Chapter 8
Reserved for diocesan visits, the formal parlor waited like a museum exhibit—all heavy velvet drapes drawn against sunlight and mahogany furniture polished to a mirror shine that reflected nothing but stillness and expectation.
I paused at the threshold, Desiderius at my side, as Sister Josephine pushed open the double doors with trembling hands.
The scent of unfamiliar men—wool uniforms, leather, and the sharp tang of gun oil—assaulted my senses before I saw them: two figures silhouetted against the leaded glass windows where afternoon light struggled to penetrate the room’s deliberate gloom.
They turned in unison as we entered, their movement betraying their natures before a word was spoken.
The taller man pivoted with military precision, heels together, spine rigid as a bayonet.
The shorter remained languid, his head tilting with clinical curiosity, like a doctor examining an interesting specimen pinned to a dissection table.
Both men wore identical silver pins at their lapels—a rising sun with a cross at its center—the same sigil Desiderius had sketched, the same emblem emblazoned on their horseless carriage outside.
“Miss Bladewell.” The military man inclined his head a precise inch. “General Horace Gantry, United States Army. This is Dr. Phineas Gallow.” No hand was extended in greeting. “Thank you for receiving us without an appointment.”
His voice carried the practiced neutrality of command—a voice accustomed to being obeyed without question. I noted the insignia on his uniform, the medals scattered across his chest. This was no ordinary officer; this was a man of significant authority.
“We weren’t aware we’d be receiving visitors today,” I replied, adopting the soft, deferential tone expected of a religious woman. “How may our humble convent be of service to the army?”
Dr. Gallow’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement.
He was thin to the point of gauntness, his pale eyes magnified behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
The white coat he wore over his suit marked him as a physician, though something in his gaze suggested his interest lay less in healing than in understanding the mechanics of suffering.
“Please,” Sister Josephine gestured to the ornate chairs arranged around a low table. “Won’t you be seated?”
We arranged ourselves like chess pieces—Gantry and Gallow on one side, Desiderius and I on the other, with Sister Josephine perched on a smaller chair slightly behind us.
“Your work with immigrants and indigent women is well-documented, Miss Bladewell,” Gantry began, his eyes never leaving my face. “As is your connection to Bishop Harkins of Providence.”
I touched the silver locket hanging at my throat before I could stop myself. Gallow’s gaze followed my fingers. “His Excellency has been most supportive of our charitable efforts.”
“Indeed.” Gantry reached into his uniform and withdrew a leather folio, placing it on the table between us with deliberate precision. “Though I believe your... charitable efforts... extend somewhat beyond what appears in your annual reports to the diocese.”
The leather folio fell open under his practiced hands.
Inside lay a meticulous archive of our existence—typewritten surveillance reports, detailed maps with our routes marked in red ink, and transcribed conversations that should have remained private.
Each page I glimpsed bore witness to our most carefully guarded movements, the dates and locations matching perfectly with our flock’s activities over the past months.
“Your security rotations are quite ingenious,” Gantry continued, flipping through the pages.
“Brother Vincent’s system of copper wires connected to the bell tower.
The monthly delivery schedule from St. Vincent’s Hospital—blood donations, I believe?
Fascinating how you’ve managed to conceal so much in plain sight. ”
Beside me, Desiderius remained perfectly still, though I sensed the cold fury building within him. His hand, resting on the arm of his chair, had tightened until the ancient wood creaked in protest.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re implying, General.” I maintained my facade of gentle confusion. “We are simply women of faith doing God’s work among those in need.”
Dr. Gallow leaned forward, his first significant movement since we’d entered.
“Last night, at approximately 12:17 a.m., you encountered three recently turned vampires on Lexington Avenue,” he stated, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather.
“You neutralized them using wooden weapons concealed in your apparel, after which you and your... sisters... transported them to this convent via a mortician’s cart. ”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I knew they’d seen the fight, but hearing them relay the details was unsettling.
“You fought with remarkable efficiency,” Gallow continued. “Eight seconds from first aggression to first incapacitation. The use of blessed silver suggests formal training, as does your technique.”
The careful composure I’d maintained fractured momentarily, and I caught the predatory glint of triumph in Gallow’s eyes as he adjusted his spectacles.
“Your ‘sisters’ and ‘brothers’ are quite remarkable, Miss Bladewell,” Gantry stated flatly. “The War Department has been monitoring supernatural phenomena for several years now. What we lack is your obvious expertise in controlling these assets.”
The word “assets” struck me like a slap. I felt my jaw tighten as I glanced at Desiderius, who sat motionless beside me, only the deepening shadows of his eyes betraying the fury building beneath his monastic calm.
“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 a military weapon 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.