“He knows nothing.And you must be willing to accept his decision, whatever it may be.”Father O’Malley’s gaze bored into mine.“If he refuses you the Sacrament, if he casts you out as the demons the Order believes you to be, you must carry that cross and trust that the Lord will always provide a way to escape temptation.”
“Even the temptation of a vampire?”The words emerged as barely a whisper.“To drink?To kill?Without the Eucharist, how long before I become the monster they already think I am?”
Father O’Malley reached across the desk with tremendous effort and placed his warm, living hand over my cold, dead one where it rested on St.Teresa’s book.The contrast was shocking—his pulse fluttering against my stillness, his warmth against my perpetual chill.
“You are still His child,” he said with such conviction that for a moment I almost believed him.“The mark of baptism cannot be erased, not even by death, not even by what you’ve become.If you endure the trial, you’ll receive the reward.St.Teresa writes of this—the purgation that precedes illumination.Your purgation may simply be more literal and arduous than most.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it—a vampire’s guide to sainthood.Instead, I clutched the book against my chest as though it might fill the hollow spaces within.
“Read it nightly,” Father O’Malley instructed, withdrawing his hand with visible exhaustion.“Where once you would have slept, now you can study, and better, pray.Make her words your meditation.Let them be the lamp unto your feet when all other lights go dark.”
My face, I knew, had become a mask—the rigid control I’d learned to maintain when emotions threatened to reveal the monster beneath the maiden’s form.But Father O’Malley saw through such facades.He always had.
“You must not despair, Alice,” he said, his voice gaining unexpected strength.“Remember—your suffering has purpose.Christ suffered for you; you suffer for Him and with Him.This is not punishment but participation.Through your unique trials, you share in the Passion in ways others cannot imagine.”
“Pretty words,” I managed, though my voice emerged rough as sand.“But you won’t be here to remind me of them when the hunger grows unbearable.”
“Then let St.Teresa remind you.”He moved toward the coat rack by the door, movements slow but determined.“She wrote, ‘The soul that is united with God habitually enjoys the greatest tranquility.’Seek that union, Alice.Not through me, not through any mortal mediator, but directly.Your condition forces you to stand outside human society—use that separation to stand closer to the divine.”
He donned his coat with visible difficulty, each arm a struggle to find its sleeve.His hat followed—a simple black felt affair that had seen better decades—which he settled carefully on his head.
At the threshold, he paused, one hand braced against the doorframe.The morning light had grown stronger, painting the frost on the windows gold and rose, though I knew I could not follow him into that light.Not yet.Not ever.
“One last thing,” he said, not turning to face me.“When doubt comes—and it will come, Alice, fierce and terrible—remember that Peter denied Christ thrice before the cock crowed, yet became the rock upon which the Church was built.Your failures do not define your destiny.Your choices, despite those failures, do.”
He stepped through the doorway then, into the pale winter morning.I listened to his footsteps on the frozen ground—shuffle-scrape, shuffle-scrape—growing fainter with each passing moment.Through the window, I watched his bent figure navigate the path that led away from the church, away from this sanctuary that had been my salvation for the past year.The rising sun caught his shoulders, transforming him briefly into a figure of light before he passed beyond the tree line and disappeared from view.
Chapter 3
Therectory’sairhungthick with the scent of melting candle wax.I stood with my companions in the shadows—Desiderius maintaining his centuries-old vigil stance, Ruth shifting her weight with barely contained agitation, Rebecca pressed against the wall as though she might dissolve into it entirely.We had come to say farewell, though the word itself seemed inadequate for what this parting meant.
Father O’Malley sat behind his desk, his traveling case already packed and waiting by the door.His hands, which had so often steadied mine during moments of spiritual crisis, now trembled with a palsy.When he reached for the sealed envelope resting before him, the effort required both hands to keep it from slipping through his fingers.
The door opened without warning, admitting a young priest whose collar still bore the stiffness of recent manufacture.Father John could not have been more than twenty-five, his face carrying that peculiar combination of earnestness and uncertainty that one might expect from the newly ordained.His eyes swept across our gathering, and I watched them widen slightly at what he saw—four figures standing with unnatural stillness in the pre-dawn gloom, none of us breathing except by conscious choice.
“Father John,” O’Malley’s voice carried more strength than his body suggested possible, “thank you for coming at this unusual hour.”
“Of course, Father.”The young priest’s tone held careful politeness, though his gaze kept returning to us with barely disguised curiosity.“Your message said it was urgent.”
Father O’Malley gestured toward us with one trembling hand.“These are the parishioners I mentioned.They require special accommodation due to their...condition.”
The word hung in the air like incense smoke.I watched Father John’s brow furrow as he processed this cryptic introduction.O’Malley continued before questions could form.
“They suffer from extreme photosensitivity,” the dying priest explained.“Sunlight causes them tremendous pain, you understand.Therefore, they can only attend Mass at night.”
“Photosensitivity?”Father John repeated, his voice rising slightly with incredulity.“All four of them?”
“A rare affliction,” O’Malley confirmed, his eyes never leaving the younger priest’s face.“But their faith remains strong despite their trials.They have been devoted members of this congregation for over a year now.”
I studied Father John’s expression as he absorbed this explanation.His jaw worked slightly, as though chewing on words he dared not speak.I knew he suspected something beyond a mere medical condition.He was right; the chances of four people all happening to suffer from such a rare if not unheard of condition invited skepticism.I couldn’t blame Father O’Malley.He was bound to tell the truth, and “extreme photosensitivity” wasn’t an inaccurate assessment of at least a part of our plight.
“I see,” Father John said finally, though his tone suggested he saw very little indeed.“And you’ve been conducting midnight Masses for them?”
“Every week without fail.For them and a handful of other parishioners who attend when they cannot find sleep.”O’Malley lifted the sealed envelope with visible effort, extending it toward the younger priest.“This letter contains my formal recommendation regarding their continued spiritual care.I trust you will give it proper consideration.”
Father John accepted the envelope with both hands.I was faster than I used to be when I was a human.Stronger, too.But I couldn’t see through paper.I was inordinately curious as to the letter’s contents.Did O’Malley dare hint at our true nature?Or had he crafted more elaborate half-truths to protect us?
“They are quite devoted to the Eucharist,” O’Malley added.“It sustains them in ways that are...difficult to describe.”
