“The Order speaks of judgment,” he continued, pacing now with the measured steps of someone who’d rehearsed this sermon in empty rooms.“They promise us redemption through service, salvation through submission.But I tell you tonight that true redemption requires more than obedience.It demands complete annihilation of the self.”
Movement in my peripheral vision drew my attention.Brother Marcus lurked in the shadows near the hall’s entrance, Timothy and Elias flanking him.
Gabriel’s voice rose, pulling me back.“We are corruption given form, brothers and sisters.Every night we wake is an affront to the natural order.Every unnecessary breath we take mocks the divine plan.”His fingers tightened on the Bible, knuckles white, the trembling more pronounced now.“But what if I told you that our corruption serves a purpose?That our very existence as abominations might be the key to humanity’s salvation?”
The other Nightwalkers leaned forward almost imperceptibly, drawn by his conviction.Even Ruth, cynical Ruth who trusted nothing and no one, seemed captivated.But something in Gabriel’s delivery bothered me—not the words themselves, which were standard Order propaganda dressed in prettier language, but the way he shaped them.The cadence, the slight hesitation before certain phrases, the way his tongue caught on particular consonants.
“Personal judgment.”Gabriel’s voice was barely a whisper, but it penetrated.“That’s what awaits us all.Not some distant day of reckoning, but an immediate, intimate encounter with divine justice.And for those brave enough, faithful enough, to embrace it willingly...”He paused, eyes scanning our faces.“For them, judgment becomes not condemnation but transformation.Not destruction but transfiguration.”
The Bible in his hands smoked where his palms pressed against it, thin wisps curling up between his fingers.He didn’t let go, didn’t even flinch, though I could see the pain written in the tightness around his eyes.This was performance, I realized—not for us, but for Marcus and his watchers.Look at how I suffer for the cause.See how dedicated I am to redemption.
Gabriel’s lips parted, and the word escaped like a lover’s secret: “Death.”His eyes gleamed as he savored the silence that followed.“We have misunderstood death all along, my siblings.It is not our enemy.Death is our dowry, our gift to lay at the feet of the Almighty.Through death—willing, purposeful, magnificent death—we purchase not only our own salvation but the purification of this fallen world.”
Something about the way he held his jaw when he spoke, the particular angle of his chin when he lifted his head—why did it seem so familiar?
“The time approaches,” Gabriel continued, “when each of us will be called to make the ultimate sacrifice.Not in some abstract future, but soon.Very soon.And when that moment comes, we must be ready to embrace it with the same joy the martyrs showed when facing the lions.”
The smell of burning leather grew stronger as his palms seared deeper into the Bible’s cover, yet his voice never wavered.This was madness dressed as devotion, suicide cultism wrapped in theological language.And the worst part was how beautiful he made it sound, how his conviction transformed self-destruction into something almost sublime.
As his speech reached its crescendo, speaking of purification and final redemption, of judgment that would rain down like holy fire, I found myself studying the line of his throat, the shape of his hands, searching for the source of this maddening familiarity.
Gabriel’s speech was met with a resounding applause, especially from Matthias.Marcus and his compatriots had already left, but had seemingly heard and approved.I knew what they were doing.They’d found one Nightwalker, especially devout in his fidelity of the Order, to rile us up, to bolster our faith—not in God, but intheirperverse interpretation of the Almighty.
Matthias waved us out with a brush of his hand, suggesting we return to our quarters.This was little more than a meet—and-greet, a rally of the damned to damn themselves doubly in the Order’s service.It made me sick to my stomach, but it was effective.Most of the newly recruited vampires in the room bought it, cheering Gabriel’s words with the fervor of crusaders reclaiming their holy land—only these vampires thought they were reclaiming their salvation.
The cruciform hall expelled us into the monastery’s arterial corridors like blood cells scattered after a wound.The other Nightwalkers dispersed quickly, vanishing into the labyrinthine passages that honeycombed the monastery’s bones.Only we four lingered, finding an alcove where a headless saint presided over our whispered conference.
“That was theater,” Ruth said without preamble, her voice pitched low enough that even supernatural hearing would struggle to catch it from more than a few feet away.“Every word calculated to make us grateful for our own destruction.”
“Effective theater,” Desiderius added.“Did you see how the others hung on his words?Even I felt the pull of it, and I’ve heard variations of that sermon for decades.”
Rebecca pressed herself against the cold stone wall, arms wrapped around her middle as though trying to hold something in.“He really believes it, doesn’t he?Gabriel.He thinks dying for the Order will save his soul.”
“Or he’s an exceptional actor.”Ruth’s burned hands clenched and unclenched reflexively.“Either way, he knows something.All that talk of personal judgment, of imminent calling—he was dancing around something specific.Almost like he knows the full plan, how this weapon works.All of it.”
I watched them discuss Gabriel’s performance, but my mind kept circling back to that maddening sense of recognition.The way he’d held the Bible despite the pain, the particular tilt of his head when making a point, even the rhythm of his breathing when he paused for effect—why did it all seem like an echo of something I should remember?
“The archives,” Ruth said suddenly, pulling me from my spiral.“I didn’t go through everything.Maybe we’ll find something…”
I tried to focus on her words, but Gabriel’s voice, his jaw-line, something about his posture, kept intruding on my thoughts.Had I met him before?Perhaps at a time before either of us were vampires?In a former life?It felt morerecentthan that, but so distant all at once.
“Alice?”Rebecca’s voice, concerned.“You’ve been silent since we left the hall.”
“Something about him,” I managed, then stopped.How could I explain this nagging feeling when I couldn’t even articulate it to myself?“Gabriel.He seems...”
“Familiar?”Desiderius supplied, and something in his tone made me look at him sharply.His expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze didn’t quite meet mine.
“You feel it too?”
“Perhaps.”He shifted his weight, a tell so subtle only someone who’d spent weeks observing him would notice.“Young male Nightwalkers often share certain characteristics.The Order seems to prefer a type—zealous, articulate, beautiful in their ruin.It creates a sense of...similarity.”
But that wasn’t it.This wasn’t about type or category.This was specific, personal, like recognizing someone’s handwriting without remembering where you’d seen it before.
“We should investigate while we have a chance,” Ruth pressed.
“The restricted section,” Desiderius added.“If information about the weapon exists in the archives, it won’t be in the general collection.We need to access the materials they keep locked away.”
Rebecca looked between them, clearly torn between curiosity and fear.“What if we’re caught?Brother Marcus said—“
