyes instead.

Wrong move. Those violet eyes caught mine and held them, and I felt something—a tingle, a pull, like fingers brushing against my thoughts.

"I see you've examined our departed Sisters," Mother Celestine said, not breaking eye contact. "What's your professional assessment, Detective?"

I pulled away from her gaze with effort, like breaking through water. "They were poisoned," I said flatly, keeping my voice level. "Probably with experimental gamma serum. Someone at this Covenant is running unauthorized enhancement experiments, and three women are dead because of it."

Mother Celestine's smile didn't waver. If anything, it widened slightly, showing teeth that were just a bit too sharp. "How fascinating. And here I thought we'd simply been cursed." She reached out and trailed one finger along my jawline—I fought the urge to pull away or draw my weapon. "You're direct. I like that. So few people in this world say what they mean anymore."

Her finger was warm, and where it touched my skin I felt a tingle—not unpleasant, but artificial. Chemical. My neural interface flickered a warning.

I stepped back, breaking contact. My skin tingled where she'd touched me. "I need to speak with your physician, Sister Beatrice. And I need access to whatever this 'sacramental wine' is that everyone keeps mentioning. And I need quarters where I can work without interruption."

Mother Celestine laughed—a rich, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate in my chest. "Of course. You'll have everything you need, Detective." She turned, her robes swirling, giving me another clear glimpse of what hung between her legs. It swayed heavily with the movement, and I realized she was more erect than before. Partially aroused.

The sight sent an unwanted jolt of heat through my body.

"Sister Vera will show you to your chambers in the west wing," Mother Celestine continued, starting down the corridor. Her boots clicked on the stone, her latex habit creaked and squeaked, and through it all I could hear the soft rustle of her cock moving beneath the fabric. "You'll dine with us tonight in the refectory—I insist. It will give you an opportunity to meet the other Sisters. And afterward, you and I will have a private conversation in my study about the true nature of what we do here."

She paused at the end of the corridor, looking back over her shoulder. The light from a nearby window cast her face half in shadow, half in light. Her violet eyes glowed in the darkness.

"One more thing," I called after her, forcing my voice to stay steady.

She waited.

"Sister Margot's body. She's not fully dead, is she?"

Mother Celestine's smile widened, showing more of those too-sharp teeth. "No, Detective. She's not. But then, death isn't always the end at Saint Mara's. Sometimes it's just... transformation." She tilted her head, and her silver-streaked hair caught the light. "You'll learn that soon enough."

She left, her footsteps echoing in the stone corridor, and I was alone with Sister Vera again.

The young nun was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated. I could see her nipples hard beneath her gray latex habit, and when she spoke, her voice was husky.

"You should rest before dinner," she said, not quite meeting my eyes. "Mother Celestine's... attention can be overwhelming. Especially for those who haven't built up tolerance to her presence."

"Is that what you call it?" I asked. "Tolerance?"

Sister Vera finally looked at me, and in her amber eyes I saw fear and something else. Desire. Need. "Follow me," she said quietly. "Your quarters are this way."

As we walked through the darkening corridors of the Covenant, past windows that showed only gray sky and rain, I couldn't shake the image of Mother Celestine from my mind. The weight of her cock beneath those latex robes. The predatory gleam in her violet eyes. The chemical pull of her touch.

And the certainty that before this case was over, I'd see—and experience—a lot more of her than I wanted to.

The west wing was older than the rest of the Covenant—or at least, it felt that way. The corridors were narrower, the ceilings lower, the stones darker with age. Sister Vera led me through a maze of passages lit by dim electric lights that flickered occasionally, casting moving shadows on the walls.

We passed other Sisters in the hallways. Most wore gray latex habits similar to Sister Vera's, though the fit and style varied—some more modest, some less so. A few wore black, which I assumed indicated higher rank. They all stopped to stare as we passed, their enhanced eyes tracking me with unnerving intensity. I heard whispers in our wake, the squeak of latex as they turned to watch.

"They're curious," Sister Vera said quietly, noticing my tension. "We don't often have visitors. Especially not secular ones."

"Do they know why I'm here?"

"Everyone knows about the deaths. But Mother Celestine hasn't told them she hired an investigator." She glanced at me nervously. "Some of them might not be... cooperative."

"I'll deal with that when I have to."

We climbed a narrow staircase to the third floor, and Sister Vera stopped at a heavy wooden door. She produced a key from somewhere in the folds of her habit—I heard it scrape against the latex as she pulled it out—and unlocked the door.

"This will be your room," she said, pushing the door open. "It's not much, but it's private. And it locks from the inside."

The room was sparse but clean. A single bed with white linens. A desk and chair. A wardrobe. A small bathroom visible through an open door. A window that looked out over the rain-soaked courtyard. The walls were bare stone, decorated only with a single wooden cross above the bed.

I set my gear bag on the desk and did a quick sweep of the room. No obvious surveillance equipment, but that didn't mean much. I'd scan more thoroughly later.

"Dinner is at seven," Sister Vera said from the doorway. She was hugging herself, fingers digging into the latex of her habit. "I'll come get you. Please... please don't wander the Covenant alone before then. Some areas are restricted, and if you're caught where you shouldn't be, Mother Celestine will be... displeased."

"Noted."

She hesitated, like she wanted to say something else. Her amber eyes darted to me, then away, then back. Finally: "Detective Kade?"

"Just Kade."

"Kade." She tested my name, her lips forming the single syllable. "Be careful. Please. I know you think we're all complicit in... whatever you think is happening here. But most of us are just trying to survive. To find meaning in a world that took everything from us." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Mother Celestine is... she's powerful. And she doesn't like to be challenged. If you push too hard—"

"I'll be fine," I said, more confidently than I felt.

Sister Vera looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she just nodded. "Lock your door," she said. "And don't open it for anyone except me."

Then she was gone, the door closing behind her, leaving me alone in the small stone room with the rain hammering against the window and my thoughts racing.

I locked the door, checked it twice, then sat on the bed and pulled out my forensic scanner. Time to review the evidence.

Three bodies. Three different mutations. Sister Lucia—crystallized, died during communal "sacrament." Sister Therese—plant hybridization, died alone in the greenhouse. Sister Margot—hollowed out, still alive somehow, growing something inside her.

Common factors: All had consumed the "holy wine." All were young, enhanced. All were beautiful. All had been at the Covenant for less than five years.

Questions: What was in the wine? Where did it come from? Who decided which Sisters received it? Why did only three die when, according to Sister Vera, others had taken the same substance and "transformed beautifully"?

And the biggest question: What was Sister Margot becoming?

I pulled up my notes and started typing, organizing my thoughts. Outside, the rain continued to fall, and somewhere in the Covenant, I heard singing—Latin words I didn't recognize, multiple voices in harmony, beautiful and eerie.

Evening prayers, probably. Or something else entirely.

I had four hours until dinner. Four hours to rest, recover from Mother Celestine's pheromone assault, and prepare for whatever tonight would bring.

Four hours to figure out how deep this nightmare went.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried not to think about violet eyes and the heavy weight of latex-clad flesh.

I failed.