Page 47 of Of Faith and Fangs

My gaze swept across the cells, counting. Five women. Five hunts. Five lives I thought I’d ended in my bloodlust. Five souls now trapped in the same unnatural existence as my own.

And then I saw it—the subtle gleam of triumph in Silas’s eyes. This was no miracle of redemption. This was calculation. This was power. I didn’t believe for a moment that God had completed their transformations by some kind of miracle. Silas did it. He still had the crucifix that I’d awakened, that Mr. Brown carried, the same one that supposedly ensured my final descent into the hell that had become my existence.

In the wake of this nightmare, the reality that stood in front of me, I nearly forgot about all the hope I’d gained from Father O’Malley, all the progress I’d made toward overcoming the darker part of my nature. In an instant, all I wanted was to kill and destroy, to tear the Order of the Morning Dawn apart member by member, limb by limb.

But I also had enough sense to know I couldn’t do it alone. I wasn’t strong enough to do it, and Silas was trained, protected somehow. And I had to wonder, was vengeance the salvation I’d been after, night after night, at St. Mary’s? I knew it wasn’t—but I could think of nothing else.

“Tomorrow night,” Silas said, his hand still heavy on my shoulder, “you will lead them on their first hunt. Their first step toward redemption through service, just as you have been redeemed through yours.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The hope I had carried felt dim. Just minutes ago, I was eager for my first communion—I was ready to welcome the final agony, to feel the suffering of the Crucified One who re-presented himself to me in the appearance of bread and wine. Now, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to make it there. How could I, when I had a mission to lead these… Nightwalkers… on a mission for Silas?

“I’ve waited months for this moment,” Silas continued, his voice lowered for my ears alone. “For you to see the fruits of your sacrifice. For you to understand your true purpose with the Order.”

My true purpose. Not redemption. Not salvation. But reproduction—creating more weapons for the Order’s crusade against those they deemed unholy.

The hunger within me twisted again, recognizing its reflection in the eyes that watched me from behind iron bars. My progeny. My victims. My responsibility.

“Tomorrow night,” I echoed, the words hollow. “I understand.”

But it didn’t feel like understanding. It was more like drowning. Like someone had tossed me a rope while the sea was overwhelming me, only to have it yanked away from me just as I was about to take hold of it and be brought safely aboard ship.

Chapter 20

Silas’s hand remained on my shoulder as he guided me forward, his fingers digging in like talons. The cells stretched before us in neat rows, an inverted and grotesque mockery of the pews in Father O’Malley’s church. Where I had found hope in those wooden benches, here I found only despair etched in iron and stone. The chamber air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood—old stains darkening the floor beneath our feet, fresh droplets gleaming on collection tools arranged with surgical precision on a nearby table. My nostrils flared involuntarily, the hunger inside me responding even as my mind recoiled.

“Walk among them,” Silas instructed, his voice carrying the cadence of a proud father showing off his children. “Feel the connection. They are yours in blood.”

I stepped forward, moving between the rows of cells as if in a nightmare. The cold seeped through my boots, a damp chill that rose from the earth itself. Iron manacles hung from the walls at intervals, their hinges rusted with what might have been age or dried blood. Beneath the overwhelming scent of blood,

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Silas continued, following a step behind. “Each one selected for potential, each one saved from the corruption of witchcraft through your intervention.”

“Saved?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“Of course, dearest Alice!” Silas’ tone had never been more patronizing. “They were damned already, each one of them, in their diabolical practices. Had they simply died naturally when you eliminated them, they’d have earned hellfire for sure. Your kind might be devils, but as I’ve told you, you’re not hopeless devils. You have a path toward salvation—provided you eliminate more evil in the service of our sacred Order than your nature represents.”

I didn’t argue with him. I couldn’t, if I intended to remain here as Father O’Malley suggested, to find a way to dismantle the Order of the Morning Dawn from within. There’d be a time for my light to shine here, but this wasn’t that time. Then again, if these ladies truly were subject to me above all else, Silas had made a hefty gamble. Did he truly believe that I was loyal—had I deceived him that thoroughly that he’d give me an army beholden to my command?

I didn’t believe it even a little. He had something else up his sleeve, a way to eliminate us if we fell out of line. He wouldn’t give me this kind of power if he wasn’t hiding an ace up his sleeve, something even greater than the threat I might become.

The first cell contained a young woman from the forest—she had fled from her half-cave, half-cabin when we arrived. In life, she had fought with unexpected strength. In undeath, that strength had been magnified. Her fingers gripped the iron bars, bending them slightly with pressure that would have been impossible for human hands. Her eyes followed me, luminous with hunger and something else—confusion, perhaps, or accusation.

“I’m sure you remember her. This one was turned three weeks ago,” Silas explained. “She’s adapted remarkably well to her new condition. Strong. Resilient. Quite useful traits in a soldier.”

Soldier. The word chilled me more than the damp stone beneath my feet. Is that what Silas saw when he looked at me? At them? Not souls to be saved, but weapons to be wielded?

In the next cell, the fire-worker with her tired eyes pressed against the bars. Her hair, once streaked with premature gray, now gleamed unnaturally black in the dim light. The transformation had reversed some signs of aging, though the weariness in her gaze remained.

“Mother,” she whispered as I passed, the word slithering from her lips like something unclean. “We feel you. We know you.”

The other women took up the whisper, their voices blending into a discordant chorus. “Mother... maker... sire...”

I flinched at the sound, each word striking me like a stake to the chest. These women hadn’t asked for this existence any more than I had. Yet here they were, bound to me through blood and violation.

“They sense your presence,” Silas explained, his voice taking on the quality of a lecturer. “The bond between sire and progeny is one of the most fascinating aspects of your condition. They feel your hunger as their own. They sense your emotions, your intentions.” He stepped closer, his breath warm against my cold skin. “And they will obey your commands as if they were divine writ.”

“Commands?” I echoed, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“You are their maker,” Silas replied. “Their sire. The hierarchy is clear and unbreakable. They cannot refuse a direct order from you, any more than you could resist the hunger when it first took hold.”

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