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He reaches up to his ear and grimaces as he touches it lightly. “I still don’t think I can hear as well. Is it me, or did it grow back bigger?”

He has a point. Not that his ear looks any different.

“I’ll be back,” he says, reaching over and tapping his fingers on the bible. “If you’re really interested, I can teach you how to read.”

My heart flips in my chest. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “We can start this evening.”

Then, he opens the door to the church and closes it behind him.

I hold my breath, wondering how much freedom he’ll actually give me.

Then, I hear the lock turning.

Priest’s sermon seemed to go longer than usual. Perhaps he felt guilty for what we did to the soldier, even though it was self-defense and the soldier deserved it. From what I heard through the walls, he spent an awful lot of time talking about guilt, more so than usual.

But when he finally ventured back to see me, he didn’t seem burdened by any of the words he had spoken. Instead, he seemed lighter than I’d ever seen him, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He brought me some food and then came back again in the evening so our lessons could begin.

I have to admit, it was nice to see that side of him. I figured he would be a good teacher because of his deep, booming voice and engaging cadence when he’s giving his sermons. I can’t see how the villagers react, but I assume they hang on his every word. I know I do, even when I’m listening through the walls.

But when it comes to teaching me how to read, he’s patient, compassionate, kind.

He seems to have limitless energy for it. He must have been trying to teach me for hours before it felt like my eyes were starting to cross.

“Alright, I’m afraid I’m going to need a break,” I tell him. “My brain can only take so much.”

He gives me a sheepish grin, and it somehow makes him look younger.

“Sorry,” he says, closing the book. “I can get carried away.”

“I’ve noticed. Where did you learn how to read? You must have had a good instructor.”

He traces the gold letters stamped on the book’s leather cover. “I learned in the monastery. I couldn’t read when I was a human. I’d wanted to learn, but there was no use for it in my line of work.”

“What about remembering spells?”

He shrugs. “They were all passed down verbally.”

“Did your friend Abe teach you in the monastery?” I ask.

He looks at me in surprise, as if he didn’t expect me to remember his name. “No. As methodical as he is, he doesn’t have patience for those who aren’t as bright as he,” he says with a chuckle. “There were others who taught me there.”

“Were they Vampyres too?”

“Most of them,” he says. “A few humans.”

“And they weren’t worried they’d become your next meal?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If they were, they never told me.”

“And so what did you learn on? I’m assuming the Bible.”

“Yes. Some other books too. Ever heard of William Shakespeare? John Milton? Miguel de Cervantes?”

I give him a tepid smile. “You know I have not. I have only heard of Father Aragon, and that is it.”

That brings another grin to his face. “Well, I know the Holy Book front and back, but perhaps my teachings are better spent on something a little more entertaining.”