Chapter 24
I stood beneath a shattered archway, watching as Ruth executed a series of strikes against a wooden dummy that splintered beneath her blows.
Her movements had changed since Gallow’s “treatments” began—sharper now, more precise, stripped of the hesitation that humanity leaves like a fingerprint on all motion.
Captain Mercer circled her, calling commands that left no room for questions, only obedience.
With each impact of her fist, I felt something crumble inside me, as if the dummy were a physical manifestation of all I had tried to build.
“Again,” Mercer ordered, and Ruth complied with alarming eagerness. Her eyes caught the moonlight with an unnatural gleam, reflecting back not just the sunset but something hungry and ancient that had awakened within her. “Faster this time. Remember what the doctor told you—don’t think, just act.”
Ruth nodded, her movements blurring as she abandoned restraint entirely. The courtyard stones beneath her feet cracked under the force of her pivots. Where once she had been a soul struggling toward redemption, now she was becoming a weapon honed for destruction.
“Sister Ruth,” I called, unable to remain silent any longer. “It’s nearly time for matins.”
She paused only briefly, her gaze sliding over me without recognition before returning to Mercer. “The captain says I’m making progress. The treatments are working.”
“What exactly are these treatments?” I asked, directing the question to Mercer, though I already suspected the answer. Blood-based injections, designed to heighten aggression while dampening the conscience—Gallow’s twisted attempt to create the perfect predator.
“Classified,” Mercer replied, the word a dismissal as sharp as a slammed door. “Rest assured, Miss Bladewell, they’re enhancing natural capabilities, not changing their fundamental nature.”
A lie wrapped in a half-truth—the most dangerous kind.
Before I could challenge him further, movement along the abbey’s western cloister caught my attention.
Rebecca glided along the ivy-draped corridor.
She had always been the most analytical of my charges, weighing every decision with careful precision.
Now she moved with the certainty of someone who had calculated the cost and found it acceptable.
Constance followed several paces behind, her eyes downcast, fingers tracing the stone wall as if seeking guidance from the abbey’s ancient memory.
Her struggle was etched in every line of her body—the battle between the discipline we had cultivated at the convent and whatever promises Gallow had whispered in her ear.
“Rebecca,” I called, moving to intercept them. “Where are you going?”
She hesitated, a flicker of her former self-recognition crossing her face before it hardened again. “To Dr. Gallow’s clinic. For the next round of my stabilization treatments.”
“Stabilization?” The euphemism tasted bitter on my tongue. “Is that really all you think he’s doing to you?”
“It helps with the hunger,” Constance whispered, not meeting my eyes. “Makes it easier to... to be near the blood without losing control.”
Rebecca’s chin lifted slightly. “We’re soldiers now, Sister Alice. Our purpose has changed. The treatments help us fulfill our new mission.”
“Our mission has not changed,” I replied, reaching for her hand. She withdrew it before I could touch her. “Our circumstances have changed, but our souls must remain on the path.”
“Must they?” Rebecca’s voice held an edge I had never heard before. “Or were our souls lost the moment we became what we are?”
I had no answer that would reach her—not in that moment, with Gallow’s chemicals warping her mind and Mercer’s approval drawing her further from my guidance. They continued past me, Rebecca’s steps quickening as she approached the laboratory door, Constance trailing in her wake like a shadow.
The abbey bell tolled the hour, its cracked voice still managing to call souls to prayer despite the violence that had nearly silenced it. I made my way to the chapel.
Only two figures awaited me inside—Catherine, kneeling in the front pew, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles strained white against her skin, and Desiderius, standing near the altar.
“They’re not coming,” Catherine whispered as I approached. “Thomas tried, but he’s too afraid of what happened during the mission. The hunger was so strong...”
“And the others?”
Desiderius shook his head. “They believe they have found a different path. One that requires less... struggle.”
I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the weight of absence in the chapel. “We who remain will carry their intentions to God.”
I moved to the altar, opening the Bishop’s manual to the page marked with a thin ribbon. The words blurred briefly before my eyes.
“We begin with thanksgiving.” I tried to keep my voice as steady as I could given the circumstances. “Though our bodies crave what we must not have, fill our spirits instead with Your grace.”
Catherine and Desiderius responded with practiced voices, the call and response of the modified liturgy flowing between us like water over stones—reshaping slowly, but with the promise of eventual transformation.
I lifted the chalice, its weight familiar in my hands despite the strangeness of our surroundings.
“This is my blood, shed for you,” I recited, the words carrying both literal and spiritual truth in our unique condition. “Drink, and remember that even in darkness, we are not forsaken.”
They approached one by one, accepting the sacred wine with reverence.
Catherine’s hands trembled slightly as she took the chalice, but her eyes remained clear, her will stronger than the hunger that assailed her.
Desiderius received it with the dignified acceptance of one who had found peace in submission to a higher purpose.
As I spoke the final blessing, a soft voice from the back of the chapel echoed our “Amen.” I turned, startled, to find Lieutenant Dupont kneeling in the rearmost pew, his hands folded in prayer.
How had he entered without my noticing? Even in prayer, my heightened senses should have detected his approach—the rhythm of his heartbeat, the scent of his blood, the subtle sounds of breathing that marked all living humans.
Yet there he knelt, as if materialized from the very shadows of the chapel.
“Lieutenant,” I acknowledged. “Do you truly share our faith?”
“There are many kinds of faith, Sister Alice,” he replied, rising with a fluid grace that seemed suddenly unfamiliar. “Some born of doctrine, of catechesis. I have some of that. But there’s another kind born of experience. That’s where it becomes genuine.”
I nodded, understanding. I was grateful for his participation, yet disturbed by the questions it raised. Why didn’t I hear him—his heartbeat, or his footsteps as he entered the chapel? Why didn’t I smell his blood?
There were too many mysteries to leave unresolved. We were running out of time before the mission, and my flock was divided. I needed the truth—before I was forced to learn it under a rain of artillery fire.
I moved through the empty corridors like a thought, my feet making no sound against the stones.
I only had a few minutes of darkness left when my team would return from drills.
Gallow had left his clinic and was reporting his progress to the Captain.
This was the only chance I’d have before our mission.
When I reached the scriptorium door, I paused, listening for any hint of presence within. Nothing—not even a breath.
The lock yielded easily to strength that had once horrified me but now served a purpose beyond blood and death. I slipped inside, closing the door carefully to prevent a sound from its hinges.
I moved to the desk where Gallow spent his daylight hours writing in notebooks. Neat stacks of reports were orderly arranged, each labeled with dates and subject numbers rather than names. My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted the top report.
“Subject 7 (R.S.) displays marked increase in aggressive response following third treatment cycle. Restraint reflexes significantly diminished. Blood-hunger now channeled effectively toward tactical targets rather than suppressed. Recommend accelerated protocol for remaining field trials.”
R.S.—Ruth Simmons. My Ruth, who once wept after accidentally killing a sparrow. I set the report aside and picked up another.
“Subject 4 (R.P.) volunteers for additional treatments, citing enhanced clarity and reduced moral conflict. Subject now embraces predatory nature when presented with appropriate targets. Emotional detachment complete. Ready for advanced field deployment.”
Rebecca Porter. The analytical one who had helped our newest converts understand their condition through careful explanation rather than fear. Now reduced to a subject number and clinical observations of her “emotional detachment.”
The third report chilled me despite my inability to feel cold. “Subjects 11, 12, and 13 (recent conversions) showing inconsistent response to treatment. Residual humanity creates resistance to chemical protocol. Recommend increased dosage or termination if compliance cannot be achieved.”
Catherine, James, and Michael—the ferals we had rescued, who now faced “termination” if they could not be remade according to Gallow’s specifications.
Their resistance to treatment, combined with Catherine’s relative receptivity to the spiritual path, likely explained why she’d attended our prayer service despite having received injections.
I continued searching, moving beyond the reports to a locked drawer beneath the desk.
Another lock that yielded to strength born of righteous anger.
Inside lay not medical documents but letters, their edges crisp, their envelopes sealed with a familiar emblem—a rising sun with a cross at its center.