Chapter 14
The metallic hull of the USS Leviathan groaned around us, its steel frame creaking against the Atlantic’s pressure like a giant iron coffin straining to hold its contents.
I stood alone in our makeshift quarters—a converted cargo hold now filled with twelve narrow berths for my flock—and listened as the ship’s distant engines thrummed through the floor plates beneath my feet.
The air tasted of salt and iron. Everything here felt wrong—cold metal instead of warm stone, the sway of ocean rather than the solid certainty of sacred ground, and most of all, the growing distance from the sanctuary we had built for ourselves.
Red-filtered lamps cast a bloody glow throughout our quarters, a concession to our sensitive eyes that somehow made our surroundings even more hellish.
The light transformed everything it touched—the steel walls, the narrow bunks, even the faces of my sleeping flock—into shades of crimson and shadow.
I moved between the sleeping forms of my charges, each lost in the daylight torpor that gripped us during sunlight hours.
Even deep in the ship’s bowels, our bodies knew the sun rode high above the waves.
I sank to my knees beside my berth and reached beneath it for the wooden box Bishop Harkins had entrusted to me.
The mother-of-pearl inlays caught the red light as I lifted the lid, revealing the treasures within.
My fingers trembled slightly as I removed the gold-lined silver chalice, its weight reassuring in my palm.
Pure silver would have burned my flesh, but the gold lining allowed me to handle it safely—a thoughtful accommodation from a man who truly understood our condition.
Next came the olive-wood rosary, each bead smooth.
I draped it around my neck, the wooden cross settling against my chest beside the silver locket that held the Bishop’s original mandate.
The small leather-bound manual of prayers completed the set—its pages filled with the Bishop’s careful handwriting.
I opened the manual to a page marked with a thin ribbon. “Prayer for the Control of Unnatural Hunger.” I traced the words with my fingertip, finding comfort in the familiar cadence even before I spoke them aloud.
“Lord who fed the multitudes with loaves and fishes,” I whispered, “grant that we who hunger for what we cannot have may find sustenance in Your grace. Though our bodies crave what is forbidden, fill our spirits instead with the blood of Your sacrifice.”
The words settled around me, familiar yet strange in this metal cavern so far from sacred ground. I continued reading, the Bishop’s modified litany acknowledging our condition while offering hope of redemption:
“Though we walk in shadow, we are not forsaken.
Though death has claimed us, we are not lost.
Though we thirst for what we must not take, Your mercy remains our wellspring.”
“A fascinating adaptation of the traditional liturgy.” Dr. Gallow’s voice cut through my prayer like a scalpel, precise and coldly curious. I hadn’t heard him enter—a testament to either his stealth or my absorption in the ritual.
I closed the prayer book slowly, gathering my composure before turning to face him.
He stood just inside the doorway, clipboard in hand, his white coat pristine despite the ship’s constant motion.
His wire-rimmed glasses caught the red light, making his eyes temporarily invisible behind crimson disks.
“These are private devotions, Doctor.”
He tilted his head slightly, observing me with the clinical detachment one might direct at an unusual specimen. “Everything aboard this vessel falls under my observational purview, Miss Bladewell. Including your... religious practices.”
I rose to my feet, replacing the chalice in its box. “I wasn’t aware that faith required scientific documentation.”
“Everything requires documentation.” His pen scratched against his clipboard. “Particularly when it affects morale and performance.”
Something in his tone caught my attention. “Performance?”
“Indeed.” He adjusted his spectacles. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that Captain Mercer has reassigned responsibilities for your unit’s preparation. Desiderius will oversee all combat training. Your duties will be restricted to morale and spiritual guidance.”
I staggered back half a step, my spine straightening as if I’d been slapped across the face. “That was not our arrangement. My flock requires a consistent authority—“
“The General’s orders were quite clear.” Gallow cut me off with practiced efficiency.
“Military necessity takes precedence over spiritual sensibilities. Desiderius has demonstrated superior tactical understanding, while your talents are deemed more suitable for maintaining the psychological stability of the unit.”
“Dr. Gallow, these souls are under my spiritual guidance. Fragmenting their training regimen undermines everything we’ve worked to build.”
He offered no further explanation, merely a clinical shrug that dismissed my concerns as irrelevant. “Captain Mercer expects your cooperation.”
He turned to leave, clipboard angled against his chest, but not before I glimpsed a page of his notes. The terminology leapt out at me: “No. 7 exhibits heightened violent tendencies when exposed to consecrated objects” and “Blood-urge control methods align with procedures outlined in Codex.”
My breath caught. What was this ‘Codex’? It was language specific to the Order’s training manuals—terminology I recognized from my own time under their control. Not military language at all, but something older, more insidious.
“Doctor,” I called after him, “where exactly did you study vampire physiology?”
He paused at the threshold, one eyebrow arching above his spectacles. His smile was thin and revealed nothing. “One gathers knowledge where one can, Miss Bladewell.”
The door closed behind him with a metallic clang that reverberated through the hold. I stood motionless among my sleeping flock, the prayer book clutched against my chest. The ship’s engines continued their relentless thrumming, driving us ever closer to Europe and whatever awaited us there.
But the real danger, I now suspected, sailed with us on this very vessel.
I returned to my knees, opening the prayer book once more. This time, I turned to a different page—one titled “Petition for Discernment in Darkness.” If ever we needed such guidance, it was now.