Chapter 11
Dawn had not yet broken when I gathered my chosen flock in the convent’s courtyard, the cobblestones still slick with evening dew that soaked the hems of our habits.
The darkness suited us, of course—creatures of twilight preparing for a war we neither chose nor desired—but I felt its weight more keenly than usual as I studied the anxious faces before me.
Ruth’s fierce determination. Rebecca’s wary composure.
Maria’s quiet resilience. These souls I had guided toward redemption would now follow me into mankind’s most unholy endeavor, and the responsibility of that truth settled like lead in my hollow chest.
“We begin with what we know,” I announced, my voice carrying in the predawn stillness. “Each of you possesses unique strengths that have sustained you through your transformations. Now we must channel those abilities toward protection rather than predation.”
Maria stepped forward, her hands clasped before her. “Sister Alice, are we truly to become soldiers? Is there no other way?”
“Not soldiers,” I corrected gently. “Guardians. Our purpose remains unchanged—to protect life, to resist our darker natures, to seek redemption through service.”
It was a subtle distinction, and I wasn’t sure I believed it.
The General clearly had more soldierly expectations for our unique militia than I did.
To stay true to our principles under the thumb of the U.S.
Government would be a challenge, but I had to believe we’d sort it out.
No temptation would ever befall us apart from which the Lord would not provide a way of escape.
“I assume we will not fight alongside human soldiers,” I surmised.
“As much as the U.S. Government wishes to leverage our unique skills, it’s also to their advantage to keep our true nature a secret.
This should afford us some degree of freedom, oddly enough, that might not be possible if we are under constant surveillance.
Those who know about our true condition are few and far between. ”
Catherine stepped forward. “Sister Alice,” she whispered, though we all heard her clearly, “the battlefields will run red with blood. When the scent fills our nostrils, when the wounded cry out all around us... how can we be certain our nature won’t overwhelm our intentions?”
I had just opened my mouth to answer when the convent gate creaked open, admitting General Gantry and Dr. Gallow into our sanctuary. Gantry’s uniform gleamed with brass buttons catching the light from our lanterns, while Gallow’s white coat seemed to absorb the darkness rather than reflect it.
“An excellent question,” Gantry called, his voice carrying the practiced command of one accustomed to being obeyed. “One of many practicalities we’ve come to address.”
My flock instinctively drew closer together, their posture shifting from mere wariness to defensive readiness. I stepped forward to meet our unwelcome guests, positioning myself between them and my charges.
“General. Doctor. I was not expecting your visit until tomorrow evening.”
Gantry’s smile never reached his eyes. “When one requisitions military assets, Miss Bladewell, inspection cannot wait on convenience.”
“The souls belonging to my flock are not assets,” I replied, the words emerging with more edge than I intended. “They are souls under my guidance, volunteering their service under specific conditions.”
I proceeded to outline the training regimen I had devised, emphasizing my intimate knowledge of each vampire’s capabilities and spiritual needs.
I spoke of controlled feeding protocols, prayer rituals to maintain discipline, and the importance of keeping them together under my supervision.
Throughout my explanation, Gantry nodded with what appeared to be genuine interest, while Gallow scribbled notes in a small leather-bound journal, his pen scratching like an insect against paper.
When I finished, Gantry studied me for a long moment before speaking. “Your commitment is commendable, Miss Bladewell. However, I believe you misunderstand your position.”
He turned toward the gate and raised a hand in summons. A moment later, a man entered the courtyard, his steps measured and silent against the cobblestones. He wore a captain’s uniform, crisp and authoritative, yet something in his movements betrayed him immediately to my senses.
No heartbeat. No breath clouding the chill morning air. His eyes, when they met mine, held the knowledge of decades, perhaps centuries.
“Captain Julian Mercer,” Gantry introduced him with clear satisfaction. “He’ll be commanding this unit’s operations.”
Mercer offered a precise bow that belonged to a different era. “Miss Bladewell. Your reputation precedes you.”
I studied him with growing unease. His control was remarkable—no visible signs of bloodthirst, no resistance to the crosses that adorned our courtyard. He carried himself with the confidence of one who had made peace with his nature long ago.
“You’re one of us,” I said simply.
His smile was cold but not unkind. “I have been serving my country in various capacities since 1865. I’ve found patriotism to be a more practical path to acceptance than prayer.”
The revelation struck me like a physical blow. Another vampire—one who had found a different way of trying to reconcile the moral implications of his condition, one who had aligned himself with human powers rather than divine mercy.
“Captain Mercer has extensive combat experience from multiple conflicts,” Gantry explained. “He’ll oversee all tactical decisions. Your role, Miss Bladewell, will be that of spiritual advisor—maintaining morale and discipline among the recruits.”
“I see.” My voice sounded distant to my own ears. “And who will maintain discipline within the military command?”
Mercer’s expression remained placid. “I assure you, Miss Bladewell, my control has been tested through decades of service. The general and his colleagues have nothing to fear from me.”
“It’s not the general I’m concerned for,” I replied.
While this exchange occurred, Dr. Gallow had begun moving among my flock, examining them.
He tilted Catherine’s face toward the lantern light, inspected her fangs without permission, and made notations in his journal.
The intrusion was so flagrant that Rebecca actually hissed, the sound escaping before her discipline reasserted itself.
“Fascinating,” Gallow murmured, unfazed by her reaction. “The female specimens show remarkable restraint. Is this typical of your conversion process, Miss Bladewell?”
“They are not specimens,” I said sharply. “They are people. And I would appreciate if you asked their permission before examining them.”
Gallow merely adjusted his spectacles, his pen never ceasing its movement across the page. As he turned to examine Thomas, his journal fell open more fully, and I glimpsed a strange phrase among his notes: “Subject reaction to sanctified silver consistent with Order experiments of 1894.”
The reference sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the morning air. I stepped closer, attempting to see more, but Gallow snapped the journal shut with a sharp flick of his wrist.
“Is there a problem, Miss Bladewell?” he asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
I moved to stand before General Gantry, abandoning pretense. “You work with the Order of the Morning Dawn.”
Gantry’s expression remained impassive. “Dr. Gallow has consulted with various organizations throughout his career. His expertise in your... condition... is invaluable to our mission.”
“The Order exists to exterminate my kind,” I said, my voice low enough that only those immediately present could hear. “They do not study us to help us—they study us to use us. They use us to destroy us more efficiently.”
“Your concern is noted,” Gantry replied, dismissing my objection with a casual wave. “But ultimately irrelevant. Your cooperation, not your trust, is what I require.”
He turned to address the assembled vampires, his voice shifting to the commanding tone of a military briefing.
“You will depart for training in three days. Captain Mercer will oversee your preparation. Any failure to comply with his directives will be considered a breach of our agreement—with all that implies for certain parties in Providence.”
The threat hung in the air, its meaning clear to me if not to my flock. Bishop Harkins remained their leverage, his safety the chain that bound me to their will.
As Gantry and Gallow departed, Captain Mercer remained behind, his ancient eyes meeting mine with something approaching sympathy. “They fear what they don’t understand,” he said quietly. “Serving them is the price of survival in this world.”
“Survival without purpose is merely postponed damnation,” I replied.
“History will judge which road offers deliverance, Miss Bladewell,” Mercer said, lips curving into something that resembled a smile only in its mechanical arrangement. “The generals’ highway of utility, or your convent’s narrow path of perpetual penance.”
The courtyard fell silent as Mercer’s words lingered in the air, a chilling portent of the trials that lay ahead.
I watched his retreating form, the crisp military uniform a stark contrast to the ancient soul it housed.
His control was remarkable, yes, but it was also a stark reminder of the path I had chosen not to tread—the path of accommodation rather than redemption.
How was Capitan Mercer feeding? He made it quite clear he didn’t embrace our path.
He didn’t have access to the Eucharist. Someone was providing him blood—but he’d also mastered the kind of discipline that only comes with decades of failure, in a wake of bodies and regret, and a resolve to rise above one’s lesser demons.
We’d found purpose in faith; Mercy in patriotism.
Insofar as finding a reason to maintain one’s humanity kept us civil, we were alike.
But the love of country is no replacement for the love of God.
Freedom in a waving flag is nothing like the freedom that comes through suffering and the cross.
I didn’t believe for a second that Mercer was on our side, that he’d support my efforts.
He meant to use us, just as Gantry and Gallow did; just like the Order did.
But he wasn’t a ravenous monster; he was a sophisticated one.
Yes, he found focus in his fidelity to country.
However, I knew the truth. One’s god is whatever one loves, trusts, or fears the most. One’s faith is only as reliable as the integrity of the object of one’s trust. How long could love of country sustain someone like Mercer?
How long would it take before his nation left him disappointed, his human leaders failed him?
Trust not in princes, in mortal man, who cannot save…
The one-hundred forty-sixth Psalm.
I’d prayed it during Matins that day. It was hauntingly appropriate.
Mercer might be leading my “flock” on the field, but the battle would always belong to the Lord, and there’d come a time when Mercer needed what we had to offer.
He’d need something more than love of country if he ever wanted real salvation, any real control.
I turned back to my flock, their faces a mix of determination and trepidation.
Ruth’s eyes blazed with a fierce resolve that I both admired and feared.
Rebecca’s expression was more guarded, her thoughts hidden behind a mask of stoicism.
The others shifted uncomfortably, the weight of our new reality settling upon them like a shroud.
“We have our orders.” I broke the silence. “Three days to prepare.”