Chapter 22
We slipped through Saint Mathieu’s shattered western gate like wraiths returning to their haunt, our burdens of broken human flesh weighing less in our supernatural grasp than the moral weight they added to my conscience.
The abbey loomed against the starless sky, its damaged silhouette a fitting shelter for creatures caught between salvation and damnation as we were.
Behind us, the rescued British soldiers we’d left at the Allied outpost would already be spreading tales of the “Ghosts of Ypres.” It was a complication I had little energy to concern myself with as moonlight slid across our path like spilled mercury, illuminating the way home to stone walls that had witnessed centuries of prayers but never ones like mine.
Thomas walked beside me, his youthful face settled into a calm I hadn’t seen from him since we left the convent.
The rescue mission had steadied him somehow, giving him purpose beyond mere survival.
Vincent moved ahead at a brisk pace while Desiderius followed close behind.
We had saved twelve lives tonight. I clung to that thought as we passed beneath the crumbling archway that separated the abbey’s outer courtyard from its inner sanctum.
“They will live because of us,” I whispered to Thomas, observing his expression.
“The officer called us angels,” he replied. “If he only knew.”
“Perhaps he saw what he needed to see,” I suggested.
We crossed the inner courtyard in silence, the stones beneath our feet worn smooth by centuries of monastic pacing.
The night enfolded us in its familiar embrace, a comfort to creatures forever barred from daylight.
Yet I could not shake the sense of dread.
I’d made an agreement with Mercer. I was committed to whatever mission came next—no matter what it was.
As we entered the refectory, Captain Mercer stood with arms folded against the far wall, his crisp uniform a reminder of his authority.
His face bore the expression of a man who had just received unwelcome orders but fully intended to execute them, regardless.
Dr. Gallow was notably absent—a small mercy, perhaps.
“Mission accomplished, I see,” Mercer said, the words carrying the inflection of praise without its warmth. “You rescued twelve men without casualties. Impressive, even by my standards.”
“They’re safe at the Allied outpost,” I confirmed. “The wounded will receive proper medical care.”
Mercer pushed himself away from the wall.
“You’ve made quite an impression. Reports are already flooding in about mysterious rescuers moving through no-man’s-land like ghosts.
The brass is pleased with the tactical success.
” His tone shifted, growing colder. “But General Gantry’s patience isn’t infinite. ”
“What does that mean?” I asked, though the dread pooling in my stomach suggested I already knew.
Mercer reached into his uniform pocket and withdrew a folded telegraph, its edges crisp with the precision that characterized everything about him. He placed it on the refectory’s central table—a massive oak slab that had survived whatever artillery had claimed the roof above it.
“New orders,” he said, tapping the paper with one pale finger. “Direct from General Gantry himself. We are to assault a fortified German ammunition depot two nights from now.”
Thomas stepped closer to read the telegraph, his eyes widening. “But this is—“
“A suicide mission,” Vincent finished for him. “The depot is surrounded by three concentric rings of defense.”
I shook my head. “Even with our abilities, penetrating that deeply into enemy territory would be nearly impossible.”
“And extracting ourselves afterward would be entirely impossible,” Desiderius added. “This is not a mission. It is a sacrifice.”
I reached for the telegraph, my fingers closing around the thin paper. The language was terse, but precise: NIGHT BATTALION TO NEUTRALIZE AMMUNITION DEPOT AT COORDINATES 50.837, 2.924. NO SURVIVORS EXPECTED AMONG ENEMY COMBATANTS. MISSION CRITICAL TO UPCOMING OFFENSIVE.
“No survivors expected,” I repeated, the words bitter on my tongue. “Among enemy combatants or among us?”
Mercer’s expression remained impassive. “That distinction wasn’t specified.”
I met his gaze, searching for some hint of resistance, some indication that he found these orders as unconscionable as I did. I found nothing but the cool assessment of a soldier prepared to follow orders without question.
“You know this is madness,” I said quietly. “They’re sending us to be destroyed.”
“They’re sending us to destroy a target essential to the Allied war effort,” he corrected. “One that conventional forces cannot approach without sustaining unacceptable casualties.”
“And what of our casualties?” I demanded, my voice rising despite my efforts to maintain calm. “What of these souls placed in my care?”
“Avoid any wood to the heart and you’ll be fine.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
I rolled my eyes. “Unless we’re bombed. Torn apart.”
Mercer smirked. “Then you’d better hope all the king’s horses and men can do a better job putting you together again than they did for Humpty Dumpty.”
I huffed. “This isn’t funny, Mercer! Fire will still destroy us, even if we aren’t staked in the heart.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened. “We made an agreement, Alice. You promised to follow whatever orders came next without debate.” His voice dropped lower, meant for my ears alone. “Remember Bishop Harkins. Remember what happens if you fail to comply.”
The threat hung in the air between us, sharp as the scent of blood.
“Two nights,” I said finally. “That gives us little time to prepare.”
“It gives us exactly the time we need,” Mercer replied. “No more, no less.”
The heavy oak door to the refectory swung open with a groan. Lieutenant Maurice Dupont stepped through, his uniform pristine despite the late hour.
“Ah, the heroes return,” he said, his French accent lending the words a musical quality at odds with their sardonic delivery. His eyes found mine immediately.
“Lieutenant,” Mercer acknowledged with a curt nod. “We were just discussing our next operation.”
“So I gathered,” Dupont replied, moving further into the room. “The ammunition depot at Messines. A formidable target.”
I watched him carefully, noting the way his eyes never left mine even as he addressed Mercer. He already knew about the mission. There was something in his gaze—not fear, not curiosity, but a knowing assessment that sent a chill down my spine. Did he know what we were?
Mercer must have sensed my discomfort, for he abruptly stepped back, retreating into the deeper shadows at the edge of the refectory where the moonlight filtering through the damaged ceiling could not reach.
“I’ll leave you to coordinate with our liaison,” he said, his voice already fading as he moved toward the door. “I have preparations to make.”
I dragged the last of the wooden benches across the chapel floor, wincing as its legs scraped against worn flagstones.
Three days of careful work had transformed this shattered sanctuary from a shell-pocked ruin to something approximating its original purpose.
Shattered stained glass had been replaced with canvas, bullet holes in the carved saints remained as kind of modern stigmata, and the altar remained miraculously intact despite the destruction all around it.
It wasn’t perfect, but neither were we—the broken serving the broken in a war that had no respect for anything sacred.
Evening shadows lengthened across the nave as my flock gathered for prayer.
This ritual had become more essential than ever since our arrival at the front—a fragile tether to our humanity amid the constant pull of predatory instinct.
Ruth arrived first, her movements betraying an unusual restlessness.
Rebecca followed, her eyes downcast as though avoiding my gaze.
One by one, they took their places on the rough wooden benches, Brother Vincent maintaining a straight-backed posture even in prayer, Maria’s face composed in its usual mask of serene devotion.
Desiderius entered last, positioning himself at the rear.
As I surveyed the assembled vampires, the absence of two familiar faces struck me immediately.
“Where are Thomas and Catherine?” I asked.
Ruth shifted on her bench, an uncharacteristic display of discomfort. “I haven’t seen them since you returned from the rescue mission.”
“They missed blood rations,” Brother Vincent added with disapproval. “Most unlike Thomas. The boy is typically punctual, if nothing else.”
Rebecca kept her eyes fixed on her folded hands. “Perhaps they’re resting. This experience has been a big change for all of us.”
There was something atypical in her tone, like she knew more than she was letting on.
Before I could press further, footsteps echoed from the chapel entrance.
I turned to see Lieutenant Dupont standing in the arched doorway, his silhouette outlined by the last fading light of day.
Without hesitation, he made the sign of the cross—a fluid, practiced motion that spoke of lifelong devotion rather than mere formality.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said softly, his French accent more pronounced in the chapel’s reverberant space. “May I join you?”
“All are welcome to prayer,” I replied. “Though I confess, I didn’t take you for a man of faith.”
A smile touched his lips—enigmatic, revealing nothing. “Faith is more than skin deep, Mademoiselle Bladewell. You should understand that better than most.”
Without further explanation, he moved into the chapel and took a seat several rows back from the others, maintaining a respectful distance yet close enough to observe everything. We all watched him with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity, but no one voiced objection to his presence.
I opened Bishop Harkins’ leather-bound manual and began the evening prayers. “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.”
The familiar words settled over us like a blanket, offering comfort even as they acknowledged our nature.
Throughout the service, I found my attention drawn repeatedly to Lieutenant Dupont.
He followed the prayers with ease, his lips moving in sync with words he could not possibly know, as if he had heard them before.
It made no sense, as I expected the prayers were nonsensical to his human ears—unless he knew more about our condition than I realized.
When we rose for the evening hymn his voice blended perfectly with ours, neither dominating nor retreating.
As the final notes faded, I opened the book and recited the Nunc Dimittis: “Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace…”
My flock dispersed slowly, each member pausing at the small gold-lined chalice containing consecrated wine—Bishop Harkins’ precious gift that allowed us to partake in communion despite our condition.
Each drank sparingly, their faces contorting briefly with the pain that even this modified sacrament caused our kind, a cleansing fire that reminded us of what we once were and what we strove to be again.
Lieutenant Dupont remained seated, watching this ritual with the focused attention of a scholar observing a rare ceremony. Only when the last of my flock had departed did he approach me at the altar.
“Your missing lambs,” he said without preamble. “I saw them earlier this evening.”
I froze in the act of covering the chalice. “Thomas and Catherine? Where?”
“They were following Dr. Gallow.” Something in his tone carried a warning. “To his clinic in the old scriptorium.”
“Why would they—“ I began, then stopped. I knew Gallow was up to something, he was here for a reason, something that went far beyond research purposes.
Dupont’s eyes met mine. “I followed at a distance. Your Captain Mercer arrived shortly thereafter.” He hesitated, then stepped closer, close enough that I could detect the steady rhythm of his heart, unnaturally calm in the presence of a predator.
“Mademoiselle Bladewell, old French families like mine maintain certain... traditions. Knowledge passed down through generations about beings in your condition.”
The air between us seemed to thicken with unspoken meaning. “What sort of knowledge?” I asked, though some part of me already suspected.
“Ways to identify those who walk in darkness. Methods to protect against them—or to assist them, perhaps. Depending on one’s disposition.
” His lips curved in a smile. “My ancestors were not always your enemy. Before the Order emerged from the shadows of superstition, there were those who sought understanding rather than destruction.”
The Order. He knew of the Order of the Morning Dawn—the organization that had hunted my kind for centuries. The same organization I was meant to infiltrate at Bishop Harkins’ request.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whispered.
“Because Dr. Gallow is not what he appears to be,” Dupont replied simply.
“And neither am I.” He stepped back, the moment of intimacy broken as he returned to the formal demeanor of a military officer.
“I suggest you investigate his clinic, but with caution. What I know of his plans, his treatments… let’s just say the doctor is willing to sacrifice long-term stability for the sake of temporary military gain. ”
With that cryptic warning, he made the sign of the cross once more and melted back into the shadows of the chapel, leaving me standing at the altar with questions multiplying in my mind like ripples in disturbed water.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said to the empty air, gathering my resolve as I extinguished the altar candles. Whatever Gallow was doing with Thomas and Catherine, whatever connection Dupont had to my kind’s troubled history with humanity, I needed answers—and quickly.