Page 20 of Of Faith and Fangs

“I—“ I wanted to say no, to hand it back, to have nothing to do with this. But the crucifix pulsed against my skin, vibrating with a low, hungry frequency.

One of the men in the circle crossed himself, muttering a prayer under his breath.

The leader turned to the room. “You see? She is the one. The key.”

Every eye swung back to me. Some full of hope, some of dread. None of them saw me, only the thing they wanted to see.

I tried to hand the crucifix back. The leader shook his head, his smile tightening. “Hold it. You must hold it until the vision passes. That is the first proof.”

My knuckles turned white. The blue light intensified, not in the room, but in my own mind. I saw things: bones stacked like kindling; faces gnawed hollow by disease. I smelled milk gone sour, and the sweet metallic rot of blood. The crucifix throbbed with every image, as though it fed on my revulsion.

I gritted my teeth. “What is this?”

The man’s eyes softened, just a little. “It is the weapon that will end this.”

He stepped closer. “Do you know why we called you here? Why it has to be you?”

I shook my head, but the blue light made everything swim. My pulse pounded so hard I thought I might faint.

He gestured to the men in the circle. “All of us, at one time or another, have failed. We have succumbed to seduction, trickery, or force, compromising with evil to defeat it. We bear the stain. But you, Alice—your faith is pure. Untainted.” He said it like an accusation. “The vampire cannot touch you. The witch cannot corrupt you. You are the shield.”

I tried again to hand him the crucifix, but it stuck to my palm, as if magnetized. I had to force it away, and even then my hand ached from the effort.

“It’s wrong,” I said, my voice shaking. “It doesn’t feel holy. It feels—“

“Dead?” The man smiled, as if this was a compliment. “That is the way of such things. The relic was forged for a single purpose. To destroy the thing that is neither dead nor living. Only one whose heart is still wholly alive can wield it.”

I realized I was shaking.

“You’re asking me to kill Mercy Brown.”

The word “kill” was a stone in the air. None of them flinched.

The leader nodded. “She is already dead. Therefore, she is not your friend. Not even your enemy. She is a vessel for the darkness that walks in this world. You must empty her.

I felt the room squeeze in around me. “No. I can’t.”

“You will,” he said. “Or she will destroy everything you love.”

My mouth was too dry to argue. I looked around at the circle of faces—men I’d known since childhood, who’d traded goods with my family, who’d shared hymnals in the pews.

All of them wanted me to be the key.

The circle of men drew in, close enough I could hear the nervous grind of their teeth. The leader studied my hand, the crucifix clamped between whitened knuckles, as if he might will it to do something more dramatic. I waited for a sign—a dove, a tongue of fire, anything to justify the tremor now working its way up my arm. It finally came, though the manner of the sign took me by surprise.

A blue-white glow emanated from the wood, causing the room’s shadows to retreat into the crevices.

“Now,” the leader said, “Pass it to Mr. Brown.”

I wanted to drop it, but my hand refused. George Brown stepped forward, his expression an uneasy blend of expectation and dread. He took hold of the crucifix, and for one lurching second our hands overlapped—the stubble on his knuckles rasping my skin. As I let go, a whine like an overstrained wire sang in my ears.

George held the crucifix before him, arm rigid as a gun barrel. He stared at the wavering aura, now pulsing faster, the blue-white edge creeping up the iron bands toward the outstretched figure nailed to its center. The wood smoked, faintly, as if resisting the change.

Someone behind me gasped. The sound echoed off the stone, then ricocheted around the circle. Mr. Norris—always the first to doubt—took two steps back. “That’s not natural.”

The leader spread his hands. “It is not natural. That is the point.” He looked around, daring anyone to meet his eye. “This is the sign we were promised. The power of the angels, awakened by one of pure faith.”

He turned to me, the pinpoints of his gaze knitting my limbs to the floor. “The Order thanks you, Miss Bladewell.”

---