Page 25 of Of Faith and Fangs

“It’s blood,” I whispered. “Human blood.”

“Yes. Freely given. And without it, you will weaken, and the hunger will drive you mad.” He pressed the vial against my lips again. “You will become the very thing the Order fights against—a mindless predator. Is that what you want?”

I closed my eyes, remembering my father’s words about the wages of sin. But I wasn’t alive anymore, was I? The rules that had governed my life—were they still binding in this half-existence?

“The practice of feeding only on willing donors, on blood freely given,” Silas continued, “is a form of asceticism. A denial of your baser nature. This is how you will subdue the passions of your damned condition. It is the only path to redemption for your kind.”

Redemption. The word pierced through the haze of hunger. Was it possible? Could I find my way back to God, even as this thing I’d become?

The cool glass touched my lips again, and this time, I did not turn away. The first drop hit my tongue, and my world exploded. The taste was beyond description—copper and salt and sweetness and life itself, distilled into liquid form. My throat burned with both revulsion and desperate need. I seized the vial from Silas’s hand, tilting it back, letting the blood flow down my throat in greedy gulps.

It was over too quickly. I let the empty vial drop from my fingers, horrified by what I’d just done, yet already craving more. The relief was immediate but incomplete—like trying to douse a forest fire with a single bucket of water.

“More,” I rasped, hating myself for asking, hating myself more for needing it.

Silas nodded, retrieving another vial from the case. “The first is always the hardest,” he said, uncapping it. “It gets easier.”

“I don’t want it to get easier,” I said, even as I reached for the second vial. “I don’t want to be this. But at the same time…”

He didn’t reply, simply watched as I drained the second vial, then a third. With each swallow, my mind cleared a little, the feral edge of my hunger dulling to a more manageable ache. By the fourth vial, I could think beyond the next moment, beyond the next drop of blood.

“Better?” Silas asked, his gaze assessing.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was disgusted by what I’d done, by how good it had felt, by the way my body hummed with borrowed life.

“Do you still want to rip me apart?” His tone was clinical, as if he were asking about the weather.

I considered the question honestly. The urge was still there, a low pulse beneath my thoughts, but no longer the overwhelming compulsion it had been. “No,” I said finally. “Not right now.”

Silas seemed satisfied with this answer. He moved to the restraints at my ankles, unfastening them with quick, efficient movements. “Remember,” he said as he worked, “I can end you if necessary. I’ve done it before.”

The threat should have frightened me, but instead, it was almost comforting. Someone could stop me if I became the monster I felt within. “I understand.”

He freed my left wrist last, then stepped back, stake still in hand. “Stand up. Slowly.”

I complied, easing myself off the table with unnatural grace. My feet touched the cold stone floor, and a shock ran through me. I could feel everything—the minute vibrations of Silas’s heartbeat traveling through the ground, the skittering of a mouse behind the walls, even the subtle shift of air currents around us. I gasped, overwhelmed by the input.

“What’s happening?” I clutched at the table for support, though my balance was perfect. “I can feel—everything.”

“Your senses are enhanced,” Silas explained, maintaining his distance. “Sight, smell, hearing, touch—all amplified beyond human capability. It’s part of what makes your kind such effective predators.”

I took a tentative step, marveling at how the floor seemed to speak to me through my bare feet. I could sense the building’s foundation, the weight of the earth above us, the very pulse of the world. “There’s someone walking in the corridor,” I said, surprised by my certainty. “Three doors down. And... a cricket outside? How far down are we?”

“Twenty feet below ground.” Silas nodded, impressed despite himself. “And yes, Lady Margaret is making her rounds. You’ll learn to filter such information, to focus on what matters.”

“Is she one of your... donors?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

“Yes. As will I, occasionally, if necessary.” He touched his neck briefly. “The Order has worked with Nightwalkers for generations. Though you’re the first we’ve created in the new world.”

“Nightwalkers,” I repeated. The name still felt wrong on my tongue, a label for something I couldn’t bring myself to accept. “What does that even mean?”

Silas moved to a small chest against the wall, retrieving a bundle of fabric. “It means you walk in darkness but are not of it. You hunt evil—other vampires, witches, creatures that prey on humanity—using the very abilities they possess.”

He handed me the bundle—clothes, I realized. A plain black dress, stockings, boots. Simple, practical garments that would allow me to blend into the night. “The Order of the Morning Dawn acknowledges that sometimes darkness must be fought with darkness.”

I took the clothes, my fingers running over the fabric with new sensitivity. “And you think I’ll just... agree to this? Become your weapon?”

“I think you want redemption,” Silas said simply. “I think you’re looking for a path back to God, and this is the only one available to you.”

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