Page 33 of Of Faith and Fangs

I rose and moved to the window. Outside, snow continued to fall, covering the world in false purity. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang, calling the faithful to evening prayers. The sound pierced me with a longing for what I’d lost.

The door to my quarters opened without a knock. Silas stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, snow melting on his shoulders.

“We’ve located another witch,” he said without preamble. “We leave at dawn.”

I turned from the window to face him. “And if I refuse?”

His expression hardened. “The Order doesn’t recognize refusal, Nightwalker. You serve or you perish.”

When he was gone, I sank to my knees on the cold wooden floor. Not in prayer this time—prayer was beyond me now—but in desperation. The faces of the women I’d killed flashed before me, each one clear in memory. The healer with her herbs. The fire-worker with her tired eyes. The young woman in the forest. The old grandmother trying to save her family.

Had any of them truly been what Silas claimed? Or had they simply been convenient targets—isolated, vulnerable, and ultimately disposable?

A terrible suspicion took root. What if none of those women were actually witches? If that was true, I’d not only indulged my vampiric urges, solidifying my own damnation, but I’d earned no redemption since what I’d murdered wasn’t evil at all?

I thought of Brown, who had transformed me. Had she been truly evil, or simply confused? She’d attended Daddy’s church, sung hymns with apparent sincerity. Yes, she’d gotten wrapped up with Moll Dwyer, she’d dabbled in things she shouldn’t have, but was that on account of her evil, or because of her father’s overprotectiveness? She wouldn’t be the first girl to rebel against an overbearing parent. It was barely tolerated, especially in our congregation, but it wasn’t uncommon.

I hadn’t understood then. Maybe I still didn’t. But one thing was becoming clear—the Order of the Morning Dawn was not what it claimed to be, and neither was Silas Blake.

Dawn would bring another hunt, another victim, another feeding engineered by Silas’s careful orchestration. The cycle would continue, driving me further from the girl I’d been, closer to the monster they wanted me to become.

Unless I found the strength to resist. To change. But how could I, given what I was, given what I needed?

Chapter 15

January brought a killing frost that silenced the woods. The cabin before us could have been the twin of our first hunt—the same sagging porch, the same broken windows, the same sense of isolation pressing in from all sides. But I was not the same Alice who had followed Silas unquestioning into that first trap. Three months and countless deaths had hardened something in me, crystallized a resolve beneath my obedient exterior. My hands trembled not with anticipation but with determination as we approached through the snow-laden trees. Tonight would be different. Tonight, I would not feed.

“She’s been here two weeks,” Silas said, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. “Local farmers report livestock found drained of blood. Classic signs of blood magic.”

Or hunger like mine, I thought but didn’t say. The similarities weren’t lost on me—a solitary woman, accusations of blood rituals, isolated location. How many of our targets had been vampires rather than witches? How many had been neither, simply convenient sacrifices to keep me fed and compliant?

“The Order wants her questioned before disposal,” Silas continued. “She may have connections to a larger coven operating in Massachusetts.”

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked. My own steps were silent, barely leaving an impression on the pristine white blanket. Another reminder of what I’d become—a creature that moved through the world with little trace, as insubstantial as the shadows we stalked through.

“You’ve been quiet,” Silas observed, glancing sideways at me. “Having doubts, Nightwalker?”

“No,” I lied. “Just focused.”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. We’d played this game of half-truths for months now. He pretended to believe my obedience; I pretended not to see his manipulation. But tonight the game would end, one way or another.

The cabin appeared through the trees, a dark blot against the snow-covered clearing. Smoke rose from its chimney in a thin, tentative line. Someone was home, waiting for the death we brought.

“Same approach as usual,” Silas said, drawing his silver dagger. The blade caught the moonlight, flashing like a silent warning. “I’ll lead, you follow. If she attempts an incantation, you know what to do.”

I nodded, though my stomach twisted with dread and resolution. I’d fed two days ago—another “witch” in another forgotten corner of New England—so the hunger, while present, wasn’t overwhelming. I could resist. I had to resist.

We crossed the clearing, our mismatched footprints—his deep and definite, mine barely disturbing the snow—leading straight to the cabin door. No attempt at stealth this time. Silas wanted her to know we were coming. Wanted her afraid.

He kicked the door open with a splintering crash. We entered the cabin’s single room, a space barely large enough for a rough bed, a small table, and a hearth where a meager fire struggled against the cold.

The woman spun to face us, dropping the book she’d been reading. She was young—perhaps twenty—with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes wide with fear and recognition.

“The Order,” she whispered, backing against the far wall. “I knew you’d come, eventually.”

Silas advanced, dagger raised. “By the authority of the Order of the Morning Dawn, you are condemned for the practice of witchcraft and unholy communion with dark forces.”

The woman’s hand moved to a small pendant around her neck—a simple wooden cross. “I’ve committed no crime against God or man,” she said, her voice steadier than her trembling hands. “I’ve harmed no one.”

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