Chapter 2
The chapel door opened on silent hinges, a deliberate modification I had insisted upon.
Sound carried differently to our kind—a squeaking hinge might shatter the concentration of those inside, might be the small distraction that broke their tenuous control.
The scent reached me first: beeswax candles, incense cut with lavender to dull our heightened senses, and beneath it all, the faint copper tang of blood—not spilled, but from the vials our aspirants still required.
I stepped inside, Sister Josephine remaining in the doorway behind me.
This was my domain now, my congregation.
Eight figures knelt in the half-light of carefully placed candles, their heads bowed, hands either folded in prayer or clutching rosaries.
They wore simplified versions of nuns’ habits—another conceit that helped them remember what they had been, what they might become again.
The chapel itself was a study in compromise.
The crucifix above the altar had been carved from olive wood, its Christ figure rendered with minimal detail—enough to evoke devotion.
The Stations of the Cross along the walls were simple line drawings rather than the ornate carvings found in traditional churches.
Even the holy water in the small font by the door had been diluted, rendering it uncomfortable rather than unbearable to touch.
Small accommodations for damaged souls.
I moved silently down the center aisle, studying each hunched figure as I passed.
Maria, once a dance hall girl from the Bowery, her fingers white-knuckled around a wooden rosary, lips moving in fervent prayer.
Her control had improved these past months; she no longer wept blood tears when we spoke of forgiveness.
Beside her, Eleanor, who had been with me longest, her calm posture a hard-won victory over the rage that had consumed her first years after turning.
In the front row knelt our newest additions.
The boy Sister Josephine had mentioned couldn’t have been over fourteen, his thin shoulders trembling beneath his dark clothing.
Not with cold—we didn’t feel cold—but with hunger and fear.
The battle every vampire fought in their early days, when the thirst was strongest and the memory of humanity still vivid enough to cause anguish.
Beside him, the two women Sister Josephine had mentioned huddled close together, one occasionally reaching out to steady the other when the trembling grew too intense.
So new. So fragile. I remembered that state all too well.
At the end of the second row, I paused. Constance had been with us nearly a year, and I had hoped to see improvement in her condition.
Instead, her face was gaunt, eyes sunken, fingers twitching at her sides rather than folded in prayer.
She hadn’t fed properly. Her resistance was spiritual, not physical.
She believed herself damned beyond redemption.
Close to the back, seeking the deeper shadows, were two of our more seasoned sisters, and my progenies, Ruth and Rebecca.
Having joined me after the demise of the Exeter chapter, and our subsequent conflict in New York a decade ago, they stood now as quiet models of endurance.
Ruth, whose fierce intelligence I relied upon, knelt with a posture of weary, yet absolute, control.
Rebecca, the youngest of the original group, had learned a hard-won stillness, her fervent belief in the possibility of penance serving as her shield against the temptations of her nature.
They had endured genuine tests of faith and hunger, and their presence here was a quiet testament to the viability of our path
Pride and concern warred within me as I surveyed my flock.
Pride in how far they had come—vampires who prayed instead of hunted, who sought control instead of surrender to their natures.
Concern for how easily it could all collapse.
One moment of weakness, one slip in the rigid discipline we maintained, and the delicate balance would shatter.
The humans who helped us—Sister Josephine, the handful of nuns who knew our secret, their lives depended on our restraint.
As did the souls of my flock.
I moved to the front of the chapel, genuflected toward the tabernacle, then turned toward the group.
“Who wishes to share tonight?” I asked softly, my voice carrying in the silent chapel.
Eleanor raised her head. “I visited the children’s hospital yesterday,” she said, her voice steady though her hands twisted in her lap. “With Sister Agnes. We brought books and read to the consumption ward.”
Murmurs of approval rippled through the small gathering.
Such visits were a test of control and penance combined—facing the disease that had claimed many of the lives of their mortal loved ones, confronting the suffering they now had the strength to ease but also the thirst that made such proximity dangerous.
“The smell of their blood,” Eleanor continued, her voice dropping. “It was... difficult. But I remembered your teaching. I focused on their faces instead. Their smiles. I tried to see myself in the reflection in their eyes, to remember we’re not so different.”
I nodded encouragingly. “The person, not the pulse,” I said, repeating one of our mantras. “Well done, Eleanor.”
Others shared their minor victories and setbacks. The boy—Thomas, I learned—spoke barely above a whisper of his confusion and fear. Maria confessed to following a drunk man for three blocks before forcing herself to turn away. Constance remained silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.
When the sharing ended, I led them in prayer. Not the traditional prayers of the Church that scorched our throats to speak, but modified versions Sister Josephine and I had crafted over the years. Prayers that acknowledged our nature while reaching toward something beyond it.
“We who walk in shadow seek the light,” I began, the familiar words settling around me like a worn garment, comfortable despite its imperfections. “We who thirst for blood seek the water of life. We who were claimed by death seek rebirth in spirit.”
They joined me, a chorus of whispers in the candlelit chapel.
Yet even as the prayers continued around me, doubt gnawed at the edges of my faith.
What right had I to guide these souls when my own was so fractured?
What presumption, to think vampires could find redemption when scripture itself hardly spoke of those who suffered as we did?
Bishop Harkins believed it possible—had staked his reputation within the Church on that belief—but in moments of brutal honesty, I questioned whether our entire enterprise was built on wishful thinking.
The prayers concluded, and I rose, offering words of encouragement to each member of my flock as they filed out. Thomas needed reassurance; Maria, affirmation; the two newcomers, practical advice about managing their thirst. Only Constance I held back with a gentle touch on her arm.
“You didn’t feed,” I said quietly.
Her eyes, filmed with the red haze of hunger, met mine briefly before dropping again. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Not today.”
“The anniversary?”
She nodded. One year since her turning, since the life she had known ended. I understood too well how such dates carved themselves into memory.
“Come with me after I speak with Desiderius,” I told her. “We’ll talk.”
Constance nodded again and slipped away, her movements betraying the weakness hunger had inflicted on her. I watched her go with a heaviness in my chest. Some nights, guiding my flock felt like trying to lead souls through purgatory while still trapped there myself.
I turned toward the small door at the side of the chapel, the one that led to the stone stairs descending beneath the convent.
Desiderius would be waiting, and with him, news I both craved and dreaded.
The world of vampires outside our sanctuary was vast and chaotic—and increasingly, I feared, aware of what we were building here.
The stone steps spiraled downward into darkness, worn smooth in the center from centuries of feet.
No electric lights illuminated this passage; we had no need of them, and their modern presence would have offended Desiderius’ sensibilities.
The air grew noticeably colder and damper with each step, carrying the scent of earth and stone and the faint musty odor of old books.
I descended alone, my footsteps making no sound—another habit I had cultivated over the years.
The predator in me never truly slept, merely submitted to the discipline I imposed upon it.
At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow passageway extended before me, its walls lined with niches that had once held the remains of nuns long dead.
They were empty now, their occupants properly re-interred in the cemetery behind the convent when we had repurposed these catacombs.
Still, I felt their phantom presence each time I passed, a silent audience to our strange experiment in redemption.
The passage opened into a chamber that had once been a crypt but now served as Desiderius’s study.
Candlelight flickered across walls lined with books—theological texts, historical volumes, grimoires confiscated from those who would misuse their knowledge.
In the center stood a heavy oak table, and behind it, Desiderius himself.
“Sister Alice,” he greeted me, his voice carrying faint traces of his Dutch origins despite the centuries that separated him from his homeland. “You are later than expected.”