“Marcus.”I spoke his name softly, the way Father O’Malley had often spoken mine when I’d spiraled into self-loathing.“Look at me.”
He didn’t want to.His eyes darted everywhere else—to his scattered implements of destruction, to Timothy and Elias frozen by the tree line, to the stakes where my companions had been bound.But eventually, inevitably, his gaze found mine.
What he saw there made him flinch.Not because I appeared monstrous, but because I didn’t.The authority radiating from me wasn’t mine—I was merely its vessel, a cracked cup somehow chosen to hold living water.
“Your entire crusade,” I said, kneeling so we were level, “has been built on a lie.Not the lie that vampires exist, or that evil is real, or that God demands justice.Those are truths.The lie is that some souls are beyond redemption, that Christ’s blood wasn’t sufficient for all sins, that God’s love has limits.”
“You don’t understand,” Marcus protested, but his voice broke on the words.“My sister—they killed her.Drained her dry and left her to turn into one of them.I had to stake my own sister, watch her crumble to ash while she begged me to—“ He couldn’t finish, sobs wracking his frame.
“I know.”The words came from somewhere deeper than my own experience.“I know about Margaret.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide.He’d never told anyone his sister’s name, had guarded it like a wound too tender to expose.
“I know she was seventeen,” I continued, feeling the knowledge flow through me like remembered music.It was an illumination of a kind, because no one had told me the details.But now it was there—like the words were given to me from above.Or, perhaps my time in heaven had been longer than I recalled, maybe I’d been shown more than I realized, and only now the memories were returning.“I know she sang in your church choir, that she had a voice like springtime.I know she brought you wildflowers every Sunday after service, even after you made your vows, tucked them into your Bible so you’d find them during evening prayers.”
Marcus’s face crumpled entirely.“How could you possibly—“
“Because I’ve seen where she is now.”The truth poured from me without hesitation, without doubt.“I’ve stood in the light that remakes all things, Marcus.I’ve felt the love that holds the universe together.And Margaret—your Margaret—she’s there.Not suffering, not tormented, not lost.She’s whole and beautiful and filled with joy you can’t imagine.”
He shook his head violently, tears streaming down hollow cheeks.“No.She died cursed.She died a monster.The theology is clear—“
“Your theology is small,” I interrupted, gently but firmly.“You’ve made God smaller than yourself, limited Him to your understanding of justice.But I’ve seen the truth, Marcus.His mercy is infinite.His love encompasses all.Even vampires.Even me.Even you, despite everything you’ve done in hatred’s name.”
“She’s happy?”The question emerged so quietly I might have missed it without supernatural hearing.“Margaret is...happy?”
“Happier than she ever was here.But she grieves for you.”I let that settle before continuing.“She watches you twist her memory into justification for cruelty.She sees you choosing vengeance over grace, hatred over love.While she bathes in the light of our Lord, you’re charting a course toward darkness.Not because God condemns you, but because you condemn yourself.Because you’ve chosen to become the very monster you claim to fight.”
Marcus pressed his palms against his eyes, his entire body shaking.“I’ve killed so many.In her name.In God’s name.I thought—I thought if I destroyed enough evil, it would balance the scales.Would make her death mean something.”
“Her death already meant something,” I said.“It meant that evil exists, that suffering is real, that we live in a fallen world.But you’ve added to that suffering, not diminished it.You’ve multiplied the darkness you claimed to fight.”
“Then I’m damned.”The words fell from him like stones into an abyss.“After everything, I’m the monster.”
“No.”I reached out, my stigmatized hand hovering near but not touching his shoulder.“You’re a man who lost his way in grief.A man who confused his pain for righteousness.But redemption exists even now, even for you.That’s what Christ died to ensure—that no one is beyond saving if they truly repent, if they turn their hearts away from the world, from themselves, and place them in His pierced hands.”
Marcus looked up at me then, and in his eyes I saw something breaking—not just his spirit, but the entire architecture of hatred he’d built around it.“I called you an abomination.I tried to destroy you.I tortured your friends, threatened an innocent priest.How can there be forgiveness for that?”
“Because forgiveness isn’t earned,” I said simply.“It’s given.Freely.To anyone who genuinely seeks it.”
He crumbled then, truly crumbled.Not the theatrical collapse of a man performing grief, but the complete dissolution of someone whose entire identity had been built on a foundation of sand.He wept—harsh, ugly sobs that came from somewhere so deep inside him I wondered if they’d been waiting since the day he’d staked his sister, locked away behind walls of rage and twisted purpose.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped between sobs.“God forgive me, I’m so sorry.Margaret, forgive me.”
The Gilded Cross lay a few feet away, having fallen when Matthias had transformed.I rose and walked to it, aware that everyone in the clearing watched—my companions, Father O’Malley, Timothy and Elias, all waiting to see what would happen when I touched the thing that had unmade Matthias.
My fingers closed around its tarnished surface, and immediately I understood why it had responded so differently to me.The Cross wasn’t a weapon—it never had been.It was a mirror, reflecting back the truth of whoever wielded it.In hands full of hatred, it would reflect destruction.In hands full of sacrifice, it had freed Matthias from his torment.And in my hands...
Light erupted from the metal, but gentle light, warm as summer dawn.The tarnish fell away like scales, revealing gold that glowed from within.The crude gems straightened in their settings, their colors deepening to something that hurt to perceive directly.
The light spread outward in waves, washing over everyone in the clearing.Where it touched my companions, their remaining wounds closed.Where it touched Father O’Malley, color returned to his ashen cheeks.Where it touched Marcus, his sobs gentled into something more like prayer.
But Timothy and Elias—when the light reached them, they recoiled as if burned.
“Sorcery,” Elias spat, raising his crossbow.But his hands shook too badly to aim.“This is all demonic deception.”
“Brother Marcus,” Timothy called out, desperation cracking his young voice.“Tell us what to do.Give us orders.Tell us this is some test, some trial—“
Marcus raised his tear-stained face.“Go,” he said quietly.“Leave this place.What you’ve seen tonight—it’s not sorcery.It’s grace.I was wrong before, and I’m sorry for leading you astray.Truly, I regret it.But if you can’t accept that, if you choose to cling to hatred instead, then go.Run.”
