“We’re ready, Sister Alice,” Ruth said, stepping forward.The title sounded strange juxtaposed against her military appearance.“Captain Mercer says we depart tonight at nightfall.”
I studied each face—Ruth’s eager determination, Rebecca’s careful reserve, Maria’s steadfast loyalty, Catherine’s lingering uncertainty, Thomas’s youthful anxiety.These souls had been placed in my care by providence or circumstance.Now they would follow me into humankind’s most terrible invention: modern warfare.
“Then let us spend the day in prayer.”I held the box the bishop gave me close to my chest.“One last time in our sanctuary.”
Weboardedthemilitarytransport under cover of night, officially designated as a “medical research unit” on documentation that Dr.Gallow had prepared.The ship loomed against the starlit sky, its metal hull reflecting the moon’s glow like a massive coffin.I shuddered at the thought, tightening my grip on the small valise containing the Bishop’s gifts.
As the engines rumbled to life and America began to recede into darkness, I stood alone at the ship’s rail, my fingers finding the silver locket that held Bishop Harkins’ original mandate.How far we had come from that first mission—to infiltrate and observe the Order.Now I led my flock toward a conflict greater than any I had anticipated, guided by orders I had never sought.
“Having second thoughts?”
Captain Mercer appeared beside me, his uniform pristine despite the salty air.His eyes reflected the distant lights of the shoreline as they diminished into the night.
“Concerns, not doubts,” I replied.“There is a difference.”
He nodded, surprising me with his understanding.“You fear for their souls.I am concerned for our victory.Think of the lives that might be saved if our mission is a success.Perhaps these concerns are not as opposed as they seem.”
I studied him more carefully than I had before.Beneath the military bearing and cold pragmatism, I glimpsed something I had not expected—a genuine care for our kind, albeit expressed through means I could not embrace.
“We may have different methods, Miss Bladewell,” he continued, offering what seemed an unexpected olive branch, “but perhaps we share a goal—survival.”
The water churned beneath us, dark and fathomless, much like the future that awaited us across the Atlantic.I thought of Bishop Harkins’ words about carrying both blade and crook, about discerning when each was needed.
“Survival without salvation is merely postponing damnation, Captain Mercer,” I replied, my voice steady despite the uncertainty that gripped my heart.“But perhaps in working to secure both, we may find more common ground than either of us anticipates.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting.“A noble sentiment, Miss Bladewell.Though I suspect the battlefield will strip away such philosophical distinctions soon enough.”
As he left me to my solitude, I turned my gaze toward the horizon where Europe—and war—awaited.The ship carried us forward like a modern ark, bearing creatures that existed between worlds toward a conflict that threatened to consume civilization.
I pressed my palms against the cold metal railing and closed my eyes.“Lord,” I whispered, “grant me strength to lead them through war’s darkness without extinguishing the light of salvation that burns within each of them.”
The shoreline disappeared completely, leaving only darkness ahead and behind.We sailed toward an uncertain dawn, suspended between worlds, between missions, between identities.I was no longer merely the Nightwalker or the Prioress.Now I would become something new—forged in the fires of a war I had not chosen.This was a cross to bear, and in my darkest moments of doubt, I clung to one certainty: suffering had always been where I found the divine most clearly.For it was hidden beneath the bloody cross that our Lord showed us the depth of His heart.
Chapter 14
Themetallichullofthe USS Leviathan groaned around us, its steel frame creaking against the Atlantic’s pressure like a giant iron coffin straining to hold its contents.I stood alone in our makeshift quarters—a converted cargo hold now filled with twelve narrow berths for my flock—and listened as the ship’s distant engines thrummed through the floor plates beneath my feet.The air tasted of salt and iron.Everything here felt wrong—cold metal instead of warm stone, the sway of ocean rather than the solid certainty of sacred ground, and most of all, the growing distance from the sanctuary we had built for ourselves.
Red-filtered lamps cast a bloody glow throughout our quarters, a concession to our sensitive eyes that somehow made our surroundings even more hellish.The light transformed everything it touched—the steel walls, the narrow bunks, even the faces of my sleeping flock—into shades of crimson and shadow.I moved between the sleeping forms of my charges, each lost in the daylight torpor that gripped us during sunlight hours.Even deep in the ship’s bowels, our bodies knew the sun rode high above the waves.
A pipe knocked somewhere in the ceiling, the sound sharp and jarring in the unnatural quiet.The ship’s bell rang six times—6 AM, the middle of our enforced rest period.I didn’t require sleep, though I’d come to value it.It didn’t just make mefeelhuman, but it gave me a short escape.The body didn’t demand it, but themindstill benefitted from rest.No matter, given the circumstances, sleep was elusive.My mind was plagued with too many thoughts about what we’d encounter once we reached Europe.
I sank to my knees beside my berth and reached beneath it for the wooden box Bishop Harkins had entrusted to me.The mother-of-pearl inlays caught the red light as I lifted the lid, revealing the treasures within.My fingers trembled slightly as I removed the gold-lined silver chalice, its weight reassuring in my palm.Pure silver would have burned my flesh, but the gold lining allowed me to handle it safely—a thoughtful accommodation from a man who truly understood our condition.
Next came the olive-wood rosary, each bead smooth.I draped it around my neck, the wooden cross settling against my chest beside the silver locket that held the Bishop’s original mandate.The small leather-bound manual of prayers completed the set—its pages filled with the Bishop’s careful handwriting.
I opened the manual to a page marked with a thin ribbon.“Prayer for the Control of Unnatural Hunger.”I traced the words with my fingertip, finding comfort in the familiar cadence even before I spoke them aloud.
“Lord who fed the multitudes with loaves and fishes,” I whispered, “grant that we who hunger for what we cannot have may find sustenance in Your grace.Though our bodies crave what is forbidden, fill our spirits instead with the blood of Your sacrifice.”
The words settled around me, familiar yet strange in this metal cavern so far from sacred ground.I continued reading, the Bishop’s modified litany acknowledging our condition while offering hope of redemption:
“Though we walk in shadow, we are not forsaken.
Though death has claimed us, we are not lost.
Though we thirst for what we must not take, Your mercy remains our wellspring.”
“A fascinating adaptation of the traditional liturgy.”Dr.Gallow’s voice cut through my prayer like a scalpel, precise and coldly curious.I hadn’t heard him enter—a testament to either his stealth or my absorption in the ritual.
