The moonlight shone through the gorgeous stained glass window, making the blustery winter night seem all that much darker.
"Amen. This meal I have prepared is my body. On this holy night, I give thanks." The elderly voice was gentle; the man who spoke was reverent of his holy ritual, and his words were eloquent and full of passion.
But the eyes of the nun—her arms and legs bound to the altar and her mouth gagged—were wide with fear.
Perhaps she wouldn't have been so afraid if a mere coldblooded murderer stood before her. After all, a murderer would only kill her. A cold-blooded murderer would at least be human.
"Thank you for being so patient, Sister Angelina. It's time for the Last Supper," he said somberly.
The nun gasped.
When the old man turned, moonlight reflected off the silver blade gripped in his wrinkled hand. He had used the knife coundess times to slice bread for worshippers, back when he'd been mortal. But now, the knife was ragged and tarnished from his unholy touch.
" 'Take this bread, for it is my flesh.' "
He carefully cut the nun's habit from her head. The sound of the ripping fabric tore through the eerie silence. Slowly, he trailed his fingertips down her pale skin. His touch made the veins in her chest swell. Her pulse raced.
" 'Take this wine, for it is my blood.' " He sighed wistfully. "Oh, Angelina. You will become a part of me. Through my veins, your blood will live in an eternal night."
The old man flashed a wicked smile; long white fangs poked past his lips. Unable to check his bloodlust, the old man pointed the knife at Angelina's white breast. But just as he was about to slice into her heart—
A whisper came from the shadows, "he missa est. This Mass is over, Father Scott."
"What?"
Just beyond the altar stood a gentleman draped in shadows. Even a vampire's extraordinary senses could barely detect his presence. He was practically invisible to a normal human.
"Londinium priest Father Alexander Scott ... In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I am placing you under arrest for seven counts of murder and extortion of blood," the stranger said.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I beg your pardon. I come from Rome—"
It was his mistake to afford the vampire any courtesy. Instantly, the knife flew across the distance between them with near-impossible speed. The aim was true, and the knife stabbed the shadowed man squarely in the chest.
"I don't know who you are, but no one interrupts my supper!" the priest said. The elderly vampire laughed so hard, his long white robe rippled as his shoulders shook. White fangs glinted in the darkness.
The priest hadn't been a vampire for more than a month, so two suppers in one night would mark his finest feast.
"It was foolish to sneak up on the living dead, my son."
"Foolish for you to think I would fall so easily," the man replied.
"What the . . . ?" Father Scott couldn't believe his eyes.
The knife had sunk deep into the shadowed man's heart, yet there he stood, unaffected.
"I heard one of your sermons once," the stranger murmured regretfully. "You preached that humans are the only beings capable of believing in themselves. Your faith made me want to show you compassion, but ..." the shadowed figure trailed off.
"H-how . . . ?" The elderly priest, who had traded sunlight and decency for the strength and power of immortal evil, now cowered, frozen in fear. "Are you a vampire too?"
"No. I am . . . what I am."
Suddenly, the sound of metal bending and popping split through the air. The figure stepped forward, his own priest's robe slowly absorbing the knife, until it was engulfed deep into his chest.
The vampire growled. "I'd heard of your kind, when I was still human. In Rome, at the Vatican headquarters, there was a sect of priests that kept a monster. When the Vatican had problems beyond the scope of mortal men, they sent the monster to do their bidding. Is that you?" the vampire asked.
The stranger cocked his head. "AX. Spelled out, it is the Arcanum Cella ex Dono Dei. My boss doesn't like scandals, you see. She wouldn't want news spreading that a priest had 'changed.' That's why I'm here."
From out of nowhere, the shadow-clad man raised a double-bladed scythe high into the air.
Father Scott glanced at the scythe and then shrieked in horror. "You're Caterina's hound! AX Agent Crusnik—!"
A whipping, winter wind drowned out his scream.
✦ ✦ ✦
Stewardess? May I please have milk in my tea? And about twelve . . . no, thirteen sugars?" he asked.
Jessica peered back at the young man on the other side of the counter. He wore thick glasses and a plain, faded priest's robe. This poor traveler looked very out of place.
Though recent times had been hard, the observation lounge was elegant and lively. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen chatted and chuckled, lively music played, glasses clinked, and cigar smoke hung in the air. The lounge was full of rich and gorgeous people. It was a perfect night for flying.
"Urn, stewardess? Ma'am?" he asked again.
"Huh? Y-yes!" she replied.
Jessica ran a hand through her brown shoulder-length hair, forcing herself to wake from her daydream. She tied on her apron. Her smile made her youthful, freckled face light up. "Uh, did you ask for a scotch?"
"No, tea with milk. And thirteen sugars."
She blinked. "Well, if you want some sweets, we have cakes and pies, sir."
"I'm sure they're wonderful, but . . ." The priest looked into his wallet. His shoulders slumped. "I only have four dinars ... so I'll just have some tea, please."
Even the rich children running amok in the lounge had more money than that. In fact, Jessica's pay the previous week was two thousand dinars. How did this poor priest even get on the Tristan—the most luxurious airship that flew between Londinium and Rome?
"My job always makes me cry," he joked. "The cafeteria here charges a hundred dinars for dinner. What a rip-offl I'm so poor, one meal will clean out my bank account."
"Don't tell me you haven't eaten?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Not for about twenty hours. I was trying not to exert myself by just sleeping in my room, but I was starting to feel light-headed anyway. I thought that maybe if I raised my blood sugar a little, I could hold off until we reached Rome," he replied earnestly.
"Priests live such a hard life."
The priest took Jessica s sympathy as a compliment. He nodded as if he were praying to God. "Sometimes our jobs mean life and death for the faithful ... So, can I have the tea and sugar now?"
She nodded. "Sure. Here you go."
"Mm. This tea tastes so smooth. It's authentic, isn't it? Not that brewed-in-a-bag stuff that leaves you—"
WHAPT!
Before the thick liquid could reach his lips for a second sip, a little child running through the lounge with a balloon bumped into the priest's elbow. The glass bonked the priest's chin. Sugary tea spilled everywhere—on his long hair, his robe, his glasses, everywhere. Meanwhile, the child tripped, fell on the floor, and started crying.
"Are you okay, little boy? Are you hurt?" Jessica asked.
She completely ignored the silver-haired priest, who stood there with tea dripping down his face. Instead, she ran to the child. Luckily, the boy was more startled than hurt.
Jessica snatched up the balloon's string. She'd given a balloon to all the children as they boarded. Returning it now, she gently hugged the boy.
"Th-thank you, miss," the boy stammered.
"You're welcome. But you need to go back to your parents. It's close to your bedtime."
"Y-yes . . . I'm sorry, Father." The boy looked sheepish.
The priest smiled, one eye visible beneath dripping wet hair. He threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, it's okay. Only a cup of tea. No problem. I'm not worried about it. Not at all."
Jessica smiled until her eyes crinkled with pleasure. "Isn't he such a nice priest? Well, you need to get to bed. Make sure you go straight to your mother."
The little boy nodded and ran off. Jessica made sure he'd safely left the lounge before she looked at the priest.
He stared at the spilled tea. He just stared and stared, his expression so remorseful.