I pressed my palms together until they ached.“Father,” I murmured, “walk beside us through this darkness.When we return—if we return—let us still recognize ourselves in the mirror, not just with these eyes, but with whatever remains of our souls.”
Chapter 13
Thenightbeforeourdeparture, I slipped away from the convent like a thief—a bitter irony, as everything I truly valued was being stolen from me.Sister Josephine had arranged the carriage through channels unknown even to me, its driver a silent figure who asked no questions when I emerged from the shadows in simple civilian dress, my hair hidden beneath a nondescript hat.The journey to Providence would consume precious hours I could ill afford to lose, but I needed guidance from the one surviving human outside the convent who had seen value in my tattered soul when others would have destroyed it.I needed Bishop Harkins.
Providence slumbered beneath a blanket of stars as the carriage deposited me at an unremarkable side door to the episcopal residence.No lanterns burned to announce my arrival; the Bishop had understood the need for discretion.A stooped housekeeper admitted me without a word, leading me through corridors so quiet I could hear the whisper of her woolen slippers against the floorboards.
The Bishop’s private study bore little evidence of his ecclesiastical rank.Its furnishings were modest—a writing desk cluttered with correspondence, bookshelves overflowing with theological texts, two simple chairs beside a hearth where embers glowed like dying stars.A single candle illuminated the space, its flame dancing with each breath drawn by the room’s occupant.
Bishop Harkins rose as I entered, his once-imposing frame now bent with age and the burdens of his office.Yet his eyes remained sharp, missing nothing as they assessed my appearance.
“Alice,” he greeted me, extending both hands to clasp mine.“You look troubled, my child.”
I felt the familiar sting where blood tears once formed, a phantom sensation from a humanity long surrendered.“Your Excellency, I come with grave news.The United States government has...conscripted us.Men claiming War Department authority have demanded my flock serve as soldiers.They know what we are, they’ve been watching us, and they’ve made it clear we have no choice.”
The Bishop guided me to a chair, settling his aged form into its companion with a sigh that spoke of worldly weariness.“Tell me everything,” he instructed.
The entire story poured from me—Gantry’s ultimatum, Gallow’s disturbing examinations, Mercer’s military discipline that encouraged rather than restrained our predatory nature.I confessed my fear that in saving the Bishop’s reputation, I might be condemning my flock to a path that led away from salvation rather than toward it.
“I feel as though I’ve failed them,” I whispered, staring at my hands.“Failed you.Failed the mission you entrusted to me.”
The Bishop was silent for a long moment, his gnarled fingers tracing the cross that hung at his throat.When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades spent navigating the complexities of faith in an increasingly secular world.
The Bishop’s weathered hand closed over mine.“Remember why I first sent you, Alice—to infiltrate the Order and save those they would destroy.If your suspicions are correct, if these government men are indeed connected to what remains of the Order...”His voice softened to the measured cadence.“Then God’s hand is evident.You’ve been positioned precisely where you can continue our work—gaining their trust while protecting souls they would otherwise destroy.The battlefield offers you cover for a greater mission: to shepherd your flock while undermining whatever darkness they’ve planted within our government.”
“But I’ve lost authority over them,” I objected.“This Captain Mercer commands their obedience now.He offers them acceptance through utility rather than redemption.”
“And yet you remain their spiritual compass,” Bishop Harkins countered.“Military command does not usurp moral authority.In the crucible of war, souls are laid bare.It is then they will need your guidance most desperately.”
He rose with effort, moving to a cabinet I had not noticed in the shadowed corner of the room.From its depths, he withdrew a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl crosses.
“I had these prepared for you some time ago, just in case they might prove necessary,” he explained, opening the box to reveal its contents.
Inside lay an array of sacramental items—a silver communion chalice lined with gold to prevent it burning vampire flesh, a rosary with beads of olive wood instead of silver, vials of holy water and consecrated wine sealed with wax, and a small leather-bound volume of prayers and blessings specifically composed for beings in our condition.
“These are not official, of course,” the Bishop said with the ghost of a smile.“The Vatican has issued no opinion on those souls who suffer with your condition.But I believe God’s mercy extends beyond what’s official.”
I lifted the chalice, its weight substantial in my palm.“Gold-lined?”
“So you may administer the Blood of Christ without suffering burns,” he confirmed.“The olive wood rosary is from Jerusalem.The blood of Christ within the vials may serve you when the time comes, and you have my authorization to administer as necessary.The volume contains prayers I’ve written myself, penned to address the specific spiritual struggles of your...condition.”
My fingers traced the embossed leather cover.“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Merely the practical necessities,” he demurred.“The true work will be yours alone.”
He returned to his chair, his movements betraying the arthritis that plagued his joints.“Alice, when I first met you, you were a weapon forged by the Order—though you’d long since disavowed their mission.Father O’Malley taught you to sheathe your blade, but at the convent, you learned to bend that steel into something that could lift the fallen rather than strike them down.The Order forged you as a sword, Alice.I’ve watched you reforge yourself into a shepherd’s crook.”
“And now I return to being a weapon,” I said bitterly.
“No.”His voice gained strength.“Now you carry both the blade and the crook.The challenge before you is to remember which to use, and when.Your calling has always been to shepherd lost souls.The battlefield merely changes the nature of the flock, not your purpose.”
The bishop’s clock struck three as I rose to depart, mindful of the journey that awaited before dawn.The Bishop pressed the wooden box into my hands, then traced the sign of the cross upon my brow.His fingers felt like marble against my skin.
“Remember, Alice,” he said softly.“In war as in peace, God’s work remains the same—the salvation of souls.”
I returned to the convent as the first gray light of morning touched the eastern sky.The courtyard bustled with activity—military personnel loading equipment, Gantry conferring with officers I did not recognize, Dr.Gallow overseeing the packing of mysterious crates that hummed with an energy I mistrusted.
My flock awaited me in the chapel, but I scarcely recognized them.Gone were the simple habits and modest garments of our sanctuary.In their place, military uniforms transformed my sisters and brothers into soldiers—crisp khaki jackets, practical trousers, and caps that shadowed their pale faces.Only their eyes remained familiar, looking to me for reassurance I wasn’t certain I could provide.
