Chapter 23
The abbey’s former scriptorium lay in the eastern wing—a section less damaged by German artillery but more thoroughly transformed by our military occupation.
My footsteps made no sound as I moved through the labyrinthine passages, but my mind roared with possibilities of what Gallow might be doing to Thomas and Catherine.
The corridor narrowed as I approached the scriptorium.
Ahead, a door stood slightly ajar, yellow light spilling into the hallway like bile.
The clinical scent of alcohol and something sharper—a chemical tang I couldn’t identify—drifted through the opening.
Beneath these manufactured odors lurked the unmistakable aroma of blood.
I slowed my approach, pressing against the damp stone wall. Voices drifted from within—Gallow’s clinical monotone punctuated by occasional whimpers that tightened my chest with recognition. Thomas.
“Subject Four shows a promising response to threshold suppression,” Gallow was saying, his voice carrying the detached interest of a man cataloging butterfly specimens. “Note the decreased sensitivity to blood stimulus when compared to initial baseline.”
I edged closer to the door, positioning myself to peer through the narrow opening.
The scene within froze my dead heart anew.
The scriptorium had been transformed into something between a medical clinic and a torture chamber.
Where monks had once illuminated sacred texts, metal tables now gleamed under harsh electric lights.
Thomas lay strapped to one of the tables, his body rigid with pain, eyes rolled back to show only whites.
Catherine occupied a second table, her slight form trembling violently as Gallow inserted a needle into her arm.
“Hunger cycle interruption requires precise timing,” Gallow continued, apparently lecturing to an unseen audience. “Too soon, and the subject retains aggressive tendencies. Too late, and we risk permanent regression to feral state.”
I caught sight of movement in the corner—a figure taking notes. Dr. Gallow’s assistant, no doubt, documenting every moment of this “experiment.” On a nearby table lay open files.
Thomas convulsed suddenly, fangs descending involuntarily as Gallow pressed a cloth soaked in blood to his face, then withdrew it. “Observe the delayed response time,” he noted with satisfaction. “Previous exposure required immediate restraint. Now we can measure resistance in seconds.”
Rage swept through me like wildfire. I shoved the door open with enough force to crack the ancient wood, stepping into the harsh light with fists clenched.
“What are you doing to them?” I demanded.
Gallow didn’t even flinch at my entrance. He merely adjusted his spectacles and made another notation on his clipboard. “Preparation,” he answered calmly. “For the mission you agreed to undertake.”
“I agreed to lead my flock into battle,” I countered, moving toward Thomas. “Not to have them experimented upon like laboratory animals.”
“You agreed to follow orders,” Gallow corrected, stepping between me and Thomas’s prone form. “The General was quite explicit that all unit members must undergo combat stabilization protocols before the Messines operation.”
“Combat stabilization?” I gestured toward Thomas’s contorted features. “This looks like torture, not preparation.”
“On the contrary,” Gallow replied. “I’m preventing torture—the self-torture your kind experiences when bloodlust overwhelms reason. These injections suppress threshold response while maintaining combat effectiveness. Quite humanely, considering the alternatives.”
I reached for the restraints binding Thomas, but Gallow’s voice stopped me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. He’s currently in a transitional state. Release him now, and he’ll attack anything with a pulse. Including our French liaison, who I believe has taken quite an interest in your welfare.”
The threat hung in the air between us—not just to Thomas, but to Dupont, the one human who had shown some understanding of our condition.
“You have no right—“ I began.
“He has every right,” interrupted a new voice from the doorway.
Captain Mercer materialized from the shadows, his uniform impeccable as always. “Dr. Gallow operates with the full authority of General Gantry and the United States government. Authority you agreed to respect when you accepted this mission.”
“I never agreed to donate my people as lab rats,” I protested.
“You agreed to make them combat ready,” Mercer countered, stepping fully into the room. “Dr. Gallow’s methods, while unorthodox, have proven effective in previous engagements.”
Previous engagements. The words sent ice through my veins. “You’ve done this before.”
A thin smile crossed Mercer’s lips. “How do you think I maintain perfect control after centuries, Alice? Pure willpower? Faith?” He spat the last word like a curse. “Science has provided what religion could not—predictability.”
Gallow removed the needle from Catherine’s arm and placed it carefully on a metal tray. Her trembling subsided gradually, her eyes focusing once more, though something vital seemed dimmed in their depths.
“The treatments are temporary,” Gallow explained, his tone suggesting he was granting me a great kindness with this information. “Three to five days of enhanced control, reduced blood sensitivity, increased combat aggression. Perfect for our mission parameters.”
“And the side effects?” I demanded.
“Minimal,” he replied, though something in his averted gaze suggested otherwise. “Some discomfort during administration. Temporary dissociation. Slightly increased light sensitivity.”
“He’s lying,” Catherine whispered, her voice so faint only vampire hearing could detect it. “Something’s missing... inside. I can’t feel... anything.”
The door opened wider as Ruth entered, followed closely by Rebecca and Constance. Their eyes widened at the scene before them, but none showed the horror I expected—only grim resignation.
“I told them you’d object,” Mercer said quietly. “That your spiritual approach would clash with tactical necessity.”
“You brought them here?” I asked, betrayal sharp in my voice.
Ruth stepped forward, her posture defiant. “We came willingly. We need every advantage for the mission.”
“You don’t understand what you’re sacrificing,” I pleaded.
“We understand perfectly,” Rebecca countered, her usual reserve cracking to reveal unexpected bitterness. “Our humanity is already gone, Alice. At least this way, we’re useful.”
I stomped a foot. “How can you speak that way? After all the progress you’ve made? After all we’ve been through together?”
“I’m not disavowing my faith,” Rebecca replied, a calmness in her voice suggesting this wasn’t her first treatment. “What’s wrong with using outside assistance? These missions we’ve done so far they’ve—“
“They’ve been successful!”
Rebecca sighed. “You might be able to retain control no matter what, Alice. But you’ve always been different. For me, for the rest of us, we still struggle. When we fight, when we get a scent of blood, the temptation is too much—“
“You will not be tempted beyond what you can endure!” I insisted. “And you have no idea what the long-term consequences of these treatments might be!”
Mercer moved to stand beside Gallow, their unlikely alliance united against my objections. “You and Desiderius must also comply,” he stated flatly. “Or face the consequences.”
“What consequences?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Exposure of Bishop Harkins,” Mercer replied without emotion. “Elimination of the entire unit as failed experiments. The General’s orders were quite specific on this point.”
I watched as Ruth, Rebecca, and Constance formed a line beside Catherine’s table, rolling up their sleeves. Gallow prepared fresh syringes, the amber liquid within catching the harsh light.
“The choice is simple,” Gallow added, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Comply with my recommendations or face the consequences.”
I thought of Bishop Harkins—his kindness, his belief in redemption even for creatures like us.
The sanctuary he had provided when others would have destroyed us without hesitation.
And I thought of my flock, these souls entrusted to my care, now willingly submitting to procedures that could compromise everything we’d accomplished, all of our progress, all in the name of turning us into more efficient killers.
As Gallow approached Ruth with the first syringe, I moved without conscious thought, placing myself between him and the line of waiting vampires. My fists clenched at my sides, my body coiled with the tension of impossible choices.
“No,” I said, the single word echoing in the transformed scriptorium where once monks had copied sacred texts by hand, preserving wisdom through darkest ages. “Not without knowing exactly what you’re doing to them. Not without their true consent, free from coercion.”
“You’re blocking progress, Miss Bladewell,” Gallow said, his scientific detachment finally cracking to reveal irritation. “And time is short.”
“Consider carefully,” Mercer warned. “General Gantry has staked everything on this mission’s success. Failure is not an option—for any of us.”
“I refuse.”
“Excuse me?” Mercer tilted his head.
“You heard what Rebecca said. I’m not like the rest. I don’t need your injections. I’ll remain compliant without them.”
“Desiderius will likely refuse as well,” Mercer added. “But here’s what’s at stake. One wrong move, one peep out of you begging me to exercise restraint, to have mercy on the enemy, and I’ll report you as in violation of our agreement.”
I held my gaze on the Captain, but I couldn’t find an argument.
“This will not end well. Whatever he’s doing to us.
You should understand as much as any of us, allowing ourselves to become experiments, letting them mess with our nature…
that’s not the freedom or acceptance you say this is about. It’s coercion and control.”
Mercer took a deep breath. “Be that as it may, it’s a necessary sacrifice, Alice.”
”A necessary sacrifice? Toward what ends? Completing a mission? What good is it to gain the whole world if you forfeit your soul?”
“No one is asking for your soul,” Mercer snapped. “Let your soul be damned so far as I care. Seek salvation if the pursuit of such dreams comforts you. All I’m interested in are your bodies, your abilities, your strength. We’re asking—no, demanding—your compliance.”
I stood unwavering, caught between defiance and submission, between protecting my flock’s bodies or their souls.
Behind me, Ruth shifted impatiently, eager for whatever false courage Gallow’s serum might provide.
Thomas whimpered on his table, the sound piercing me like a physical wound.
And somewhere beyond these stone walls, an ammunition depot awaited our impossible assault—a mission designed not for success but for sacrifice.