Then the thought would resurface, bringing a furrow to her brow: How did I end up here? No matter how hard she tried to focus, Scully just couldn't remember exactly how she got here, her eyes slipping in and out of focus, her limbs unresponsive, the gray rubber shape of a nasal inhaler strapped against her face, the strangely arousing scent of nitrous oxide filling her nose. And the figure that moved above her, leaned over her, but did not hurt her--yet.

One week earlier FBI Headquarters Washington, DC

There was a knock at the closed door, which told Mulder it was Scully. No one else ever knocked. If he'd desired the illusion of privacy, Mulder would have locked the door. Most people in the Hoover Building were realists, however, and in this respect even Mulder was a team player. As the saying went in this place, A locked door invites intrusion.

Scully entered and, as always when he was in his headquarters mode, Mulder mentally relaxed for a moment and allowed himself to be struck by her appearance. She is, he thought, the most beautiful woman I have ever known. The smile was fleeting, as Mulder did not want Scully to know his mind was in this particular zone. He hoped it hadn't cracked the surface of his face, and if it had, that Scully hadn't seen it. Slowing down in the mental fast lane when Scully was around could prove embarrassing.

"You wanted to spend some time on the range, Mulder," she said without sitting down, maintaining that cool, professional attitude she used with everyone. Sometimes it was an offensive weapon used to get what they needed from uncooperative bureaucrats, congresspersons and the usual conglomerate of civilians, innocent and guilty alike. Sometimes it was a defense against unwanted or feared personal intrusion. And sometimes not even Scully could say which it was.

He kicked a chair out so that it rested against Scully's legs.

Scully was also one of the realists, especially in this building, especially where it concerned Mulder, so she sat.

"Scully, do you know how many dentists there are in Jackson, Michigan?"

"About 95 in the general area," Scully answered. "And approxi- mately 150 registered dental assistants. The assistants tend to be part time. It's an efficient way to avoid paying benefits."

"And there have been exactly how many complaints of this person who is,". . . he lifted the file from his desk, " . . .rendering female dental personnel unconscious or semi-conscious and then raping them?"

Scully stood, took the file from Mulder's hand. She glanced at the top page, set the file down. She opened her own briefcase and took out her notebook. In one small motion she removed a sheet of paper from her file and placed it on the top of Mulder's file. "Until yesterday, two. As of today, ten. Just under seven per cent. You ought to keep up on your reading, Mulder." She walked to the door, and turned around. "Shall we get to the range? You could use the practice."

He jumped up and started through the door, stopping just in front of her. He turned and nodded. "It's ten reported this year. In Michigan. Thirteen last year in Colorado. Thirteen the year before, in New York. One more year back, thirteen in Indiana. Can you guess how many were reported the year before, and so on back nine more years?"

Scully conceded the point with an arched eyebrow, but they still went to the range. Scully was right. Mulder needed the practice.

Friendly Dentistry Associates, P.C. Jackson, Michigan

Bridget Gustafson hummed while she worked. Everyone was gone, so she had the office to herself. No nervous patients, no anal- retentive billing clerk, no pompous dentists with really poor senses of humor and wandering hands; none of them were present to interfere with her pace, priorities or methods. She could go through her weekly inventory and setup the work stations for the new week's beginning blessedly free of the comments of men who couldn't find dental decay without an x-ray unless the hole was big enough to trap a school bus. Sometimes the hygienist would wonder aloud exactly what Bridget was doing every Friday evening when she worked late and alone, but Bridget was convinced that the hygienist was only trying to feel her out to see if she could get a little quality after work time hooked to the nitrous oxide. The hygienist was one of those many people who loved the warm fuzzy feeling she got when she was under the laughing gas, but who couldn't figure out a way to get it more often than at every six months' checkup. To be truthful, Bridget did enjoy the gas. But she never broke the rules at work

The last tray of instruments was sterilized and stored when Bridget first became aware of a noise. It was only the hint of a background noise to start, no more than the white noise used to mask distracting sounds in offices that either could not or would not choose to use canned music or that most annoying of alternatives, a soft-rock FM station. She hesitated in the corridor, listening. Almost at the threshold of her hearing, but it was definitely some- thing. Low and persistent, it played with her attempts to identify it. She followed the sound to the back of the office until she turned into the last operatory. The noise grew minisculely louder, but still she couldn't quite place it.

Though she was not alarmed, Bridget was becoming slightly irked. The sound was very familiar, but she just couldn't name it, which was silly, since it just couldn't be that strange a thing if she knew it to be so familiar. She was confused and her mouth seemed a bit cottony. She walked into the operatory, but because she wasn't thinking clearly, she didn't turn on the lights.

The sound was louder now and Bridget smiled suddenly as she recognized it. It was the hissing of pressurized gas being released from a container. In a dental office, she knew that usually meant an N2O-O2 machine.

She must have said it aloud, as she heard a muffled reply from a figure who had been standing in the dark behind her. "Very true, Angel." The voice came as an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back and a hand reached around her face to press a rubber mask over her nose and mouth. Already weakened by the gas that had been spreading throughout the office, Bridget could not resist. Her body immediately acquiesced to the wishes of her captor, and she willingly inhaled the medicinally scented gas-- which her sleepy brain confirmed was a high concentration of nitrous oxide to oxygen. Her head filled with a deep echoing ring and she was hardly aware of being picked up and gently placed on the examination chair.

The figure strapped the mask to her face, then stood back, admiring its work. Her limbs were rearranged, and the operatory lights were turned up. Bridget drifted in and out of consciousness as her body was repositioned time and again. At times her eyes opened and she caught quick glimpses of the figure above her. The person wore a long leather coat and black latex gloves. The head was covered by a hooded black gas mask with tinted eye lenses and a long cor- rugated breathing tube that led from the front of the mask's snout around her captor's left waist and to the back, where it disappeared into a large backpack.

Bridget tried to protest aloud, but she was never sure that her words formed into speech. Continually she was aware of being moved, though she always remained on the chair. At one point she thought her face mask had been removed, replaced by the common nasal inhaler dentists use. But even then she could not speak, as her mouth seemed to be blocked or filled by something. She slipped in and out of a long dream of being gassed and helpless.

The hissing noise of escaping gas that had led her to this quiet corner of her workplace had disappeared. She thought it had been replaced by a clicking noise. It tended to occur after each change of position, followed by mechanical whirring. For the time being she relaxed and breathed in the sweet, warm nothingness of the gas so insistently provided to her through the rubber mask strapped to her face. She had no choice.

Then he reached for her waist, pulled her slacks down over her knees, over her feet, and set them carefully to the side. He did the same for her pantyhose. He ran a finger over Bridget's bush, felt the give of her lips. He smiled behind his mask. One of the nicer things about using nitrous oxide was that it tended to arouse most of his victims. His entry was seldom consciously or unconsciously resisted by his angels. He fingered her softly, then deeply to draw out the lubricating fluids. Yes, very nice, very nice.

He slid a pillow beneath Bridget, raising the angle of her hips to better facilitate the event. Then he drew back his coat. His penis was hard and ready, its thick head and glistening shaft covered by the black condom. Kneeling between her legs, he entered her quite gently, but irresistibly. He felt her body engulf his, her muscles seize on his cock. His thrusts were slow and steady, and he was pleasantly surprised to feel her orgasm come hot and fast, a muscular spasm that tensed her entire body. Her pussy muscles gripped his cock tightly and hungrily, and as he thrust again he came, violently, as always, his back arching and his cock straining to reach as deeply into her as possible.

Three days later Lincoln Avenue Condominiums Jackson, Michigan

Scully angled the Oldsmobile Aurora into the parking shelter with a tiny feeling of regret. Perhaps Mulder didn't care what kind of car the Bureau provided, but Scully had become deathly bored with the steady procession of Fords equipped with underpowered six cylinder engines and the usual rap sheet of mediocre options. Thanks to a friend at the Detroit field office, she had managed to five finger an Aurora that had made the long circuit from confiscation to rehabilitation to reuse from a local drug duke. ("A drug lord would have a Cadillac or Lincoln. Only a drug prince or a drug duke would drive an Olds," her friend had offered with the delivery of a Heehaw veteran.)

The eight cylinders had performed quite admirably on the I-94 drive from Detroit to Jackson, a sunny, crisp, autumn day combining with dry pavement to elicit the reappearance of Scully's need for speed. As she parked the blue metallic beauty and left its gray leather seats, Scully rededicated herself to the proposition that Mulder would not become conversant with this vehicle's driver's eye view--he could luxuriate in the pilot's seat of the next Taurus the Bureau saw fit to grant them.

They knocked at Bridget Gustafson's door, Scully presenting her identification when the woman answered.

"Ms. Gustafson," Scully began, "we'd like to get some information from you regarding your experience Friday."

"No problem," the blonde answered, "though I'm a little surprised this has become a federal matter."

"This case is very serious, with implications far beyond your single experience," Mulder observed. "You may know that ten other dental assistants in this area have had a similar experience."

"Yes. After I made out the report I mentioned what happened to a friend. The next thing I knew, I was hearing all about it. You know, I wondered that whole night. I mean, nitrous oxide does tend to affect your memory. A lot of people imagine things happening-- that's why reputable dentists never use it without an assistant to serve as a witness that nothing unseemly occurred. I just thought for a while that maybe I had dreamed it."

"Are you in the habit of inhaling nitrous oxide when you work alone, Ms. Gustafson?" Scully asked.

"I am not," she answered firmly. "I've worked hard to be as good as I am, and I'm not about to risk my entire career for a little after hours fun at the office."

"But you thought you might have been dreaming. Why?"

"Because when I awoke, there was no evidence that I'd been. . .well, abused. Nothing."

"What made you change your mind?" Mulder asked. "The angel?"

"Yes. I found the fabric angel cut-out taped over my heart when I woke up. I certainly didn't make it while I was gassed. And then there was the noise. Everything was dreamy, yet so persistent, but there was the noise."

"What noise?" Scully asked. "The ringing, the aural vibrations from the analgesia?"

Bridget nodded. "Yes, the ringing was there. But there was another noise. I kept hearing a clicking sound, and then another after it. It's hard to describe, kind of a mechanical. . . grinding. It was so artificial it had to be real. Not an expected result of the gas."

Mulder took a microcassette recorder from his pocket and held it out. "Was it like this?" he asked, pressing the "play" switch.

Bridget Gustafson listened intently for a few moments, then nodded, staring at Mulder, then Scully. "Yes. That's exactly what it sounded like. What is that?"

Mulder frowned. "We're not sure. But it was recorded at another site last year. Where the same thing happened. Once we find out, we'll see what good it is. Thank you for your time, Ms. Gustafson." Mulder replaced the recorder in his pocket and nodded to Scully. She stood and followed him to the door.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Scully said. She left, walking leisurely to where Mulder was trying to endure the cold wind stoically as he stood outside the locked car. Scully activated the remote entry after a suitable hesitation.

Inside the car, the motor running, Scully put out her hand. Mulder placed the recorder in it and pressed "play." Scully said nothing, listening. "All right, Mulder, where did it come from and what is it? And what angel were you talking about?"

"The tape came from Albany, New York, last year. A dental assistant named Julie Camarda was dictating notes to herself when her gassing occurred. The recorder stayed on." He placed the machine back into his coat pocket. "It's the automatic advance of a camera."

"And the angel?"

Mulder handed her a picture of an angel. It was actually more like a Valentine's Day Cupid, the kind of red cardboard cut- out people tape to their windows or walls for the holiday.

Scully would have sighed loudly in frustration, had she not been Scully. "Pictures. And a Cupid. So what we seem to have is an individual using nitrous oxide to sedate female dental workers, some at their offices, some at their homes. The victims are semi-conscious for periods of up to four hours. They agree that they glimpsed their assailant only when under the influence of the gas, and cannot provide any useful identification. It appears that this person picks up and moves to a new state each year to find new victims. The events are the same in each case: surreptitious sedation, transportation to a nearby chair, continual movement of their persons during the sedation, sexual assault, culminating with full recovery of faculties. And this person takes pictures.

"Mulder, while we've definitely got a disturbed person or persons committing crimes across state borders, there does not appear to be any evidence of paranormal activity here. It seems to be a straightforward--if pretty weird--case that ought to be handled through normal Bureau channels. What are we doing with this?"

"It's been on my desk since I came across it last year," Mulder noted softly. "I had begun to wonder if I could rely on the red flags I'd installed. Thirteen per year, every year, always in one general area, but before we've always been well behind the event. Now we're here, in the middle of it. Or more correctly, just prior to the end.

"Scully," Mulder said, turned sideways in the seat, animated. "Can you imagine the logistics for only one or possibly two people? Access to the facilities or homes. Knowledge of the procedures necessary to overcome the victims--we're not talking about a rag soaked in chloroform, here. It's been a subtle use of a fair amount of relatively difficult to obtain gas. The victims describe their overpowering as a gradual succumbing to gas being breathed from the air, not from a concentration delivered by mask. And there's the precise taking of thirteen victims per cycle, no more, no fewer. The constant risk of discovery, yet never being discovered, never even being interrupted.

"I've run the computers ragged on similarities among the first twelve sites. Names, birth dates, employers, licenses, supplier companies, you can't name an angle I didn't take. None of it works out. Doing all this and not getting caught, not leaving a clue, it's not normal."

"So that makes it paranormal?"

"No, that makes it abnormal. It's the angels that make the difference. Each year, thirteen women are attacked and probably photographed. The first twelve wake up with angels, or cupids. The last one is found with a similar red card cut-out image--one with two forehead horns, forked tail and cloven hooves, a satanic image. Perhaps the thirteenth is photographed; I don't know. But I am certain that the thirteenth is sexually assaulted, because all of them die in childbirth precisely 270 days after that assault, as do the babies." He handed her a fax. "That came in from Washington while you were checking in with the local cops. Apparently it was left out of the our files.

"Whatever is at work here, it's well beyond normal," Mulder insisted. "Even if it isn't legitimately satanic, it certainly acts like it is."

Scully nodded. "And eleven down with only one more before it happens again," she said.

Two days later 1831 Pine Street

Chrissie Holloway tossed her jacket on the couch as she closed the door behind her. She was tired, worn out, really, after an exhausting day at the office. The day had been scheduled well enough, but one could never schedule for the unexpected emergencies, and Doctor Harris never turned away a patient in pain. After two unforeseen crowns and a really nasty broken tooth at 6:00, Chrissie was ready to just kick back and vegetate with the television and a book tonight. She frowned at the jacket, then picked it up and hung it in the closet. She couldn't abide clutter.

She popped a sandwich into the microwave, and pulled out the latest Stephen Hunter novel. Her friends thought she had pretty weird literary taste because she read, enjoyed, and dared to actually tell people about books like Dirty White Boys, and Black Light, but she didn't give a rat's rear end what they thought. Sprawled out on the couch, book in one hand, sandwich nearby and the latest Drew Carey on the tube, Chrissie could feel the tension draining from her muscles. Maybe her TMJ would take the night off as well.

Eventually finding herself beginning to doze off, Chrissie decided to shower and hit the sack. Clean and rested, she'd be able to face anybody's damaged mouth tomorrow. She went into the bathroom and slowly, almost exotically, stripped off her clothes. She gauged her appearance in the full length mirror, smiling. She was not a fanatic about her body, but knew that problems acknowledged immediately were easiest to solve, so she critically examined and gladly acknowledged that she was in pretty fine shape. Her small breasts capped a torso that narrowed at the waist in almost precisely the same relation it had when she was a college gymnast not all that many years before. Her muscle tone was firm, she noted, especially happy to confirm that the rear view was as hard as the front.

She stifled a yawn and stepped into the shower, the warm water massaging her body and bringing forth another smile. She soaped up, rinsed for a long time, then lathered her short, black hair. Another yawn pushed forth, this one a long, languid event. She shook her head to clear it, but lost her balance, stumbling against the door of the stall. This was not good, falling around in a bathtub with all of the nice, body-unfriendly porcelain and metal fixtures. Time to exit, stage right, she thought, and turned off the water.

Chrissie hesitated a moment to catch her balance, the water dripping from her nude body. She slid the door open a little, her nipples crinkling at the cold air. She stopped yet again. This stumbling was becoming irritating. She lifted one leg over the edge of the tub, then turned to lift the other when she lost all balance.

She fell into the arms of the waiting figure. Her momentary relief at not toppling backwards onto the floor was chased by her realization that someone was in her house, in her bathroom, and that person's arms were wrapped tightly around her naked body. She did not even have time to open her mouth when a hand pressed a rubber mask over her nose and mouth. She struggled, but knew from the outset that it was useless as she was already dazed and her assailant was quite professional--she could not open her mouth to scream or try to shake off the mask because the hand tightly pressed it against her while also gripping her chin from below. She was helpless and knocked out almost immediately.

He carried her wet body into the bedroom, using a towel to partially dry her. He set her on the bed, a pillow under her, and removed the backpack holding the twin cylinders of oxygen and nitrous oxide, placing it at the top of the bed, careful not to tangle the hose which led to the mask on her face. He intended to move quickly, for he was approaching Number Thirteen, and his excitement was getting difficult to contain.

Chrissie shifted her legs slowly and a moan escaped her mouth as he massaged her crotch, his rubber gloved hand coated with k-y jelly to hurry the event. He slipped a finger past her lips, searching for and moving into her vagina, thrusting cock-like deeply into her body. He slid in and out, making sure to slip across her clit, feeling her body jump with helpless excitement to his touch. In her gas-induced arousal Chrissie begged him to take her, so he did.

On his knees between her legs, he guided his sheathed penis into her, barely hesitating at the entrance to her pussy. He filled her with his thick cock, the pleasure striking both of them immediately. This delight wrapped his penis in hot, tingling electricity. This one was the best of all!

He thrust again and again, wanting to possess her totally, yet wanting the pleasure to last forever. He pulled his gas mask from his face, revealing a rubber hood that covered all but his eyes, nostrils and mouth. He leaned forward, taking one of her nipples into his mouth and sucking greedily, thirstily. Both nipples were erect, crinkled with the unconscious pleasure she was receiving, so he alternated, one nipple to the next, sucking, tonguing.

Her breathing came in deep, harsh intakes, the force putting strain on the valve of the gas cylinders, but still it pumped the drug-filled air into her lungs. In her delirium she cried out when the orgasm hit her, a deep groan accompanied by her arms suddenly gripping his body to her, scratching at the suit that protected him.

The force of her orgasm gripped his cock and wrenched his own pleasure from deep within him. He spasmodically shot his cum into her, the liquid barely contained by the expanding condom, the heat and force of the orgasm like no other he had ever known. He collapsed onto her, his lips kissing her throat uncontrollably, licking and drinking the sweat from her body.

Sometime later, Chrissie drifted up that long and winding road to semi-consciousness. A long time recreational visitor to the land of laughing gas, her body did not mind the leisurely pace of her voyage. She heard her name persistently called, though, and her instincts overruled the most relaxed manner in which her lungs deeply pulled what had been heavily dosed nitrous oxide-oxygen in through her nose. She was consciously disappointed that her breathing was lessening the gas's effect rather than deepening it.

"What?" she finally whispered groggily.

"Chrissie, I need you to remember," a muffled voice came back. "You must remember."

"Remember what?" she complained, her eyes opening and staring into a painfully bright light. She made out a figure at the edge of the light, a shape enclosed in a long, black coat or cloak, the head fully covered by a hood and mask.

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise," she said plaintively, still breathing deeply through her nose, her body hoping that the nitrous would be returned.

"I'm leaving an envelope for Dana. Be sure she gets it, but only her. No one else is to see it. Or I shall be most unhappy."

"Package for Dana. Only her." Chrissie was awakening now, her eyes straining to make out the figure. She tried to sit up, looked around. She saw a portable nitrous system on wheels next to the couch, the hoses leading behind her. She clearly saw the blue and green cylinders. And she saw the cameras on their tripods quite vividly. Her eyes widened and then a hand covered her mouth and the gas was increased again and just a couple of involuntary breathes through the nasal inhaler led her to deeper, more willing breaths. The warmth and swaddling effect the drug brought was so pleasant, so enjoyable. . .

Restaurant d'Iago

The restaurant was thinly patronized on a weekday afternoon. Downtown Jackson did not appear to be economically thriving under this Administration--and Scully doubted that it had been for some time. On the other hand, people who work normal hours eat at normal times, so perhaps that was more the reason for the lack of patronage at 2:00 in the afternoon.

The blackhaired woman standing at her table holding a large manila envelope looked quite nervous, quite unsafe, in this most public, safe, place. "Are you Agent Scully?" she asked.

"Yes. Please join me. How can I help you?"

***************

". . .and he was quite specific that I should give this to you only That no one else should know about it."

Scully gazed at the envelope on the table before her. "Did you tell anyone?"

"No. Not a soul."

"And you didn't even report the incident to the police?"

"Aren't you the police?"

"Touché." Scully reached out and pulled the envelope over. It was bulky, and the seal appeared to be unbroken. It was addressed Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI. She looked up at Chrissie again. The woman was obviously afraid, skittish as a gerbil at Richard Simmons' house. Scully drained her coffee and took the envelope. "You'll be fine, Ms. Holloway. This person is finished with you. You have nothing more to be worried about."

She stood, touched Chrissie's shoulder, and left the restaurant at a leisurely pace, though her heart was racing so fast Scully was very happy that she'd parked close. Once in the car she opened the envelope. "Pictures." She took out a thick bundle of photo- graphs, each named, numbered and dated. There were thirteen for each of the twelve preceding years, but only eleven prints and one blank sheet bearing neatly printed script: IOU Number 12, Chrissie Holloway. This mountain of potential evidence scared Scully. It indicated a total lack of fear in the perpetrator.

There was also an envelope addressed to her. She opened it and read the letter contained within, starting Dear Agent Scully. . .

"And now we move on to Number 13," Scully murmured. She glanced at her watch. There wasn't much time.

Gentle Dental Associates, PC

Scully didn't need to break into the office. She used the key she'd finessed from the owners by flashing equal parts reassuring smile and badge. Notwithstanding the news media and the self-inflicted wounds of the Branch Davidian and Centennial Park fiascoes, lots of people in the heartland still held enough respect for the FBI that an enterprising agent could get what she needed.

Two hours early for the meeting, Scully hoped she had been surreptitious enough to enter the office without being spotted. The alarm was off, as she'd instructed. The lights were also off, and she left them that way. She took out her Smith & Wesson 1076 (some thought it was a little bulky for her hands, but she didn't mind--and she liked the action) and slowly, quietly moved down the hallway, checking each room as she advanced. In the main operatory, she adjusted the wall controls to the analgesia machine and found a corner in which to hide and wait for whatever would happen.

An hour later, one hour before the scheduled meeting, it began.

After considering everything they had on this person, Scully had come to respect his abilities, but she was still surprised by how silently he moved. Had it not been for the air movement through the operatory when the office front door was opened, she would not have known he was in the building. She molded her body into its corner. She wordlessly mouthed a prayer that there was only one person, and that she was up to it. And she waited.

There was no sound to indicate any further movement and with the door closed, there was also no air motion to betray his coming. Scully felt a line of sweat forming along her forehead. She came to the conclusion that a single meet might have been a really, really bad idea on her part. She hated to rely solely on speed and her gun, but it was beginning to look like nothing else would get her out of this. . . He had demanded the meeting, had stated that he would start killing instead of photographing if there was no meeting. Like Mulder, Scully believed that he had already killed at least one woman per year over the thirteen years. But he promised many, many more and it was her considered opinion that he would do it.

Her weapon, twelve Glaser rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber, was all the comfort she had at the moment.

Cold air brushed her face again. The only noise Scully was making was tightly controlled breathing, breathing she had first learned in front of a candle flame. No one could hear breathing that didn't make a flame flicker at two inches. But how much noise was her heart making, pounding its way to the outside of her chest as it was doing right now?

She resisted the temptation to move, to look into the hallway, to change hiding places, whatever. Movement would be suicide. She listened, willing her ear drums to convey some sound to her brain, some noise that didn't belong, anything. Nothing came for the longest time, but then a subliminal ringing began to echo throughout her head. First it was barely at the inner ear; then it danced to the front of her eyes; then it filled her head, ringing, echoing, echoing, ringing. She caught her eyes closing and willed herself awake. As soon as she phrased the thought, she knew the answer.

She was being gassed.

As she had stood in the corner of the darkened room, weapon in hand and ready, all body senses on alert, he had known she was there, he had put something in the ventilation; somehow he had overcome her without even touching her. Her legs were weak and useless and she started to settle towards the floor, her eyes fluttering and her mind refusing to accept, still sending out orders to unresponsive body parts until at last she was seated in the corner of the floor, her pistol loose in her hand at her side, her entire body tingling with the gas. Now she knew what had happened to the others.

He reached down and as he effortlessly lifted her Scully could feel the texture of the leather coat and the rubber hooded gas mask, smell their strong odors. She looked into his face, but there was nothing to see but the snout and nozzle and tinted lenses of the mask.

". . .thirteen. . ." she managed to whisper.

"Number thirteen," he acknowledged, placing a soft cloth over her nose and mouth and holding it there, the harsh odor of chloroform her last experience as she passed into complete unconsciousness.

So now here she was, lying on the dental recliner, semi-conscious. She kept her eyes closed, listening, and she heard what she expected to hear, though with an echoing effect from the gas. It was the sound of a camera shutter and the whirring of its automatic film advance. She heard the creak of leather as her captor moved around the chair. She heard the rasping intake of air as he continued to breathe through the mask that still covered his face.

Scully felt the warm pressure of a nasal inhaler strapped against her face, smelled the intoxicating odor of the nitrous oxide she breathed. Her body had a fuzzy, semi-attached feel to it. She also felt the elastic pressure of rubber straps that bound her to the chair. This was something none of the other women had mentioned. In fact, they had told about being moved and repositioned numerous times, probably for new camera angles. Scully's picture was definitely being taken, but she was not being moved.

She sensed a decrease in the nitrous mixture. He was letting her come out of it slightly. He wanted to talk. . . . Fine, let's talk a while, Scully thought, and while we're at it, where's my gun?

"Dana," the man said, "Dana, wake up. Time to wake up and smell the coffee."

Scully opened her eyes slightly.

"That's right, Agent Scully. Wake up. We have lots of work to do. Well, it's not going to be work for me, exactly. And it doesn't have to be work for you."

"Is work a new synonym for rape?" Scully asked.

The man pulled off his mask. He was actually somewhat attractive, Scully thought, if you like a Hitler youth motif. Classically Nordic, with blonde hair, short cut, blue, twinkling eyes, and a healthy, robust complexion that indicated regular exercise. And a forehead that seemed to show. . .horns? Scully would have gladly crossed herself just like an old Catholic, one of the superstitious wrinkled women she'd seen at Novenas as a child, but the rubber restraints prevented that simple plea for Divine assistance.

"Dana, my angel. You and I do not need to have such a word pass between us. This is all for the best, you know. Just a matter of doing what our Nature requires of us. Surely you can under- stand that?" His voice was syrupy, cloying, searching for acceptance.

She found herself staring into his eyes, liking what she saw just long enough to be horrified. "Why?" she said at last. "Who are you?"

"You may call me your Dark Angel. As you are my angel, so I am your Dark Angel. As to why, well. . ." he laughed softly. "Because you are special. Because I have fulfilled the necessary adoration's for thirteen years. Because it is preordained and very necessary for my Infernal Father's Return in Glory." He smiled and shrugged. "Because at the moment you are the logical thing to 'do.'

"In short, because you are here."

He dropped his coat, revealing a costume of stunningly and medievally erotic construction. It appeared to be hardened leather and latex, molded into the shape of the body beneath it, shiny brown or black depending upon the light. He was shaped into an avatar of male sexuality, a compelling codpiece protecting his groin. He turned a circle, presenting himself for her, preening. He unbuckled the codpiece and freed his penis, huge, tumescent and dripping.

"What do you think, my Angel?" he asked.

"Very little." Scully answered with as much sarcasm as she could find.

"Well, Angel Dana, your position is not proper for our deed and I must move you with or without your cooperation." He reached over and increased the gas flow. "Not until you're properly sedated, however. Then I'll untie you and we'll begin our time--oh, I shall try to increase its duration for your sake, but still--our too short a time together."

Scully breathed as shallow as possible, and that through her mouth.

He laughed. "You don't really think that will work, do you?" He held out a two-and-a-half inch red ballgag with chin strap. Scully's mouth immediately clamped shut, but a moment of breathing through her nose reminded her that this was not an option. She turned her head and tried to breathe softly through her barely open lips. The man she knew only as Dark Angel placed the ball firmly against her lips and then squeezed sharply against her jaw. The grinding pain forced her mouth open, and he pressed the gag into it, strapping it in place around her head and finally under her chin.

"Unless you can breathe through your ears, I would suggest giving in," he noted.

Scully knew further resistance to the gas was useless. She had come close enough to full consciousness, though, to realize that her backup plan of cutting off the gas supply at the wall had not worked. Turning, she saw that her assailant was using a portable gas machine, with its blue and green cylinders independent of the main nitrous supply.

The ballgag filled her mouth with the taste of rubber; the nasal mask filled her nose with the smell of rubber and nitrous. Her eyes, still able to focus, were presented with this horned, blonde-headed vision encased in black rubber and leather, even to the sheath that covered his balls and the shaft of his cock. Only the head of his penis showed, enlarged by the constriction of the latex tube and glistening with his lubricant.

As the ringing in her ears increased and the warmth of disconnection embraced her body, Scully realized that in another circumstance she would be extremely aroused. Kinky, she thought.

Her head lolled to one side as she fell asleep.

Dark Angel smiled a smile of pure joy. He had been amused by her attempt to outthink him by disconnecting the wall- mounted gas machine. Try as she might to escape him, to stop him, to apprehend him, she had not come close. His Infernal Father protected him so long as he did His bidding. And now the time had come for the Thirteenth of the Thirteen's, the one who would not die in childbirth, and whose child would not die, but only bring Death.

He did not laugh aloud, but his smile increased in brilliance until its glow filled the operatory with a soft yellow light. She would be his, and although he would take her in Another's name, still the experience and the woman would be his alone, as they had all been!

After a suitable wait for the gas to take its full effect, he reached forward and released Scully's bonds, one strap at a time, until she lay on the recliner, free but for the hoses of the nasal inhaler. He took a few more pictures, then opened her jacket. He unbuttoned her blouse slowly, savoring the moment. He had nothing to worry about--there was never any time pressure with his procedures, and he enjoyed the details of the work.

Scully's bra was front hook. That's serendipitous, he noted as he freed her small and pleasantly firm breasts. He removed the nitrous mask and quickly leaned her forward, pulling the coat, blouse and bra free from her arms and placing them on the floor. She started to stir a little--the biggest problem with nitrous oxide was its quick purge from the system. He laid her back and replaced the mask over her nose, tightening the hoses for a firm face mold.

Her shoes were next, and then her skirt. A zip and a tug and it was gone. Then came the ever-present panty hose and finally the simple midnight blue satin panties. He stood back again and admired the temple he would soon claim.

She slept like the angel she was, like the baby she would soon bear for his Despised Father. Her hair was red, so he recognized her as a daughter of Lilith. The hair defied description as it caught and bent and returned light in such manner as to deny a complete categorizing of the colors. Her green eyes were hidden beneath sleepy lids, but he'd seen them enough to love the way the green flashed and glimmered. Her body was youthful, but not young; mature but not old. It lay at the height of its agility, catlike in its slender muscularity. Her breasts were firm, the nipples brown and semi-erect. He parted her legs slightly to gaze upon the trimmed red bush that protected her virtue. Such a silly word, and soon very inappropriate!

The man who called himself the Dark Angel, well aware of his Master's needs, prepared Scully for her experience. A combination of the required position and the limitations of the nasal inhaler and its hoses led him to remove the rubber nosepiece. He placed a full face anesthesia mask over her nose and mouth (a large one, since he did not desire to remove the gag) and strapped it in place. Detaching the gas hoses from their nasal connector, he reattached them to the front of the new mask. The switch- over was done with an economy of effort that came from practice. With the hoses freed from the back of the recliner, he could now move Scully into the necessary stance.

He lifted her from the chair with ease and moved her to the floor. He placed a firm, trapezoidal shaped pillow under her, resting her stomach upon it. Her rested her head on its side on another firm pillow and checked to see that the mask was still firmly strapped and delivering its gentle sleepiness.

Standing back, he admired his work and her body. He spread her legs apart a bit more, and slid the pillow back so that her ass was slightly higher. His hand then gently massaged her ass cheeks, running a finger up and down the crack eventually coming to rest as her moistness. He fingered her slowly, deeply, searching for the flood of lubrication he knew would be forthcoming. When he found it, his fingers led it to the outer folds of her vagina and back to her ass. He sniffed his fingers, felt his erection become even larger, straining at its rubber sleeve.

"No time like the present," he said to an unheeding Scully.

He lowered the gas level again, as he wanted her to enjoy the event, but left mask and gag in place. He rather liked the sight of her kneeling before him, her gag and mask straps winding about her head, the rest of her naked and open to him. A few pictures later he knelt between her legs and took his penis in his hand. Preparing to enter her from behind, his cock dripped lubricant from its naked head, its veins showing through the rubber sheath.

He felt the smooth skin of her bottom against his lower belly as he positioned his cock head at her entrance. A gentle thrust and he was in her. The dark man began to thrust deeply into Scully's body, enjoying with triumph his sexual power over the beautiful woman.

He was reaching his climax too fast, he wanted to continue his contact with her body, he wanted to feel his swollen penis thrusting into her, he.....

"Stop right there. FBI!" a voice roared through the room.

The dark man was on his feet instantly. Another man stood in the doorway,

"Back into the corner and stay there!" the other shouted, gesturing with his pistol.

"You must be the partner. Mulder. If you drop that silly gun and leave right now, I'll forget your trespass," the would be rapist offered. "I can be magnanimous, you know."

"If you get back in the corner right now, I won't forget a damned thing. But I won't kill you," Mulder responded. "Idiot!" he said as he took a step towards the FBI agent. "You can't kill me. I am protected by my Father Below. . ." As he said this he started to step again so Mulder fired two rounds from the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson into his chest. When the Dark Angel took another step, seemingly unbothered by the slugs, Mulder sent the next eleven rounds into his head and throat--practice gave good results.

The Dark Angel staggered, screeching, clutching at his head.

At the last shot, he vanished in a burst of light, leaving behind only a faint but distinctly unpleasant odor of sulfur.

Mulder took in the scene quickly. He reloaded and holstered his weapon and went to Scully. He quickly removed the mask and unbuckled the ballgag, taking it out of her mouth and setting it aside. Scully's eyes opened, then closed and a moan issued from her throat. Mulder picked her up and placed her on the chair. Not finding any cover, he draped his coat over her and shook her a little.

"Scully, it's me. Mulder. Wake up. Are you all right?" He asked all of the inane questions he could think of, but Scully only regained her faculties in her body's own good time. Breathing air rather than nitrous made things move along with dispatch. When the cotton was finally plucked from her brain, she looked up and recognized Mulder standing over her.

"Mulder, is it you?"

"It's me, Scully."

"Where's the bad guy?"

"Good question. He's gone, but where. . .I don't know."

"You let him get away?"

"Only if you consider shooting him thirteen times letting him get away. He just disappeared in a flash of light," Mulder said, grimacing. "So he got the drop on you after all."

"And you followed me where I didn't want you to follow," Scully replied.

"Good thing I did."

"Yes. Thanks, Mulder."

"I guess we struggling agents have a lot to learn."

Scully looked down at herself, realizing she was naked underneath Mulder's coat.

Mulder reddened a little. "Sorry. Your clothes are by the chair. I'll step out so you can get dressed." He started to leave, stopped and looked at her. "Did he. . .did he hurt you, Scully?"

She smiled at him and without blinking she lied. "No, Mulder. He tried, but you stopped him."

"Good."

"Mulder, are you angry with me?"

His look became puzzled and he returned back to the chair. "No. Why do you ask.?"

She rested her hand on his hip. "Then why are you leaving?" She flipped his coat onto the floor and slid a leg around him, and pulled him to her.

"Scully, we can't. The gas, it's still. . .working on you. And. . ."

"Forget the gas. Unless you want me to use it on you later?" Scully said with as wicked a grin as Mulder had ever seen.

Then she whispered, "Just follow the doctor's orders, Mulder."

Scully's arms reached up to pull him down. Mulder let his inner smile find its way out. Their lips clung to each other and Mulder refused to think at all, and they found themselves one in the other.

The End