Chapter 15
The ship’s makeshift training area had been hastily converted from the officers’ mess hall, its utilitarian metal ceiling now hung with canvas tarps to catch condensation, and its once-pristine steel floor scarred by the constant dragging of equipment across its surface.
I slipped through the narrow doorway just as Desiderius commanded the flock to hold a perfect stillness.
Unlike Mercer’s frenzied speed drills, Desiderius had arranged them in a precise formation, each vampire standing motionless as statues while he paced between them, his ancient eyes missing nothing.
“Discipline begins with the body.” His Dutch accent was more pronounced when teaching.
“Only when the flesh is obedient can the spirit maintain control.” The contrast with Mercer’s approach couldn’t have been more stark—where the Captain sought to unleash the predator, Desiderius worked to cage it.
Rebecca stood at the front of the formation, her body so still she might have been carved from marble.
Even when Desiderius deliberately knocked against her shoulder, her posture didn’t waver.
Catherine, our newest recruit, trembled slightly with the effort of maintaining her position, but her determination was clear in the set of her jaw.
“Three more minutes,” Desiderius announced. “Your enemy is not merely the Germans. Your primary enemy is within. The hunger that would make you monsters given the slightest opportunity.”
I watched from the shadows as the exercise continued.
Mercer’s training had emphasized speed, aggression, the exploitation of our predatory nature.
His drills had been designed to harness our darkness, to weaponise it.
The vampires had returned from his sessions with eyes too bright, fangs partially descended—excited by the power they’d been encouraged to express.
Desiderius’ approach couldn’t have been more different.
His exercises focused on restraint, on precision, on perfect control under pressure.
While we’d had different approaches in the convent and monastery, there was something to Desiderius’ rigorous approach that I realized was necessary now.
Perhaps it was only fitting that they’d given him this responsibility over me.
“The path to redemption has always required discipline,” he told them as they completed a complex maneuver. “Whether through prayer or through combat training. The monastery and the military are not so different. Both demand submission of the self to a greater purpose.”
Brother Vincent nodded at this, his military background making him particularly receptive to Desiderius’ methods. Ruth, however, looked less convinced. I had noticed her enthusiasm for Mercer’s more aggressive techniques—the way her eyes had brightened when he praised her ferocity.
“Sister Alice.” Desiderius acknowledged me with a slight nod. “Perhaps you would like to address the group before we continue?”
I stepped forward, conscious of the eyes that turned toward me. “In one hour, we will hold prayer service in the forward hold. Attendance is voluntary, but encouraged for those who wish to strengthen their spiritual discipline alongside their physical training.”
The side door swung open, and Mercer stepped through with the deliberate timing of someone who had been listening from the corridor.
“Prayer services are permitted during designated rest periods only,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room.
“Combat readiness takes priority over spiritual exercises.”
I met his gaze directly. “Bishop Harkins’ sacraments were approved by General Gantry himself as essential to maintaining our unique abilities. These souls require spiritual nourishment as much as blood rations.”
It was not a lie. I’d secured the General’s consent back at the convent, before he’d left us in Mercer’s charge. It was a small concession on his part, but the most I could get given my limited leverage over the situation.
A muscle twitched in Mercer’s jaw—the only sign that my invocation of Gantry’s authority had found its mark. “One hour,” he conceded. “No more.”
When the time came, I was surprised to find nearly all my flock gathering in the forward hold.
I had transformed the cold space with what few resources we had—a makeshift altar draped with a clean white cloth, candles secured in brackets to prevent them toppling with the ship’s motion, and the Bishop’s sacramental items arranged with reverent care.
The gold-lined chalice caught the candlelight as I filled it with the consecrated wine the Bishop had provided.
“This is my blood, shed for you,” I recited, lifting the chalice. “Consecrated and offered by the Bishop’s hand, he’s given me the charge to distribute it on His behalf. You may drink.”
One by one, they approached. Ruth with uncharacteristic solemnity, Rebecca with practiced reverence, Thomas with a youthful uncertainty he still had, despite being more than twice the age as a vampire as appeared to be.
Then came the ferals—Catherine’s fingers trembled as they touched the chalice, her throat convulsing as she swallowed, eyes watering.
James followed, a muscle in his jaw twitching violently, sweat beading his forehead though he refused to make a sound.
Michael’s entire frame shuddered, his lips pulling back involuntarily from his teeth as the consecrated wine passed his lips.
I watched them endure what, in the convent, I would have spared them for months.
Even prayers were too much for them, but we lacked the time to prepare them in the usual manner.
It was an affliction imposed out of love—out of necessity.
I didn’t notice Dr. Gallow until the service concluded. He stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, observing with that same clinical detachment that made my skin crawl. As the flock dispersed, he approached me.
“Fascinating ritual,” he commented, jotting something in his notes. “Curious how simply believing that common wine is blood can tame the subject’s hunger.”
“They are people, not subjects, Doctor,” I reminded him. “And our faith in the Eucharist is not sentiment. It is real.”
His pen paused mid-stroke. “Semantics, Miss Bladewell. Your spiritual approach has measurable physiological effects, which interests me professionally.” He glanced toward Desiderius, who was speaking quietly with Brother Vincent and James across the room.
“At least your counterpart is focused on practical concerns.”
Throughout the day, Gallow’s shadow fell across our training sessions like a winter draft.
He lingered at the edges, his pen scratching against his clipboard whenever Desiderius demonstrated a technique.
I caught his eyes narrowing when the ancient vampire showed how to disable without killing, his glasses catching the light as he leaned forward.
Something in that eagerness made my skin prickle.
That evening, I followed that unease down the corridor toward the officer’s mess, drawn by the sound of hushed voices.
I paused outside the partially open door, catching Mercer’s authoritative tone rising above Desiderius’ measured responses and Gallow’s intermittent interjections.
Through the gap, I glimpsed them standing around a table scattered with nautical charts, Mercer’s finger stabbing at a point on the map.
Mercer’s fist slammed onto the map. “The U-boat’s changed course—it’s heading straight for our convoy. Thirty minutes, maybe less.” His voice dropped. “They’ve already sunk the Pembroke.”
“My flock isn’t ready for—“ Desiderius began, but Mercer’s face hardened.
“Ready or not, it’s coming,” Gallow interjected, removing his spectacles to wipe condensation. “Either your vampires engage, or we all end up as fish food.”
I cleared my throat from the doorway. Gallow swept several charts into a folder, producing instead a diagram of submarine hatches when I approached. With a motion too quick for him to avoid, I snatched the diagram from Gallow’s hands.
“This isn’t what you showed Desiderius,” I shouted as I looked over the information. “You’re deliberately keeping us in the dark.”
Mercer’s head snapped up. “We don’t have time for this, Alice.”
“Make time,” I demanded, stepping between them. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“We’re outgunned,” Mercer cut in. “Our conventional weapons can’t touch them at range. The only advantage we have is—.” He shook his head, gathering his words. “Your flock isn’t ready, but they’re all we’ve got.”
“So you’ll throw them into combat unprepared?” I challenged.
Gallow adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching light that hid his eyes. “The alternative is the bottom of the Atlantic.”