Page 38 of Of Faith and Fangs

St. Mary’s loomed before me, stone walls silvered by moonlight, stained glass windows like dark eyes watching my approach. Even from the street, twenty yards away, I could feel the building’s resistance to my presence—a subtle pressure against my skin, as if the very air around the church was trying to push me back into the darkness where I belonged. I paused at the iron gate, my hand hovering over the latch. The small cemetery flanking the church reminded me that I now walked a strange path between life and death, belonging fully to neither realm.

Midnight bells tolled, their sound reverberating through my sensitive ears like hammers against anvils. It was time. I had promised to come, and despite every instinct screaming at me to flee, I pushed open the gate and stepped onto consecrated ground.

Pain shot through the soles of my feet, traveling up my legs like lightning seeking ground. I gasped, faltering mid-step but forcing myself forward. Each footfall on the church path sent fresh waves of agony up my spine. This wasn’t the mild discomfort I’d felt near Daddy’s church—this was active rejection, as if every inch of soil had been soaked in something that recognized my unnaturalness and sought to burn it away.

Father O’Malley waited at the church entrance, a compact figure in black silhouetted against the dim light spilling from the open doors. His face registered my pain but showed no surprise.

“You came,” he said quietly as I approached. “I wasn’t certain you would.”

“Neither was I,” I admitted, stopping several feet from the threshold. The pain in my feet had subsided to a constant, dull burn, but I could feel stronger resistance emanating from the doorway itself.

Father O’Malley held something in his hand—a small crystal vial filled with clear liquid. “Holy water,” he explained, seeing my gaze. “Blessed at Easter vigil last year.” He removed the stopper. “This is your first test of faith, Alice. To enter God’s house, you must first endure His purifying touch.”

I stared at the innocent-looking water, remembering how the blessed rope had burned the female vampire’s skin, leaving smoking welts. “You want to burn me?”

“I want to help you,” he corrected gently. “But the path won’t be easy. Nothing of value ever is.”

I took a deep breath, and clenched the fist of my right hand as I extended my left, palm up. Father O’Malley’s eyes held mine as he tipped the vial, allowing a single drop to fall onto my skin.

The pain was immediate and shocking—as if someone had pressed a red-hot coal against my flesh. I bit back a scream as smoke rose from my palm, the sizzling sound obscenely loud in the quiet night. The smell of burning flesh—my flesh—filled my nostrils.

“Breathe through it,” Father O’Malley instructed, though breathing was merely a conscious choice for me now, not a necessity. Still, I found myself gulping air, using the rhythm to focus beyond the pain.

When the burning subsided to a throbbing ache, I looked down. A perfect circular welt marked my palm, red and angry against my pale skin.

“The first is always the worst,” Father O’Malley said, his voice carrying notes of both compassion and clinical assessment. “Are you ready to continue?”

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. He dipped his fingers into the vial and traced a cross on my forehead. This time I was prepared for the pain, but preparation didn’t lessen it—only my reaction to it. My skin smoked beneath his touch, the burning sensation cutting deep, as if he were carving the sign directly into my skull. Yet I remained standing, teeth clenched, eyes fixed on his.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he murmured.

The Latin words themselves seemed to press against me, heavy with centuries of faith. When he finished, the burning gradually subsided, leaving another welt I could feel but not see.

“Now you may enter,” he said, stepping aside.

I hesitated at the threshold. My experience at Daddy’s church had taught me what to expect—rejection, pain, divine judgment made manifest through physical suffering. But what choice did I have? Return to the Order and Silas’s manipulations? Continue killing innocents to feed my cursed hunger? Or face this pain in hope of... what? Salvation seemed too much to ask for. Perhaps just understanding would be enough.

I stepped through the doorway into St. Mary’s Church.

The interior was dimly lit with dozens of candles, their flames creating dancing patterns of light and shadow across the walls. Unlike the stark simplicity of Daddy’s church, St. Mary’s embraced a different aesthetic entirely. Colors assaulted my enhanced vision—richly painted statues of saints lined the walls, their expressions serene or suffering. Gold gleamed from the altar at the front. Red velvet draped the altar steps. The air hung heavy with incense that made my heightened senses reel—frankincense and myrrh, ancient scents that bypassed my conscious mind and spoke directly to something older, deeper.

Most shocking of all were the images—everywhere I looked, visual representations of biblical scenes that would have been considered idolatrous in my father’s congregation. Christ on the cross, his agony depicted in painful detail. The Virgin Mary with a sword piercing her heart. Angels with outstretched wings. It was overwhelming, almost dizzying.

A handful of elderly parishioners occupied the front pews, their heads bowed in prayer or contemplation. Why were they at a midnight mass? I’d figured the priest would be here alone—unwilling to risk any of his prisoners to the threat of my hunger.

None turned to look at us. Father O’Malley guided me to a pew at the very back, where the shadows were deepest.

“The pain will continue,” he warned in a whisper. “The prayers, the ritual—all of it will cause you discomfort. You may leave at any time if it is too much. However, I’d urge you to return. Try to hold on a little longer each time you visit.”

I nodded, sinking onto the wooden bench. Even the pew seemed to resist my weight, the wood creaking in protest. I noticed smaller details now—the worn spots on the kneelers where countless faithful had prayed, the faint smell of beeswax and dust beneath the incense, the way sound carried differently here than in Daddy’s church, echoing against stone rather than absorbed by plain wood.

A priest—not Father O’Malley, but an older man with stooped shoulders—emerged from a side door and approached the altar. The mass began with words I didn’t recognize, Latin phrases that seemed to hover in the air like physical things. Each syllable pressed against my skin, not painful exactly, but uncomfortable—like tiny needles pricking at my consciousness.

As the service progressed, the discomfort intensified. When the congregation recited prayers together, their voices merged into a sound that made my skull throb. I pressed my hands against my ears, but it didn’t help—the pain came from within as much as without. It was as if the words themselves recognized what I was and sought to drive it out.

Yet strangely, I didn’t want to flee. Despite the pain—or perhaps because of it—I felt more present, more aware than I had since my transformation. The hunger that constantly lurked within me seemed temporarily quieted, pushed into the background by this new sensation.

The elderly parishioners didn’t notice my distress, their attention focused entirely on the ritual unfolding before them. One woman clutched rosary beads. A man with gnarled hands crossed himself with reverent precision. They seemed transported, connected to something I could feel but not fully comprehend.

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