Chapter 13
The night before our departure, I slipped away from the convent like a thief—a bitter irony, as everything I truly valued was being stolen from me.
Sister Josephine had arranged the carriage through channels unknown even to me, its driver a silent figure who asked no questions when I emerged from the shadows in simple civilian dress, my hair hidden beneath a nondescript hat.
The journey to Providence would consume precious hours I could ill afford to lose, but I needed guidance from the one surviving human outside the convent who had seen value in my tattered soul when others would have destroyed it. I needed Bishop Harkins.
Providence slumbered beneath a blanket of stars as the carriage deposited me at an unremarkable side door to the episcopal residence.
No lanterns burned to announce my arrival; the Bishop had understood the need for discretion.
A stooped housekeeper admitted me without a word, leading me through corridors so quiet I could hear the whisper of her woolen slippers against the floorboards.
The Bishop’s private study bore little evidence of his ecclesiastical rank.
Its furnishings were modest—a writing desk cluttered with correspondence, bookshelves overflowing with theological texts, two simple chairs beside a hearth where embers glowed like dying stars.
A single candle illuminated the space, its flame dancing with each breath drawn by the room’s occupant.
Bishop Harkins rose as I entered, his once-imposing frame now bent with age and the burdens of his office. Yet his eyes remained sharp, missing nothing as they assessed my appearance.
“Alice,” he greeted me, extending both hands to clasp mine. “You look troubled, my child.”
I felt the familiar sting where blood tears once formed, a phantom sensation from a humanity long surrendered.
“Your Excellency, I come with grave news. The United States government has... conscripted us. Men claiming War Department authority have demanded my flock serve as soldiers. They know what we are, they’ve been watching us, and they’ve made it clear we have no choice. ”
The Bishop guided me to a chair, settling his aged form into its companion with a sigh that spoke of worldly weariness. “Tell me everything,” he instructed.
The entire story poured from me—Gantry’s ultimatum, Gallow’s disturbing examinations, Mercer’s military discipline that encouraged rather than restrained our predatory nature.
I confessed my fear that in saving the Bishop’s reputation, I might be condemning my flock to a path that led away from salvation rather than toward it.
“I feel as though I’ve failed them,” I whispered, staring at my hands. “Failed you. Failed the mission you entrusted to me.”
The Bishop was silent for a long moment, his gnarled fingers tracing the cross that hung at his throat. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades spent navigating the complexities of faith in an increasingly secular world.
The Bishop’s weathered hand closed over mine.
“Remember why I first sent you, Alice—to infiltrate the Order and save those they would destroy. If your suspicions are correct, if these government men are indeed connected to what remains of the Order...” His voice softened to the measured cadence.
“Then God’s hand is evident. You’ve been positioned precisely where you can continue our work—gaining their trust while protecting souls they would otherwise destroy.
The battlefield offers you cover for a greater mission: to shepherd your flock while undermining whatever darkness they’ve planted within our government. ”
“But I’ve lost authority over them,” I objected. “This Captain Mercer commands their obedience now. He offers them acceptance through utility rather than redemption.”
“And yet you remain their spiritual compass,” Bishop Harkins countered. “Military command does not usurp moral authority. In the crucible of war, souls are laid bare. It is then they will need your guidance most desperately.”
He rose with effort, moving to a cabinet I had not noticed in the shadowed corner of the room. From its depths, he withdrew a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl crosses.
“I had these prepared for you some time ago, just in case they might prove necessary,” he explained, opening the box to reveal its contents.
Inside lay an array of sacramental items—a silver communion chalice lined with gold to prevent it burning vampire flesh, a rosary with beads of olive wood instead of silver, vials of holy water and consecrated wine sealed with wax, and a small leather-bound volume of prayers and blessings specifically composed for beings in our condition.
“These are not official, of course,” the Bishop said with the ghost of a smile. “The Vatican has issued no opinion on those souls who suffer with your condition. But I believe God’s mercy extends beyond what’s official.”
I lifted the chalice, its weight substantial in my palm. “Gold-lined?”
“So you may administer the Blood of Christ without suffering burns,” he confirmed.
“The olive wood rosary is from Jerusalem. The blood of Christ within the vials may serve you when the time comes, and you have my authorization to administer as necessary. The volume contains prayers I’ve written myself, penned to address the specific spiritual struggles of your. .. condition.”
My fingers traced the embossed leather cover. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Merely the practical necessities,” he demurred. “The true work will be yours alone.”
He returned to his chair, his movements betraying the arthritis that plagued his joints.
“Alice, when I first met you, you were a weapon forged by the Order—though you’d long since disavowed their mission.
Father O’Malley taught you to sheathe your blade, but at the convent, you learned to bend that steel into something that could lift the fallen rather than strike them down.
The Order forged you as a sword, Alice. I’ve watched you reforge yourself into a shepherd’s crook. ”
“And now I return to being a weapon,” I said bitterly.
“No.” His voice gained strength. “Now you carry both the blade and the crook. The challenge before you is to remember which to use, and when. Your calling has always been to shepherd lost souls. The battlefield merely changes the nature of the flock, not your purpose.”
The bishop’s clock struck three as I rose to depart, mindful of the journey that awaited before dawn. The Bishop pressed the wooden box into my hands, then traced the sign of the cross upon my brow. His fingers felt like marble against my skin.
“Remember, Alice,” he said softly. “In war as in peace, God’s work remains the same—the salvation of souls.”
I returned to the convent as the first gray light of morning touched the eastern sky.
The courtyard bustled with activity—military personnel loading equipment, Gantry conferring with officers I did not recognize, Dr. Gallow overseeing the packing of mysterious crates that hummed with an energy I mistrusted.
My flock awaited me in the chapel, but I scarcely recognized them.
Gone were the simple habits and modest garments of our sanctuary.
In their place, military uniforms transformed my sisters and brothers into soldiers—crisp khaki jackets, practical trousers, and caps that shadowed their pale faces.
Only their eyes remained familiar, looking to me for reassurance I wasn’t certain I could provide.
“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.”
We boarded the military transport 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.