Page 34

W e stumbled into the rectory through a side door that Father O’Malley unlocked with trembling hands.

The smell of blood clung to us like a second skin—Silas’s blood on Ruth and Rebecca, Father O’Malley’s blood soaked into his own clothing, and whatever remnants of my humanity I’d left behind in that desecrated sanctuary.

I supported the priest’s weight as we moved deeper into the building, away from the carnage, toward what he promised would be sanctuary.

But sanctuary from what? The Order? Or from what we’d become?

The back room of the rectory was barely large enough for the five of us.

A single oil lamp guttered on a desk cluttered with papers and leather-bound books, casting elongated shadows across our faces that made us look more monstrous than we already were.

Father O’Malley eased himself onto a wooden chair with a grimace, the rope burns on his wrists angry and red in the weak light.

“There are clean cloths in that drawer,” he said, nodding toward a small cabinet. “And a bottle of iodine.”

I retrieved them, my movements mechanical. The cabinet smelled of incense and old paper, a peculiarly human scent that made my throat tighten with something like longing. I handed him the supplies, careful not to let my cold fingers brush his warm ones.

“Thank you, Alice.” He dabbed at the cuts on his forehead where the thorns had pierced his skin. Each touch made him wince, but he didn’t stop. Pain was sometimes necessary for healing. A lesson I’d learned several times over as of late.

Ruth and Rebecca huddled in the far corner, as far from the priest as the small room would allow.

Their faces were smeared with blood that had begun to dry and flake, their eyes glazed and unfocused.

The feeding frenzy I’d witnessed in the church had left them drunk and disoriented, caught between horror at what they’d done and satisfaction of the hunger that had driven them to it.

Ruth’s hands shook as she stared at them, at the blood caked beneath her fingernails. “I didn’t... I never...” Her voice was barely a whisper.

I placed my hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremors that ran through her body. “I know,” I said, though I didn’t, not really. I’d never given in to the hunger that completely, never let it consume me the way it had consumed them. Was that faith, or just fear? I wasn’t sure anymore.

Rebecca rocked back and forth beside Ruth, her teenage face contorted with emotions too complex for her years.

She’d been the youngest when she died, barely sixteen, the same age I’d been when I sat with the dying and prayed for their souls.

Now she was both dead and undead, caught in a twilight existence that defied all the theology I’d been raised on.

“I can still taste him,” she murmured, running her tongue over her lips. “He tasted like... like power. Like salvation.” She looked up at me, her eyes clearing slightly. “Is that wrong?”

What could I tell her? That feeding on a man’s lifeblood was a sin? We were beyond such simple judgments now. “It’s done,” I said instead. “We did what we had to do to survive.”

Desiderius stood apart from us, his back straight despite the horrific burns that covered half his face and neck.

His flesh was knitting itself back together with agonizing slowness, new pink skin forming over charred tissue.

He caught me watching and inclined his head slightly, a gesture that might have been acknowledgment or simply pain.

“You’re healing,” I observed.

“A benefit of age,” he replied, his aristocratic voice reduced to a rasp by his damaged throat. “Though I must admit, I haven’t felt pain like this since the Inquisition.”

The mention of such ancient history reminded me that this creature had walked the earth for centuries, had witnessed horrors I could scarcely imagine. What path had led him from those dark times to this moment, standing in a priest’s study, having betrayed his supposed allies to save a man of God?

Father O’Malley finished cleaning his wounds and looked up at us, his gaze moving from face to face. Despite everything, his eyes held no fear—only a deep, abiding compassion that made me want to look away.

“We can’t stay here long,” he said. “The Order will have sentries watching the church. They’ll be looking for us.”

“Where can we go?” I asked. The weight of responsibility pressed down on me—not just for myself, but for Ruth and Rebecca, for what remained of the progeny I’d unwittingly created.

“There’s a chamber beneath the church,” Father O’Malley explained, leaning forward despite his pain. “A sanctuary built during the days when Catholics were persecuted here. Few know of its existence now.”

“Below the church?” Rebecca’s voice cracked with fear. “But the consecrated ground—it burns us.”

Father O’Malley shook his head. “Not all of you. Not Alice, not Desiderius. And for you and Ruth, the pain will lessen with time and faith. It’s purification, not destruction.”

The words echoed what I’d told my progeny before our attack on the church. Had I been right, then? Was there truly hope for creatures like us?

“The chamber has no windows,” Father O’Malley continued. “No way for sunlight to reach you. There are supplies there—blankets, candles, books. It will give us time to plan our next move.”

“Our next move?” Ruth looked up from her bloodstained hands. “What next move? Sarah, Martha, Elizabeth—they’re gone. Turned to ash. We’ve lost everything.”

“Not everything,” I said, more firmly than I felt. “We’re still here. We still have a choice about what we become.”

“And what is that?” Rebecca asked, her voice small. “What can we become, besides monsters?”

I had no answer for her—not one I believed in my soul, if I still had one. I looked to Father O’Malley, hoping he might offer the comfort I couldn’t.

The oil lamp flickered, shadows dancing across his weathered face. “Witnesses,” he said simply. “To a truth the Order has tried to bury—that grace can reach even those they deem beyond salvation.”

Desiderius made a sound that might have been a laugh, if his throat hadn’t been burned raw. “A noble sentiment, Father. But sentiment alone won’t protect us from what’s coming.”

“No,” Father O’Malley agreed. “But it gives us reason to fight.” He stood, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. “We should go. The passage to the chamber is behind the altar—ironic, I know, that your salvation lies through the very ground that pains you.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened with panic. “I can’t—I can’t go back in there. Not after what happened. Not after what we did.”

Ruth nodded in agreement, her trembling intensifying. “The pain... I don’t think I can bear it again so soon.”

I knelt beside them, taking their icy hands in mine. These women had been strangers to me in life, accused witches I’d hunted at the Order’s command. Now they were bound to me by blood and death and whatever twisted version of motherhood vampirism had granted me.

“You can,” I told them. “You’re stronger than you know. And this time, you won’t be alone. I’ll be with you every step.”

They looked at me with such naked trust that I nearly flinched. What had I done to deserve such faith? Nothing. But perhaps that was the point Father O’Malley had been trying to make—grace wasn’t earned but given freely, even to the most undeserving.

“Lead the way, Father,” I said, helping Ruth and Rebecca to their feet. “We’ll follow.”

As we prepared to leave the small sanctuary of the rectory for the uncertain protection of the hidden chamber, I caught Desiderius watching me with an unreadable expression. Something like recognition flickered in his ancient eyes—or perhaps it was merely the lamplight playing tricks.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said, his ruined mouth attempting a smile. “Just wondering what it is about you that makes me think perhaps, after all these centuries, I might finally be on the right path.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. So instead, I simply nodded and turned to follow Father O’Malley into the night, toward whatever salvation or damnation awaited us beneath the church.

T he chamber beneath St. Mary’s lay hidden for nearly two centuries, its existence known only to a succession of priests who guarded its secret.

Candles burned in iron sconces along the walls, their flames steady in the still air, casting our shadows like giants against ancient stone.

Father O’Malley had led us through a narrow passage behind the altar, down worn steps that spiraled into darkness, until we reached this unexpected sanctuary.

I watched Ruth and Rebecca huddle together on a pallet in the corner, their faces still etched with pain from crossing the consecrated ground above, while Desiderius stood near a crude wooden cross, seemingly lost in memories older than any of us could fathom.

“You’ve been here before,” I said to him. It wasn’t a question.

Desiderius nodded, the movement causing fresh pink skin to stretch across the burns that still marked his aristocratic features. “Many times, though not in recent years.”

Father O’Malley settled himself on a wooden chair, his wounds freshly bandaged but still clearly causing him pain. “Desiderius has been a friend to this parish longer than I’ve been alive,” he said. “Perhaps it’s time you shared your story with Alice and the others.”

The ancient vampire turned to face us fully, his golden eyes reflecting the candlelight. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a rasp from his damaged throat, yet carried the unmistakable cadence of another century, another world.

“Vienna, 1823,” he began. “I had existed for nearly two centuries by then, moving from place to place as suspicion grew or I tired of the endless cycle of feeding and hiding. I had been many things—a merchant, a scholar, occasionally a monster when hunger or anger overcame my restraint.”