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arms.
    And yet Morgan seemed to welcome the pain. She did not scream. She even smiled and pushed against the straps to force the spikes deeper into her flesh.
    “Hawthorne,” she said in her hollow voice. “Yes, destroy the flesh of this my servant. Her blood and her body are the unholy sacramentthat will bring about her revenge upon you! With each spike thrust into her flesh, you inflict pain upon you and yours.”
    “No more, vile demon, no more!” cried Hawthorne.
    The others had finally realized something was wrong. Virgil and Dean were no longer laughing, their faces having grown taut and frightened. Mather, too, had taken a step back. He seemed to be hesitating, unsure of what to say or do.
    Morgan hissed. “Revenge will be ours!” she screamed in her unholy voice. “The descendants of this town of Salem will fall to my power! I will rape the children of your children… I will claim them as my own, whores into eternity!”
    Slowly, impossibly, the heavy chair rose, creaking, from the floor. It hovered there, a few feet off the ground. Virgil and Dean, terrified, tried to drag it back down, but it refused to come. Virgil let go and reached out to clasp his hands around Morgan’s neck.
    “The Devil is here!” he cried. “The Devil has—”
    Suddenly he let go and dropped to his knees, clutching now at his own throat. He tried to gulp in air, but somehow couldn’t get anything in. His hands scrabbled at his own throat, tearing at his own flesh, trying to tear away an unseen assailant. And then his own hands locked tight around his windpipe and began to squeeze.
    Dean rushed to help him, prying at his fingers, battling to pull his hands away, but the grip was as firm as iron and though he could loosen it momentarily, he could not break the hands away.
    “I can’t breathe…,” Virgil said in a suffocated voice. “I… I…”
    He began to choke. Blood spilled from his mouth, long, dark strands of it.
    “Virgil!” shouted Dean. “Virgil!” He turned to Hawthorne, his face full of panic for his brother. “Hawthorne!” he said. “The demon has entered his body! The demon is destroying his soul!”
    That Virgil could be possessed by the demon suggested what Hawthorne had long known, that though he served good, Virgil’s heart was far from pure. Hawthorne fell to his knees, raised his eyes to theheavens, and began to pray aloud. What else was there to do? Would God listen to them? Would he save them?
    “Lord hear me!” he said. “Purge our brother Virgil from this Bringer of Death! Set us free from these serpents of Hell that have invaded our beloved Salem!”
    “Sisters!” said Morgan to the coven, her voice no longer imbued with the demonic tones that had overtaken it but once again her own. “We are the true believers! The true masters shall return to avenge us! We shall live again!”
    Mather kneeled beside him, joining Hawthorne in prayer. Near the Chair of God, Dean still fought to save his brother. He broke several of Virgil’s fingers, but Virgil would not let go of his own neck, and even the broken fingers continued to cling to his flesh.
    “In the name of the creator of the world,” Hawthorne and Mather repeated together, “the king of kings, I command you to kneel before the power of God! Kneel before the power of God… Kneel before the power of God!”
    Morgan laughed. “We would not kneel, even were we free to do so. We shall not submit to your false, weak God. He is worthy only of contempt.”
    Hawthorne and Mather ignored her words, continuing to chant, over and over again, “Kneel before the power of God.” Hawthorne heard Dean cry out and he let his gaze fall from the heavens an instant to see Virgil gasp for his final breaths, his chest heaving but still unable to bring any air in.
    Hawthorne’s prayer slowly died in his throat. For a moment Mather went on without him and then stopped as well.
    As they watched, Virgil’s damaged hand fell away from his throat and