“There are many kinds of faith, Sister Alice,” he replied, rising with a fluid grace that seemed suddenly unfamiliar.“Some born of doctrine, of catechesis.I have some of that.But there’s another kind born of experience.That’s where it becomes genuine.”
I nodded, understanding.I was grateful for his participation, yet disturbed by the questions it raised.Why didn’t I hear him—his heartbeat, or his footsteps as he entered the chapel?Why didn’t I smell his blood?
There were too many mysteries to leave unresolved.We were running out of time before the mission, and my flock was divided.I needed the truth—before I was forced to learn it under a rain of artillery fire.
Imovedthroughtheempty corridors like a thought, my feet making no sound against the stones.I only had a few minutes of darkness left when my team would return from drills.Gallow had left his clinic and was reporting his progress to the Captain.This was the only chance I’d have before our mission.
When I reached the scriptorium door, I paused, listening for any hint of presence within.Nothing—not even a breath.
The lock yielded easily to strength that had once horrified me but now served a purpose beyond blood and death.I slipped inside, closing the door carefully to prevent a sound from its hinges.
I moved to the desk where Gallow spent his daylight hours writing in notebooks.Neat stacks of reports were orderly arranged, each labeled with dates and subject numbers rather than names.My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted the top report.
“Subject 7 (R.S.) displays marked increase in aggressive response following third treatment cycle.Restraint reflexes significantly diminished.Blood-hunger now channeled effectively toward tactical targets rather than suppressed.Recommend accelerated protocol for remaining field trials.”
R.S.—Ruth Simmons.My Ruth, who once wept after accidentally killing a sparrow.I set the report aside and picked up another.
“Subject 4 (R.P.) volunteers for additional treatments, citing enhanced clarity and reduced moral conflict.Subject now embraces predatory nature when presented with appropriate targets.Emotional detachment complete.Ready for advanced field deployment.”
Rebecca Porter.The analytical one who had helped our newest converts understand their condition through careful explanation rather than fear.Now reduced to a subject number and clinical observations of her “emotional detachment.”
The third report chilled me despite my inability to feel cold.“Subjects 11, 12, and 13 (recent conversions) showing inconsistent response to treatment.Residual humanity creates resistance to chemical protocol.Recommend increased dosage or termination if compliance cannot be achieved.”
Catherine, James, and Michael—the ferals we had rescued, who now faced “termination” if they could not be remade according to Gallow’s specifications.Their resistance to treatment, combined with Catherine’s relative receptivity to the spiritual path, likely explained why she’d attended our prayer service despite having received injections.
I continued searching, moving beyond the reports to a locked drawer beneath the desk.Another lock that yielded to strength born of righteous anger.Inside lay not medical documents but letters, their edges crisp, their envelopes sealed with a familiar emblem—a rising sun with a cross at its center.
The same symbol on the pins that Gallow and the General wore when they confronted me at the convent.The same symbol I’d previously suspected and was increasingly convinced represented the Order of the Morning Dawn.
My fingers went numb as I lifted the topmost letter, breaking its seal .The letterhead confirmed my worst fears—the rising sun sigil sat proudly at the top of the page, followed by words that turned my empty veins to ice:
“Operation Dusk: Progress Report, Phase Two.Unit 1894 deployment successful.Twelve specimens secured for field testing under controlled conditions.Behavioral conditioning progressing as expected in nine subjects.Three showing resistance—scheduled for termination if conversion fails.”
I continued reading, horror mounting with each line.The letter detailed an agreement between “the Order” and unnamed military authorities for the “temporary utilization of vampire subjects in combat conditions, followed by scheduled termination once tactical goals are achieved.”
We were never meant to survive this war.We were experimental subjects, weapons to be studied and discarded.My fingers clutched the paper so tightly it tore at the edges.
A handwritten note in the margin caught my attention: “The French liaison’s unusual interest in Specimen A.B.requires monitoring.Possible connection to Providence target?Investigate.”
A.B.—Alice Bladewell.Me.And “Providence target” could only refer to Bishop Harkins.
“You weren’t meant to find those.”
The voice from the shadows should have startled me—should have been impossible, given my ability to detect heartbeats, to smell human blood.Yet Lieutenant Dupont stepped from the darkness as if materializing from it, his face half-illuminated by moonlight, half-hidden in shadow.
I dropped the letter, my hand instinctively reaching for the olive-wood rosary at my belt.“Are you with them?The Order?”
His smile was enigmatic, neither confirming nor denying.“Old enemies sometimes share new battlefields, Miss Bladewell.”
“What does that mean?”I demanded, keeping the desk between us.
“It means that the Bishop sends his regards.”
The mention of Bishop Harkins froze me in place.“You know the Bishop?”
Dupont nodded, his movements possessing an unnatural grace I had failed to notice before.“We understand the cost, Alice.But you must persevere.You must endure this trial.There’s a lot more at stake here than a successful mission, even more than the Bishop’s reputation.”
“What do you mean?”I tilted my head.“And how do you know Bishop Harkins?”
