The words weren’t easy to digest—nothing exceptbloodit seemed ever hit my stomach without some kind of revulsion.But I’d learned enough from St.Theresa that it made sense.What he called “mortification” wasn’t merely about lacking things, but about the complete detachment of the will from the pleasure they offer.He was talking about the spiritual death of the appetites.
Yes, I’d still crave blood.I’d always thirst for it.My body would ache, even languish, without it.But what did that matter?To satiate those appetites meant only one thing: accepting my sentence, my damnation, that I was a monster.
I recognized the echoes of St.Teresa’s writings here—both Carmelites, and from what I’d gleaned from my cursory knowledge of their history, the two had worked hand-in-hand.St.Theresa had helped John of the Cross carry out the same monastic reforms among monks that she’d begun with her nuns.And he’d served later as her spiritual director.They spoke with one voice.The wrote of embracing suffering, not fleeing from it.Suffering was a path to God.It wasparticipatingin the cross itself, uniting my suffering to Christ’s suffering.Teresa’s voice had been warmer, more maternal.John’s words cut like the winter wind, stripping away pretense and comfort alike.
My fingers found the next passage without conscious thought, drawn by the heavy markings surrounding it.Dark pen had underlined the text, boxed it in with careful lines.A star adorned the margin, the ink fresh, as if Father O’Malley had wanted to ensure I didn’t overlook this particular wisdom:
To come to the pleasure you have not, you must go by a way in which you enjoy not.To come to the knowledge you have not, you must go by a way in which you know not.To come to the possession you have not, you must go by a way in which you possess not.
The words seemed to lift from the page, wrapping around my consciousness like smoke from the candle.Everything reversed, inverted—the path to gaining was through losing, the way to knowledge through ignorance, the route to possession through dispossession.My breath caught in my throat, though I had no need for air.
The revelation hit me harder than a stake through the heart.All this time, I’d been thinking of the Gilded Cross as something to defeat, to overcome, to strip of its power.But what if that was precisely backward?What if the key to withstanding its judgment wasn’t resistance but surrender?Not fighting against it but suffering through it?
The Carmelite way—suffering embraced for love of God rather than personal benefit.The willing death to self that paradoxically preserved the soul.Deprivation of what one desired leading to possession of all things.Marcus intended me as a sacrifice, but what if that sacrifice, willingly embraced, became something else entirely?Not destruction but transformation.Not ending but beginning.Not defeat, but victory.
Supposing the Gilded Cross drew its power from judgment, from the exposure of a vampire’s damned soul, what if one approached it already emptied, already surrendered, having died to self before the Cross could impose its death?Saints Teresa and John spoke of this—the soul that had already passed through its dark night could not be threatened by darkness.
My fingers pressed against the page until the paper creased beneath them.This was the answer—not to fight the Cross, not to find some spell or ritual to disenchant it, but to become what Marcus already envisioned.He would be my Sanhedrin, my Pontius Pilate, and perhaps, Gabriel, my Judas.
What if that was it.I was supposed tobethe sacrifice, but on terms he could never imagine.To die before dying, to surrender before being conquered.What if the instrument he envisioned for my death—to destroy all of us—could become our victory?
As I was reading, Desiderius, Ruth, and Rebecca returned.They said little, clearly as perplexed by the day’s discoveries and I had been.How could I explain this to them?How could I make them understand that our salvation might lie not in victory but in defeat?
They would never accept it.Desiderius, with his centuries of survival instinct, would see only madness in the approach.Ruth, bitter and burned by betrayal, would interpret surrender as weakness.Rebecca, hungry and desperate, could barely control herself enough to resist feeding—how could she comprehend this ultimate self-denial?
No, this revelation was mine alone to bear, at least for now.Not even the apostles were prepared to die with Christ, even though Peter said he’d do so willingly.When the time came, he denied his Lord, and the others fled.It was only after they’d seen their Lord die and rise again that they discovered the truth; only then did they learn that following the path of suffering wasn’t the end, but the beginning.
I closed the book gently, keeping my expression neutral despite the storm of understanding raging within me.Let them continue planning their resistance, their strategies for destroying or containing the Cross.When the moment came—and I knew with cold certainty that it would come—I would do what needed to be done.
The words of St.John echoed in my mind as I settled back against the wall, the book cradled in my lap like a sleeping child.To possess everything, possess nothing.To know everything, know nothing.To be everything, be nothing.
Perhaps that had always been my path—not the vampire seeking redemption, but the sacrifice offering itself willingly to the flame, so that others, though dead, might truly live.But it wasn’t my sacrifice alone that merited my confidence.I was only following in the path of the One who’d taught the likes of the saints whose words gave me such clarity.
Chapter 12
Thechalkscrapedagainststone as Desiderius sketched an ill-proportioned map of the monastery on the floor.I watched from my corner, legs drawn up beneath me, the two books pressed against my chest like armor.I’d only fed once since we arrived in New York, declining subsequent opportunities.I couldn’t say the same for Ruth and Rebecca.There was something about it, though, like if you fall back into a sin that you thought you’d conquered, that made me feel dirty, that tempted me toward the greatest of all sins: despair.
Prayer and Detachment.That was my dual-remedy, courtesy of Saints Theresa and John of the Cross.I had to trust it would preserve me, it would suffice, for if God provides for the birds of the air who neither toil nor spin, I had to believe he’d still provide for me—vampire or not—since He’d once made me in His image.Seek first the Kingdom of God, our Lord had preached on the mount, and allthese other thingswill be added unto you.
I don’t think Jesus was thinking about “human blood” when he mentioned such “things,” but he certainly meant to speak of God’s provision.Oh, if only I could see myself with half the splendor of a field lily, or a frantic songbird, then I’d have no reason to doubt.How weak must my faith be, how impoverished my self-assessment, if I couldn’t see myself as possessing more value or worth than wildflowers and birds?
“The eastern wing empties between three and four,” Desiderius said, his Dutch accent sharpening each consonant as he added another passageway to his makeshift map.“The brothers attend Matins in the main chapel.Only two guards remain, and they cluster near the entrance.”His fingers, white with chalk dust, traced the route with surgical precision.“The archives connect through here”—a sharp line—“to what I believe houses their most sacred artifacts.”
The map sprawled before us like a skeleton, each room a vertebra, each corridor a rib.Desiderius had spent every spare moment observing, cataloging, and planning.
“You’re assuming the Cross is even kept there,” Ruth interrupted.“These Order types love their ceremonies.For all we know, Marcus keeps it in his personal chambers, or moves it nightly.”
“Then we search systematically.”Desiderius didn’t look up from his drawing.“Room by room if necessary.”
Rebecca’s fingers drummed against her thigh.“Why search at all?We could take one of the guards, make them tell us.”Her hunger colored every word now, turning even simple suggestions into barely veiled threats.“Quick.Efficient.”
“And alert the entire monastery when they’re discovered missing or damaged.”Desiderius’s tone remained patient, but I caught the slight tightening of his jaw.“We proceed with caution.”
I shifted against the wall, feeling how my limbs moved too slowly, how even this small motion sent tremors through muscles starved of what they needed.
“Perhaps we should exercise patience.”My voice emerged softer than intended.“Allow the truth to reveal itself.Wait instead for them to make a wrong move rather than risk doing so ourselves.Allow providence to dictate out way forward.”
Desiderius’s hand stilled mid-stroke.He turned to look at me fully, and in his ancient eyes I saw something shift—concern melding with suspicion.“Providence?”The word fell from his lips like an accusation.“You speak as if we should simply wait for divine intervention.”
