“If you know what we are,” I said carefully, abandoning pretense, “then you know we’re hardly suitable for whatever military application you’re imagining.”
“On the contrary.”Gantry’s voice warmed with what might have been genuine enthusiasm.“With Europe descending into chaos, America will inevitably be drawn into conflict.Conventional forces have their limitations.Your...congregation...might offer us a unique tactical advantage.”
Dr.Gallow steepled his fingers beneath his chin.“Enhanced strength.Superior night vision.Accelerated healing.Psychological impact on enemy combatants.”He listed these attributes with the same dispassion he might use to catalog a rifle’s specifications.“Properly deployed, a unit of your kind could accomplish what entire battalions could not.”
“The General requires a specific complement for this pilot program,” Gallow added, his eyes scanning Alice as if counting her pulse.“Twelve, in addition to yourself.No more, no less.”
I felt the blood—the little I had left—drain from my face.“Twelve?”I echoed.The number felt like a mountain.To find twelve who could resist the scent of a battlefield, who wouldn’t descend into a feeding frenzy the moment a bayonet drew blood?It was an impossible ask.“That is nearly half my flock.We are a sanctuary, General, not a barracks.”
“Twelve,” Gantry repeated, his voice dropping an octave, brooking no room for negotiation.“And that number includes you, Miss Bladewell.You will be the anchor for the other eleven.I find that a dozen provides the necessary redundancy for field operations while remaining a manageable size for...containment.”
“You are asking me to lead my children into a slaughterhouse,” I said, my voice trembling with rising heat.“I will not hand over twelve lives to be experimented upon by Dr.Gallow or used as cannon fodder for the War Department.It is an absurdity.A death sentence.”
“It is a requisition,” Gantry corrected coldly.“And the number is non-negotiable.”
Sister Josephine remained silent.When I glanced at her, her face had gone ashen, eyes fixed on the crucifix above the mantel as though seeking strength or forgiveness—perhaps both.
“No.”The word escaped me before I could temper it with diplomacy.“Absolutely not.These souls are under my spiritual guidance.Many barely maintain control over their predatory instincts.What you suggest would destroy everything we’ve built.”
“A pity.”Gantry sighed, reaching once more into his folio.He withdrew a smaller folder and placed it on the table with deliberate care.“This contains documents detailing Bishop Harkins’ involvement in harboring what many would consider demonic entities.Correspondence between His Excellency and various Church officials regarding your...unusual status.Evidence sufficient to destroy his standing in the Church and expose him to public condemnation, possibly even criminal charges.”
The shock froze me like winter in a tomb.My hands gripped the arms of my chair as I leaned forward.“You would blackmail a consecrated servant of the Church?”
“I would secure assets vital to national security,” Gantry corrected, his tone suggesting the distinction was significant.“The Bishop’s reputation is collateral, nothing more.”
“These are souls, General.”I did my best to maintain my composure.“Not weapons to be aimed and fired.”
“They are both, Miss Bladewell,” he replied without hesitation.“As are you.”
Dr.Gallow’s thin fingers danced across the papers like a spider navigating its web toward a trapped fly.“Our initial requirements are modest.Twelve subjects ideally with demonstrable self-control.Your presence would be mandatory to maintain their...compliance.”
“Absolutely not!”I stood with clenched fists, forfeiting my religious composure.
Gantry rose to his feet, towering over me.“Either provide us with what we require, Miss Bladewell, or watch as His Excellency’s career—and quite possibly his life—crumbles to dust.We shall call upon you tomorrow after sunset for your answer.”
He gathered his documents with practiced efficiency, leaving only the slim folder containing the evidence against Bishop Harkins on the table between us.
“Good day, Miss Bladewell.Sister Josephine.”Gantry smirked a little when he said ‘good day,’ as if it was supposed to be some kind of classless joke about my lack of daytime availability.“Dr.Gallow and I look forward to a productive relationship.”
They departed with the same precision with which they had arrived, leaving behind only the folder and the scent of gunpowder and antiseptic that clung to their clothing.When the front door closed behind them, Sister Josephine finally released a breath she seemed to have been holding for minutes.
“Lord have mercy,” she whispered.
Desiderius rose, moving to the window to watch the men’s departure.“Not even the Order has ever been so bold,” he murmured.“The arrogance of it—to attempt to harness as amilitaryweapon what they cannot possibly understand.”
I couldn’t tear my gaze from the folder on the table.In its slim confines lay enough evidence to immolate Bishop Harkins—to reduce to cinders the life’s work of the only man after Father O’Malley who had ever looked at me and seen not the Order’s weapon, but a soul worthy of salvation.
“What will you do?”Sister Josephine asked, her voice barely audible.
I had no answer.Not yet.But I knew where I needed to seek one.
Chapter 9
IleftDesideriusandSister Josephine in the parlor, their worried voices fading behind me as I moved through the convent’s shadowed corridors toward the sanctuary.My steps echoed against stone floors worn smooth by decades of reverent feet, each footfall carrying me further from the impossible choice General Gantry had laid before me.The chapel door stood ajar, a sliver of candlelight spilling into the hallway like an invitation—or perhaps a warning that even here, I would find no simple answers.
The chapel welcomed me with silence broken only by the sporadic drip of water from a leak in the ceiling.Each drop struck the stone floor with the rhythm of a faltering heartbeat.Votive candles flickered in their red glass holders, casting trembling shadows across the stations of the cross.Christ’s painted face gazed down at me from each depiction of His suffering, His eyes seeming to follow me as I moved toward the altar.
I knelt on the bare stone, deliberately forgoing the thin cushions meant to ease mortal knees.Pain seemed an appropriate companion to my thoughts.My fingers found the silver locket at my throat.I clutched it so tightly the edges bit into my palm.The blessed silver burned slightly against my skin, a discomfort I welcomed.
