Since this story is almost 30 pages long, I am also including it as a Word document. This is because the ever-glorious HTML format ignores all tabs, which I think makes reading stuff like this really difficult. However, I have no intention of going in and correcting for 30 pages of missing tabs. If you like it this way, go ahead and read it on the page. Otherwise, download it :)

 The Bishop word document

The Bishop

"Father, why don't you say mass?" asked the little boy. "Father Moreau is just a priest, while I know you are a Bishop!"
 Father Gregory turned away from the manor door, his eyes very dark in the flickering torchlight. Reaching out a gloved hand, he ruffled the boy's straw-colored hair.
 "Father Moreau is a good man, and a good priest." He replied. His smile was the quiet, peaceful smile of a sad man, showing no teeth. "Mass should be said by the kind and pious, not by men like me, with far too much blood on their hands."
 The boy's eyes flickered quickly over the Bishop's hands, as if expecting there to be actual blood there. "My name is Jacques, and my family used to live in England. But then my father brought us over here because he wanted me to grow up to be a good catholic, rather than being part of the Church of England. He says that the Church of England doesn't believe in the real God, and that we should be good, God-fearing folk. Do you believe in God, Father?"
 Once again Father Gregory's gaze was diverted from the door, this time showing surprise.
"Of course I believe in God, child. I am a priest- how could I be a priest if I didn't believe in God?"
The boy shrugged, looking around the room. They were standing in the main room of the manor, cavernous in the dark. Over the fireplace in the far wall was a coat-of-arms, with an old, battle-worn broadsword hanging in front of it. In the firelight the dark wood paneling made the room look even darker, but it was a rich, warm darkness- a comforting darkness.
"My father sometimes complains that some priests serve money and power, not God. He wasn't talking about you, though. Do you believe in Angels, Father? Have you ever seen an Angel? I have never seen an Angel, but my father says that they exist… How can they exist and I not see them? Since I don't see them, does that mean that I am not a good person, Father?"
 Father Gregory gave up watching the door, and turned his attention to the child.
 "Yes, Jacques, I have seen Angels, and I believe in them. Angels are God's servants, and if God doesn't want them to be seen, then you won't see them." Father Gregory smiled his sad smile again. "But just because you don't see them doesn't mean that you are not a good person. It just means that God hasn't sent an Angel to you, yet. There are lots of good people who don't see Angels. And Angels don't just come to good people- God sends them to bad people, too. But then they are terrible, angry Angels…"
 "What about all the men that you sent out tonight? Have they all seen Angels?" Now that he had Father Gregory's attention, Jacques' questions came out in a torrent. "Why are you waiting for them to come back? Why are they even out so late tonight? Are they going to stop all the killings? What are they…"
"Hush, child…" Father Gregory held up his hand to stop the rush. "No, none of those men have seen Angels, though they will soon. They are out there to stop the killings, and I am waiting up for them so that I can finish the blessing I gave them."
"Yes… Father, why don't you tell me about this blessing you gave them?" a new voice broke in, its tone challenging.

Andre Du Prie was not an unusually large man, but there was something about him that made people think twice about crossing him. Coming back from fighting in the war against the English he had changed- there was an edge to him that spoke of a man who had seen too much. Andre had very cold grey eyes, eyes that right now were looking very hard at the priest.
"Jacques, I think you should go check on your mother. Now, Jacques." With a firm, but not ungentle hand, Andre pushed the child toward the inner door, ignoring his disappointed glances. Once Jacques had left the room, he turned back to the priest. "Now, I don't know Latin, father, but I have heard enough people receive last rites to know most of the words. Were you giving last rites to a group of healthy men? Maybe you should tell me about the differences I heard."
Initially Father Gregory simply shook his head and turned back to the door, but Andre stepped around in front of him again, obviously intending to push until he got an answer. Finally Father Gregory sighed, pushing back his thinning hair with gloved hands.
"All right, my son, I will tell you, since you obviously intend to force the issue." Father Gregory's face looked very hollow in the firelight. "Yes, the ritual that you heard is similar to the last rites. It is a version that is never used outside of this very specific situation, because it absolves the person of his sins, and counts him blameless for any other sins that he may commit."
Andre's face registered surprise. "There is a blessing that allows you to do anything, without it being a sin? That is blasphemy, Father! You cannot possibly mean that…"
"No, no, they are still sins, but they are taken on by someone else, namely me. Even then, it is very, very close to blasphemy… That is why I must complete it when they come back." With a tired sigh, Father Gregory closed his eyes. "This special dispensation is granted only for a small time- should any of these men see the dawn, their sins would be counted a hundred-fold."
Andre blinked several times, as he tried to comprehend the secret that the priest had just told him. As it finally sank in, he stepped closer to the priest, and lowered his voice. "Are you telling me that you were giving them last rites, and when they come back you are going to kill them all?"
His eyes still closed, Father Gregory nodded. "There is no other way. These men all know what I have done- they have chosen this path, because it is the only way that we can stop them."

 Andre spun away from the priest, his fists clenching in anger. "I do not believe that, Father! I know that they are out there to stop these murders, but this is not needed! You obviously know who is behind these grisly crimes- you could have simply told us, and we would have gone out and seized the man! In God's name, Father, you are talking about over a dozen men!"
 For a moment Father Gregory's dark eyes flared, his face twisting into a mask of rage and frustration. "Do you think I don't know who I am sending to their deaths, young man? Those are my men out there, men I have traveled with, hunting this thing! Believe you me, not all of them will be coming back, and I would spare them if I could! This is not some twisted, demented man that we follow- do you think I would do this for some mere mortal?"
 The momentary fury spent, Father Gregory turned back to gaze at the door, his hands limp at his sides. Andre had to step closer to hear his next words, they were so soft.
 "No, my child, what they hunt is far fouler than that. If it were mere men, even as deadly as these are, I would send those men out without the blessing, and gladly. God would welcome those who died, and I the living. But… I could not. None would have returned, and I would be asking them to face something far worse than mere death."
Father Gregory's head swung towards Andre, and lesser men would have backed away from his glare. "Do you think my men saints, child, to resist such temptations? No. They are just men, and mere men cannot. But they are God's now, and he will not allow such corruption to touch them. Believe me, it is better."

Andre had seen men ready to die, or kill, for their beliefs on blood-soaked battlefields. Father Gregory's face held that same sort of devotion- an absolute conviction, combined with a sort of hidden terror that they had no choice but to act. Glancing about the room to make sure that no one else was near, he moved even closer to the priest, who was staring sightlessly at the door again.
"Father… What is it that you hunt, that terrifies you so?" Andre murmured, his voice low. "What is so terrible that it is better to go to battle a dead man, what higher price to pay than one's life?"
Father Gregory sighed, a painful, tired sigh. "What we hunt, my son, are the Vampyre. Creatures of the night, hidden forever from God's gaze. Immortal, evil beings, far more dangerous than any man.
"You cannot be serious, Father!" Andre exclaimed, his voice a mix of outrage and annoyance. "Vampires are old wives tales, told to frighten children. Creatures that stalk the night, drinking the blood of virgin maidens… That burn in the sunlight, or from crosses, or holy water… Who cannot stand the scent of garlic. You cannot seriously believe these terrible crimes were done by some sort of… boogey man!"
Drifting over to the sideboard, Father Gregory chuckled without any real humor. "Yes, young man, the Vampires of which you speak are not real. They are legends, created by ignorant people who want to tell a scary story. But like many of these legends, inside there is a core of truth. The real Vampyres, the ones we hunt, are much, much worse."

Picking up a decanter, the priest poured wine into a cut glass goblet. "My dear Andre," he continued, "the real Vampyres are so much simpler than the ones that people have created. They do not turn into bats or wolves or mist. They are not afraid of garlic or running water. They do not care about silver- in fact, I imagine they find it as attractive as we mortals do." For a moment the priest smiled his tight-lipped smile, finding humor in madness.
"However, do not discount all of the legends. Some of them are true. For example, they do drink blood… Do you know why, my son? It is not for sustenance, not in the way that we think of it. No…." For a moment the priest paused, holding his goblet up. The firelight glittered through the red wine, turning it for a moment into a huge, glittering ruby. "Did you know that when you are resurrected, you have no blood? You will be a being of flesh and bone, like the Angels. Incorruptible. You will be given immortality, and the righteous will live forever with God. Given immortality."
Father Gregory's face twisted again, as he downed the wine in one violent gulp. "They have taken it. That is their sin, a sin that can never be forgiven. They have taken the divine essence of God, cheating death, thinking that they can cheat the day of judgement.
"Their bodies will never decay, or grow old. They have a hideous strength, greater than any man's, and a speed to match. The body of an Angel, or so they would like to think. But they are not perfect, not pure. Their power is a power of darkness, of corruption, and they need blood to restore themselves, blood that that their… perfect… bodies cannot supply." Father Gregory was no longer talking to Andre, not really. His hands were clenched around the goblet, his eyes staring at something only he could see. "That is why they need blood, why they slaughter the innocent."
"That, and because they enjoy it. When you are that powerful, and know that you have committed sins for which God will never forgive you, why not?"

There was a sharp crack as the goblet in Father Gregory's hand shattered, making Andre jump. Looking down at the shards in sardonic amusement, the priest through the glass into the fireplace, checking to make sure that he had not cut himself through his gloves. Andre took a deep breath, realizing that because of the priest's sheer intensity he had been holding it in. Turning back from the fire, the priest's dark eyes again held the glitter of malicious amusement.
"Would you like to know how to kill such a creature, my fine cavalier? How to stop something that is immortal, that can heal itself of any wound, given mortal blood?" Father Gregory swirled his cloak around himself, taking a moment to try and relax. In a quieter tone he continued. "You spoke of the tales too harshly, my dear boy. While many are false, they do hold some truth. Holy water and blessed crosses will hurt a Vampyre, for they embody the power of God, but they are not enough. Likewise wooden stakes through the heart are good, because they are very difficult for the Vampyre to heal. But even that will not kill them."
"The one true way, the only way to kill a Vampyre, my boy, is the one you decried first. You must expose them to the light of the sun. But don't be too hard on yourself. It is a silly, unbelievable thing, told by peasants that did not know what they had really seen. For sunlight actually does not hurt a Vampyre, any more than it will hurt you."
Father Gregory poured himself another glass of wine, careful this time to hold it between thumb and forefinger. "Have you ever seen an Angel, my boy? Of course not. That is because if an Angel does not wish to be seen, no mortal can see it. But they do exist. When God set an Angel at the gates of Eden, after Adam was banished, he held a sword. A flaming sword."
Still cautious of the priest's volatile mood, Andre chose his words with care. "Are you telling me that if a Vampyre is exposed to sunlight it burns because an Angel comes down and kills it with a flaming sword? Why? If God is all-powerful, why not send the Angels down to kill them all right now?"
Father Gregory flashed Andre his tight smile again. "Do not question the actions of God, my child. His ways are mysterious, and man is to fear Him and obey Him, not understand Him. For their sins, the Vampyre are forbidden to look at the heavens, and if they do, his Angels shall destroy them."
"The Vampyre think that they have made themselves the equal of the Angels, but they are not- I have seen wrathful Angels, and they are more terrifying than you could possibly imagine. But God will not send them unless a Vampyre violates his edict. Thus they hide in the night, unless we force them out."
"But Father," Andre asked, "if they are so dangerous, and can heal all wounds, and your own people cannot see the next dawn, then how do you force them out into the sunlight?"
The priest's reply was muffled, for he was watching the door again, and did not turn so that Andre could see his face. "There are limits to even a Vampyre's powers. The wooden stake of the peasants' tale is wrong- it is not merely to pierce the heart. We stake them into the ground, then decapitate them, and fill the mouth with holy wafers. After that, even a elder Vampyre finds it difficult to heal enough damage to flee the dawn."

 For a time there was silence. On the priest's part it was simply waiting, for his doomed followers to return. For Andre du Prie it was time spent trying to comprehend what the Bishop had told him. Andre was not an unusually devout man- he tended not to worry about anything that could not reach him with blade or musket. However, he believed in God, and having been raised a good catholic, found it hard to ignore the things that Father Gregory had told him. Even something as brutal as what the priest said they did to Vampyre. For a time he simply paced the main room like a caged animal seeking a way out.
 "Father," he finally asked, "if these Vampyre can be killed by mortals- staked down and decapitated, then why did you do this… this perverted version of the last rites? It doesn't involve these… Vampyre that you are talking about."
 When Father Gregory turned back from the doorway he was watching, Andre was surprised to see that his eyes were sad. Not regretful of what he had done, but a great, patient sadness, like a parent watching his child start down some dangerous path, knowing the child will not understand why he is stopped.
 "That blessing, my son, is the only thing that would allow them to stop the Vampyre. I was deadly serious when I said that my men would have to be saints to resist them. The Vampyre's power is more than just immortality- they have darker powers as well. Where God's word brings serenity, peace and moderation, these evil creatures bring fear, madness and depravity. Few can resist their influence. And on the battlefield? Bah. It would be like sending children to fight a tiger."
 "The battlefield brings its own fear and madness." Andre replied with a contemptuous snort. "Going into combat knowing that you will die is no guarantee of courage or virtue. Wading through smoke and blood may blind any man. In the heat of the moment some hesitate and die, while others do not and wish they had. All victors are monsters on the battlefield- God will forgive. I hope that these men have bought more with their lives than that."
 Father Gregory smiled again and shook his head. "You are a soldier, du Prie, and I can see from your eyes that you have seen some of this madness. I am sure that you have sent many, many men to see God, and I hope that he is as forgiving as you say. But as a soldier you think only of swords and shot. In this battle, those that fall risk much more than just a blade through the chest."
 "As we hunt, more would fall to their powers than you think… and even more would fall to their claws because they were slowed just enough. This blessing makes them immune to the powers of the Vampyre, giving them the serenity of God. They are incorruptible and known no temptation or fear. But there is more to it than that." The priest shrugged, for a moment looking uncomfortable.
 "An incorruptible that is slain by a Vampyre goes to God. So may a mortal if he is killed by their claws, or anything save their fangs. But a moral that is bitten by a Vampyre is tainted by the same stolen essence that dooms the Vampyre themselves."
 "Is it some sort of poison?" du Prie asked, watching the priest closely. "Some sort of venom that kills a man, like the fangs of a snake?"
 Father Gregory looked pained. "In a way, in a way… It is hard to explain, because it is much more dangerous than it sounds. The bite of a Vampyre is venomous- it will fester, and eventually kill a man. I have never seen anyone survive it. But it also gives the unfortunate victim the ability to save himself…"
 Andre's eyes narrowed, as the priest turned away, unable to face him. "The unfortunate can save himself, but only at the cost of his immortal soul." The priest's voice was strained. "He may consume his own blood to restore himself, and take upon himself the corruption of the Vampyre. It must sound so simple- to simply choose not to do so, and to die one of God's children."
 Father Gregory turned back to face Andre, his dark eyes burning with passion. "I have seen men, strong men, try to resist that temptation, try to let themselves… die. But all men fear death, when the time comes. Some can accept it for the good of others, for an ideal… But to accept death for the good of your own soul, when you could simply reach out your hand and live forever?" His eyes closed, and he let out a shallow breath. "I have been hunting these creatures for a long, long time, and have seen many men die. I would rather take upon myself more deaths than see more lost that way. One blessed, made incorruptible, God shields them from that dark temptation."
 "And once they have accepted this, darkness, then they are lost?" Andre asked in a hushed voice. "There is no redemption? No way to atone? For doing nothing more than wanting to live?"
 Father Gregory opened his eyes again. He smiled his tight, closed smile, but his face still showed the strain of some great emotion.
 "No, my child, there is none. Some sins can never be atoned for, will never be forgiven. Many years ago, when I was in the Vatican, there was a priest. He wasn't really a priest, but he dressed and acted as one. His holiness allowed it, because he knew that this man was already going through a greater torment than he could imagine, and he took pity on him."
 The priest's voice became quieter as he continued. "It was from this man that I learned all that I know about the Vampyre. About their curse, their vulnerabilities and their powers. This man had embraced the darkness, once, in a moment of weakness as he was about to die. His soul has been condemned, and for eternity he walks the earth, knowing that he can never be forgiven for that weakness. That is why he acts as a priest, though he may never actually serve God. It is from him that this terrible blessing comes."
 Though still suspicious and somewhat outraged, Andre felt a pang of sympathy. As he watched, the priest's dark eyes closed once more, and he shook his head, as if burdened with some great sadness.
 "You knew this priest well?" Andre asked softly, not wanting to intrude on the other's grief.
 "Yes." The other replied "For many years. It is really because of his torment that I hunt these creatures. He still hopes that someday God will forgive him, if he is devout enough. Every morning he watches the dawn from the safety of the shadows. And every day he sees an Angel there, waiting to see if he steps into the light. An Angel with a terrible visage, holding a flaming sword…"

 For a moment Andre watched in silence as the priest shuffled to the side table again, and poured himself another glass of wine. Swallowing it quickly, he poured himself another, only to stare into its depths.
 "And it is for this man, this lost soul, that you send so many men to their deaths?" Andre's voice was still quiet, but it held an edge to it. "How do you find these things? Surely there is a better way?"
 . "For that lost soul?" The priest laughed a quiet, sarcastic laugh. "Surely I do it for the glory of God, or for the sake of all of the people that they will slaughter. Even for the ones that they will drag to hell with them? No, you are right. It is mainly for the sake of that one lost soul. And I know of no other way, or believe you me, I would certainly do it."
 "As to finding them, we track them by their evil works, by those they have influenced or have slain. Then we wait, till we know that they will be back, and send yet another group of sacrificial lambs to try and stop them. Tonight we were to catch them at Harrow's Gate. But tonight it has been too long- I imagine that on the morrow the good townspeople will find a terrible slaughter there. All of my poor lambs, torn to shreds by some savage beast…" In a single gulp, the priest downed the second glass, and returned to staring into the empty cup.
 Andre's voice held a cold anger when he spoke again. "You speak of your men as if they were already dead, while you do nothing but stand here and quaff wine. Full knowing that more townspeople will die before you can throw another group of blind fools at these supposed creatures." The priest's head snapped up, dark eyes full of rage, but he stayed silent as the cavalier continued. "How would I know these things, good sir, should I meet one in the dark?"
 Placing the goblet slowly on the table, Father Gregory turned to face the young man, his face still. "Their hands are like claws, able to rend flesh or stone…" he hissed, crooking his own gloved hands like an eagle's claws. "And every time that they feed on mortal blood, their eyes get darker, till they are nothing but black within black, black like their very souls. But should you meet one, it will be too late by the time that you see their eyes. Do not think that your bravado would save you from their powers."
 Sweeping his cape and sword baldric off the far table, Andre du Prie came very close to the Bishop, deliberately staring into his eyes. Though dark, the priest's eyes were an unmistakable brown, the pupils wide and dark.
For a moment, the priest's lips looked like they would curl up in a snarl, but he restrained himself. "Andre du Prie, know this- all you will accomplish by going out there now is to offer yourself up as a victim, so they don't have to find one themselves. You are simply providing blood for them to heal themselves… You cannot defeat them."
 "Perhaps not, Father," Andre looked back on the way to the door "but I do not kill men to fight my battles, or wait, accepting more slaughter if I fail. I go to Harrow's Gate, to see how your men fare. If they are dead, and you here alive, I hope that God will forgive you, for I may not."
 
 "Father, is Mister du Prie going to come back?" asked Jacques, his voice showing an edge of fear that had not been in his earlier questioning. It was one thing to see people you didn't know leave into the night, and quite another to see someone who you thought could kill anything disappears.
 Father Gregory looked at the child with sad eyes. Hours had passed, and dawn was quick approaching. Judging from the child's tousled hair, it looked like he had slept some, but had been too keyed up to sleep for long. As for himself, the priest had not slept at all- from the first, he had intended to keep his vigil at the door till dawn played its first rays on the land. Now he simply had one more person to wait for.
 "I don't know, Jacques." He replied. "Mister du Prie is a brave man, but there are some times when bravery is not enough. I am afraid that we may not see him again. I am sorry."
 In the shadows of the doorway leading deeper into the house, the priest could see the outline of the mayor. He was a large, portly man, who had once been strong and powerful. From his posture Father Gregory could see that he had read the tone of the priest's voice better than the child- he knew that what Father Gregory was really saying was that du Prie and all the Bishop's men had failed to stop the things that had been terrorizing his town. That the slaughters would continue, and that there was nothing that he could do to stop them.
 "But Father, it isn't dawn yet- maybe they will still come back!" The child's voice held a kind of desperate optimism. Before these creatures had come to stalk the night, his world had been a safe one, where any dangers generally had been caused by his disobeying the adults. Now he was seeing that the adults that he had always assumed would take care of him were helpless.
 The shadow in the inner doorway was turning to go back in when a polite cough from the priest stopped him. Pausing, the mayor waited as Father Gregory drifted over. Glancing back at Jacques to make sure the child would not hear, the priest leaned close.
 "Sir, it would probably be wise to make sure that the child's parents kept him away from Harrow's gate this day. I have seen the grisly results of these creatures before, and I am sure that it will be terrible." The priest glanced quickly back at the child, who was still staring out the door. "I know that the murders before were hideous, but I am afraid that the results of this battle will be far worse."
Still cloaked in shadow, the mayor shot a questioning look at the priest. He had seen the bodies of the people killed before tonight. While some were simply a bloodless bone-white, others still gave him nightmares.
Father Gregory raised a placating hand. "Your townspeople are just as dead as my men, I do not slight them. But tonight's work- it will have been no slaughter of the helpless. They will have fought to the last man, the last breath. These creatures do not use swords- they rip and tear with teeth and claws." Looking down, the priest took a deep breath. "What you will find this morning will not be men. What you find will be… pieces."
For a moment the mayor did not believe him, and then quickly turned away. "Blessed Mary, mother of Jesus…" he breathed. "And these things are still out there? Father, what are we to do? There have been so many deaths, but people had hoped you would end it. After they see this, there is no way that I will be able to control the panic…"
Gently, the priest placed his hand on the mayor's arm. "I know that, my son. There is more. After tonight, they will know that I am here. Despite du Prie's accusations, I am no more safe from these things then my men were. Tomorrow night they will come for me. You would do well to take the townspeople and leave here for now- I know how difficult that is… But leave, and do not return for a fortnight. By then these things will have moved on."
Giving the mayor a moment to adjust, the priest checked again on the child at the door. "For pity's sake, sir, keep the child away. I am sure that amongst the dead at Harrow's gate you will find du Prie. The carnage here has been enough- to see someone he knows amongst the dead is more than the child needs to see."
"I know that your intentions are good, Father, but you are far to late." Father Gregory looked back to see that the mayor's eyes were on him. Eyes as haunted as his own. "Little Jacques' father was on of the first victims of these… things. Not one of the more gruesome, but done in his own house. The mother and child found him in the morning." The mayor gave a heavy sigh. "The poor woman still will not speak or do anything… the shock was too great. That is why the poor little one is here at all."

 Father Gregory watched as the mayor disappeared back into the house, head bowed an shoulders slumped. For a moment he entertained the notion of calling him back, trying to cheer him up. To tell him that things would be alright, that God would provide. But he had given up those habits many years ago.
 Crossing himself and murmuring a plea to God to protect them, he turned back to the main room, and the child. There was nothing that he could do- nothing he could have ever done, in this case. The murder had occurred before he had found this small town. He knew that he had tried his hardest, but some things took too much time. Adding a plea for the child to his prayers, he started back towards the door, wondering what to say to Jacques inevitable questions.
Before he had crossed more than half of the room, Father Gregory's head snapped up at an exclamation from the child.
"Father! Father, look! He's coming! Hurry, hurry before the dawn comes!" the child screamed in excitement.
"Move away from the door, child!" the priest barked. Much faster than his appearance suggested, he swept towards the open doorway. In his gloved hand was a long-bladed dagger, its decorative golden hilt shaped in the form of an ornate cross.
"No, Father, no! You don't understand- it's Andre! He has come back!" Gripping the doorframe in excitement, Jacques leaned outwards, though still afraid to cross the threshold out into the night. "Hurry, Andre, it is almost dawn!"
Taking a deep breath, the priest straightened, the dagger disappearing into his robes. "Hush, child. Mister du Prie has no fear of the dawn. There is no need to make such a fuss."
Looking back, Father Gregory saw that Jacques cries had summoned the mayor. Lumbering quickly into the room, the mayor's eyes held a bright hope, which made the priest wince. Turning to the child again, Father Gregory had to physically remove him from his position in the doorway, before anyone could even enter the house.

 While the child's sharp eyes had correctly identified the figure as du Prie, the man that shuffled through the door looked little like the one that had left some hours before. His face was covered in scratches and bruises that would purple over time, and his once clean, neat clothes were almost entirely covered with drying mud and blood, some of it obviously his own.
Visible through rents in his jacket and trousers were the red lines of shallow cuts. Two similar lines, thin and neat, crossed his face starting near his hair on the right side. Continuing down the side of his face they reached almost to his chin, narrowly missing his right eye. Though painful, all of these seemed fairly superficial, but the ragged remains of his cape were wrapped tightly around his right arm. From the blood dripping from his fist where it clenched the bottom edge, this was obviously to staunch a more serious wound.
Dramatic as they were, the physical wounds were less disturbing than his expression. Wide-eyed and pale, Andre barely resembled the grim, unshockable soldier of before. Passing through the doorway he stumbled, grimacing as his right shoulder hit the doorframe. Blowing out a ragged breath, he tossed into the room what had been dangling from his left hand- a bloody head.
"My God, Andre! What happened to you?" Exclaimed the mayor. The fact that he did not apologize to the priest for using God's name showed how upset he was. He reached out as if to check Andre's right arm, but Andre waved him away.
The priest's question was more pragmatic, and strangely calm. "Did it bite you?" He asked, his eyes drilling into the younger man.
Andre shook his head, as if to clear it. "I found your men, Father. They are all dead, just like you thought. Or at least, I…. I think so, I really couldn't be sure. Mother of God, I have seen men hit by cannonballs, seen obscene carnage storming gatehouses, seen rivers so full of bodies it looked like solid ground, but this!" He tried to scrub at his face with a clean patch on the back of his hand, but still left a streak of gore across it. "I tried to count the heads… I figured it would work…there are only so many of them, but I couldn't find enough…"
Stepping closer, the priest repeated his question "Andre du Prie, have you been bitten?" his voice sounding jarringly calm and quiet after Andre's stammered report.
For a moment the young man looked at him as if he didn't understand the question. Reaching forward, the priest made to move the cape wrapped around Andre's right arm. Suddenly exploding into furious motion, Andre smashed the priest's hand away and lunged forward to grip the front of his robe.
"Don’t you understand, Father?" He screamed in the priest's face, his face twisted in a mixture of rage and terror "They are all dead! Something tore them to shreds, I couldn't even tell what parts belonged to who! Damn you to hell, don't you even care?"
Pushing the priest away from him, Andre fell back against the wall. He let his head loll back till it hit the wood paneling with a heavy thunk without seeming to notice or care. For a moment he just leaned there, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Propelled back by Andre's push, Father Gregory stumbled back a few steps before catching his balance. Unperturbed, he moved back to where he was standing before, absently brushing at the bloodstains that Andre's hands had left on his robe.
"I knew they were dead before you left, Andre. I told you as much. And I knew how they would die, because I have seen it before." He said, his eyes never leaving Andre.
"No, Father, it didn't bite me. Lord knows it tried." A little calmer now, Andre raised his head. "I was checking the bodies, trying to… match things up, when I heard this gasping, sobbing sound. I thought that I might have found a survivor…" Andre chucked a little, with no real humor.
"It was so dark that I was pretty close before I could see much of it at all… It was pawing at one of the corpses, pawing at the blood, like it was looking for something. When it saw me, it let out this inhuman shriek, and just leapt straight at me."
Pausing, Andre gestured at the empty sheath hanging from his baldric. "It kept rushing at me, but I managed to run it through four or five times… before my blade broke. I landed some cuts too, but it didn't seem to matter. Each time it would screech, like it was in pain, but then it would rush back in like nothing had happened. Once my sword was gone I couldn't keep it far enough away…"
"It got ahold of me, and we rolled around for a while, each trying to get a grip on the other." Andre gestured at the cuts on his face. "That's where I got these… it kept trying to push my head back, so it could go for my throat. It was like an animal, so strong. I thought that I was pretty fast, but this thing was like a whirlwind, all teeth and claws."
"Luckily it was so obsessed with getting at my throat that I was able to grab the main gauche from my boot…" He shuddered at a memory, and continued in a pained tone. "Those things are not really meant for hacking people's heads off, you know. And all the while it kept struggling, long after a man should be dead… long after...anyone should be dead…" Andre's words trailed off as he shook his head.
Father Gregory and the mayor exchanged glances. Obviously the younger man had been through a lot, and was not totally coherent at the moment. Still looking at the mayor, the priest jerked his head at Andre. Nodding, the mayor stepped forward, hands already up in a calming gesture.
"All right, du Prie, lets get you cleaned up and…" He started, when Andre's eyes opened to look at them.
"The way I see it, there must have been at least three, perhaps even four." Though still exhausted and pained, Andre's eyes had regained the dead stare of a seasoned soldier.
 "Three? I was expecting one, or maybe two… " For a moment Father Gregory's calm had cracked, showing surprise and a little fear. "Are you sure? Normally they cannot stand to be so near each other… How do you know?"
 "I saw three separate areas of conflict, based on the blood sprays and body parts." Andre's voice was as dead as his eyes, as if he was discussing bad weather rather than dismembered bodies. "I am assuming that if there were just one or two, that the melee would have trailed with them. So at least three, maybe more, unless they can turn to mist, like the legends say…"
 "No, no… that is just a myth… No wonder my poor incorruptibles were killed… Three Vampyres, may God have mercy on us…" The priest seemed distracted, pondering.

 "A Vampyre. Is that what killed my father? Is this the one that did it?" All three men turned, having forgotten about the child. Jacques was crouched on his heels next to the severed head, staring fixedly at it. "Is it, Andre? Is this the thing that killed my father?"
 The child's normally cheerful face was twisted, and his eyes shown with a hatred that Andre had never seen in him before. Reaching forward, Jacques slapped at the head, rolling it sideways. Dark gore spilled from the raggedly cut neck as it rolled, leaving a gruesome trail on the wood floor. Coming to rest on its side, it seemed to glare back at the child with equal hatred, its features frozen in a rictus of hate, lips drawn back from long fangs, mouth open to bite.
 "I… I don't know, Jacques… It might be. We probably will never know…" Andre stammered, at a loss for a moment. "I only brought it back because I didn't know really know how to kill it…"
 "I hope that it is the one that killed him. I hope that it can see me, just a stupid head lying there. Scooting forward, Jacques leaned forward to glare at the head again. "Did you kill my father? Why? What did he ever do to you!"
 Yelling now, the child drew back his arm to swing at the head again, intending to bat it around the room in his fury. Andre took a half step forward, intending to comfort the child, when a flicker of motion caught his eye. As Jacques began his swing, the head's eyes had opened, it's black eyes staring at the child's hand.
 "No!" Andre screamed, already knowing that he was too late, but then the priest was there, streaking past Andre's outreached arm. Grabbing the head by the blood-soaked hair, he snatched it out of Jacques' reach. Everyone in the room could hear the audible snap as long fangs gnashed inches from the child's fingers.
 Dangling from the priest's grip, the head silently snarled and grimaced. The horrified watchers could see that it was mouthing words, but with no throat or lungs, it could not voice them.
 "This," the priest explained, holding out the writhing head, "is a Vampyre. An undead, a creature of darkness." Turning it, he stared into its face, ignoring the fangs snapping at him.
 "To man, its bite is more venomous than any snake or spider. It will not die, even with its head severed like this." Turning to Andre, he nodded in approval. "You were right to bring it here, though I was lax in guarding it. If there are indeed two or more Vampyres still stalking the night, they would have gone for blood, to heal this one. It was weak and unable to heal itself, for the blood of the incorruptibles is useless to such a creature."
 "There is only one way to actually kill such an abomination, once and for all." Walking to the doorway, the priest looked out. Dawn was blooming over the horizon, the first rays of daylight falling over the land. Behind him, the others crowded to look out.
 When he continued, the priest's voice was very quiet. "God's Angels are there, waiting. You cannot see them, but I can- fearsome Angels, one waiting for each Vampyre. Holding swords that shine with the consuming fire of God. In his great mercy may he forgive us our sins…"
 In his hand the Vampyres mouth was working so hard that it twitched the entire head. In one abrupt motion, Father Gregory threw it out of the shadows of the doorway, into the weak morning light. As it hit the ground, the others could see that its features twisted in abject terror, just for a moment. Then, for no visible reason, it crushed inward and exploded into flames. Jacques, Andre and the mayor all stood in the doorway, watching in silence as the head was consumed, leaving nothing but blackened shards of skull.

When the flames had died out, they turned back to the main room, to see the priest watching them over a glass of ruby wine. In the morning light his face looked very sad, making him look much older.
"Vampyres…" He murmured softly, shaking his head. "Oh, that God would just strike them down, that so many would not have to suffer that we may kill them… Well, my children, God works in mysterious ways, and I am sure that there is some reason why today the wicked must triumph.
The others watched him, almost hypnotized, as he placed his unfinished glass on the side-table, and walked towards them, seemingly unfazed by what they had just witnessed.
"Andre," he continued, "we must take a look at your wounds. You will need to be travelling on the morrow, and it would be bad if they were to get infected, or if you run a fever."
Breaking out of his trance, Andre shook his head. "No, Father, I will clean them up myself. None of them are too serious- I have treated far worse than these."
Limping slightly, he turned and left the room, working his way back through the twisting corridors towards his own apartment at the back of the manor. Behind him he could hear some sort of discussion going on between the priest and the mayor, but could not make out the words.
Though it was barely past dawn, he saw several pale faces peeking out of shadowed doorways and cross passages. He ignored them all, save once to snap "Clean water!" at one of the serving maids. Finally, he reached his own door. Passing through it, he slumped back against the door, letting his exhaustion show. He just leaned there for a time, resting, till a timid knock heralded the arrival of the maid, with a bowl and a jug of water.
Shuffling over to the bureau, he stripped off his gloves, caked with blood and dirt. Peering into the mirror, he poked absently at some of the slashes that showed through his jacket. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head, and rummaged through a drawer for some clean cloths. Splashing some water into the bowl, he wet them and dabbed at the cuts and bruises on his face. As more of the dirt and blood came off, it was obvious that his face was still unnaturally pale. Tracing the path of the longest slashes, he blinked a couple of times, just to make sure they had not damaged his eye.
Finally he stopped, and simply looked at himself in the mirror. Shaking is head again in frustration, he started on the areas he had been avoiding. Wincing with pain, he unwound the cape binding his right arm, dried blood cracking and cascading to the floor. Fresh blood mixed with the dried blood and dirt as he clawed his way out of the stiff jacket. His shirt quite a sight, the white linen torn and stained scarlet.
Taking several deep breaths, Andre braced himself. Ignoring the minor cuts on his chest and left arm, he went directly for his right forearm, still obscured by the dripping cloth. Taking a last breath and holding it, he grasped his right cuff and simply pulled. The cloth ripped with a sodden sound, baring his arm from wrist to above the elbow.
Though his forearm was covered with small cuts and scratches, the most noticeable were a series of ragged tooth-marks, as if he had warded off some lunatic cannibal by blocking his mouth with an arm. Though they had bitten hard enough to break skin, the bite marks would not normally be serious, except that the top incisors in each bite were deep punctures. Not the bite marks of a normal human…

 
 "Father Gregory, I simply do not understand why you are being so difficult." The mayor complained. "According to Andre, there are only two more out there. With me here I have fifteen strong men, the best of the town guard. While they may not be seasoned soldiers like Andre, they are no stranger to violence, either."
 There were murmurs of assent from the burly men clustered behind him. All wore the uniforms of the watch, as well as a baldric with a serviceable rapier. Four of the men also held muskets, while another two had halberd that were no less sharp for being ceremonial.
 Father Gregory tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if looking for divine guidance. When he spoke, his voice was patient, but had the overtones of someone who had already explained things several times.
 "Mayor, I do not doubt your courage, or your skill with your blades. That is not why I fear for you. What you would face tonight if you stayed are not two deranged lunatics who like to bite people"
 "They do a good deal more than that!" interrupted one of the guardsmen "Why, poor Jean-Paul, they… sorry Father, I mean, Bishop, er…" Mortified at having interrupted the priest, he looked away.
 "I realize that, my son…" Father Gregory raised a placating hand "My point is that they have more than sheer physical brutality on their side. You have all seen the carnage that they caused at Harrow's Gate- please believe me, you will have less chance than my men did. They were prepared, and armored by God against these demons' powers…"
 "But Father," replied the mayor, "we have a greater advantage. You yourself have said that you know that they will come here for you. Your men were hunting in the dark for creatures that live out their lives hiding in the night. But here, here they will be coming into this hall. We know where they will be coming from, and we will be waiting. The odds are more than seven to one against them! No evil powers will save them."
 "No, no, no…" For a moment the priest paused, covering his face with his hands. "How can I make you understand? These are not men that you fight! They cannot be brought down by mere bullets or blades!"
 "Father, I know that you are upset by the horrible deaths of your men…" From the mayor's patronizing tone, Father Gregory could tell that nothing he said could sway him. "But I think that in this case, you are gravely mistaken. Andre du Prie, alone in the open, managed to kill one of these creatures. If these creatures cannot be slain by swords, then how did Andre bring back one's head?"
 The priest gave a sad sigh and shook his head. "I can honestly tell you that I do not know, mayor. The Vampyre that du Prie beheaded was weakened, starved for blood and already seriously wounded. But I have never seen any man vicious enough in combat to take out even such a crippled Vampyre."
 There were angry murmurs at his words, but the priest waved them away impatiently. "Yes, I said vicious, and I meant it. These things are brutal beasts in combat, and I have never seen anyone that could match their ferocity. I am sure that du Prie is an outstanding swordsman, but he himself said that his sword did not stop it…"
 There was more grumbling from the men, but Father Gregory held up his hands till he had silence. Looking across the men gathered in the room, his dark eyes were sad but calm.
 "Gentlemen, I can see that you have chosen your path, and that nothing I say will sway you from it. I would like to beg you, once more- Flee with your families to the next city! In a forte night this will all be over, and the creatures will have moved on…" With a nod and a sad, closed smile the priest acknowledged that no one was listening. "I had to at least try, for I would not be responsible for more deaths here, if I could. However, if you are determined to stay, I have some, small advice to offer."
"Do not talk to, or even look at anyone, no matter how they appear, till you have splashed them with the holy water that Father Moreau has blessed for you. It will not really hurt them, but even the strongest Vampyre will feel it. Splash anyone, no matter how helpless they look!" Father Gregory paused, waiting for the outraged whispers to fade. "Second, for mercy's sake, use those poleaxes first. Rapier blades will hardly slow them, and musket balls not at all."
The mayor rolled his eyes in exasperation as he turned to face his guardsmen. "Alright, then. We still have a few hours till night falls, and no man fights well on an empty stomach. However, since all of our good wives have been send to the next town with the rest of the civilians, well… Let us make the best of things…"
 With relative good humor despite the priest's sour words, they moved back through the house towards the kitchens. With another sad sigh, Father Gregory sat back in his chair, and looked out the high windows towards the setting sun. He was about to rise when a small shadow detached itself from under a table and came to stand beside him.
 "Jacques!" Exclaimed the priest in shock "Why are you not with the other townsfolk?"
 Glancing towards the kitchens, the small boy settled himself on the hearth near the priest. "With my father dead and my mother senseless, no one noticed when I disappeared."
 "Jacques, you should hurry and catch up with them. It is dangerous here, and the things that are coming will not spare you because you are young. Hurry, child! There is nothing but death for you here.
 "You really think that these things will kill the mayor and all of his men, don't you, Father?" Jacques peered at him curiously. "I know that I am here because I want to see the murderers of my father dead. The mayor is here because it is his town, and he feels that he is responsible for not letting these monsters go. Even Andre is still here, I think because he cannot stand to have anything that he isn't sure he can kill."
"But you, Father," he continued, "why are you still here? If you are so sure that they will come for you, and that they mayor cannot stop him, then why didn't you flee? You had all day- with a fast horse you could have been miles and miles from here. Instead, you sat here by the fire and tried to convince everyone to leave you…"
"My child, you are far more perceptive than anyone here gives you credit for." The priest ruffled the boy's hair with honest affection. "I could tell you that I would have gone with the townspeople, except that I would be putting them in danger, that the Vampyres would have followed me."
"In a way that would be true, but mostly it would be a lie. The real truth is that there are some things that you simply must do, and some that you cannot. I cannot flee with the others- I must wait here for these creatures to come, even though it will mean my death." The priest smiled down at the boy, with his strange, closed smile. "Serving God is not always easy, but this is where he wants me, and so here I will stay. Jacques, if you will not leave, at least spend the remaining time searching for the best hiding place you can find…"

 Andre sat in front of the dresser, his head resting on his left arm. Though the sun was still in the sky, and would be for more than an hour yet, there were already candles burning, as if that could drive away a darkness within. In front of him were several cups and an open bottle of brandy, but the bottle was still mostly full.
Stirring restlessly, Andre raised his head, staring at himself in the mirror. He had been afraid before in his life, many, many times. On countless battlefields he had felt it, as he had seen the first reflections off sharp steel. He had known that the enemy would kill him, that they would be remorseless, merciless… and he had felt the terror of death. But he had used that terror to make himself strong, driving himself to strike harder, to never hold back. As the priest had said, he had sent many, many men to see God. And so he had walked away from those blood-soaked fields, alive. Knowing just how much of a monster he could be. Yes, he had known fear.
But not like this. This hopeless, slow waiting. Like knowing that you are bound to be tortured to death in the morning, but that there is nothing you can do. Always before he had known that he could fight, that even if he was going to die he could try his hardest till the very end. And he believed, truly believed, that when he did die, that God would see that he had only done what anyone else would have done.
Now he sat, staring in to the mirror, knowing that he was going to die. Absently he pulled back his sleeve and flexed his right hand, feeling the pull of taut, swollen flesh. Over the course of the day, while his other wounds had scabbed over normally, the bite marks had gotten worse. Much worse. There were four fang marks, and each had become a swollen, angry red, the edges puckered and pale. They burned, like coals pressed against his skin. Now the redness was spreading, weaving scarlet tendrils around his arm. Black pus, like poisoned blood, oozed out of the ragged holes as he relaxed his hand. No natural wound oozed black like that, not this soon.
Andre gazed up at the ceiling, his mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. Brushing his hair back, he chuckled to himself. He had seen enough wounds to know. Seen enough dying men, to know that this was far more serious. Picking up a cloth, he dabbed at the pus, adding more spots to a cloth already dark with gore. Shaking his head, he chuckled again, and poured himself some brandy. Slowly and deliberately he drank half the glass, and then took several deep breaths. Gritting his teeth, he then just as deliberately poured the rest of the brandy over his arm, making sure to pour some down each puncture. Involuntarily his arm flexed, the muscles bunching as the alcohol burned like liquid fire. A strangled growl escaped though clenched teeth as Andre forced himself to sit still, and finish pouring. Finally he could stand no more. Smashing his forearm down on the tabletop, he jumped to his feet and began pacing the room, rubbing at his right arm with a new cloth.
Before the fear had never been like this, because he could try to survive. Even if he knew that he was going to fail, at least he could try… But this, this was much worse because he knew that if he tried, he would succeed. He could live, but the cost would be far, far higher than his life was worth. At first he hadn't believed the priest's words- Surely God would not allow such a thing? But as the day had worn on, and his arm had gotten worse and worse, his thoughts had changed. What would it take to condemn his soul to Hell? Was it wrong to want to live?
Pacing the room, Andre's breath came in ragged gasps. But he had done nothing wrong! In a frenzy his mind raced through the things he had done in his life. There were so many sins, so many terrible things he had done. He remembered the silken caress of a beautiful woman, the thrill of escaping the watch after some escapade in his youth. He remembered the sudden give of flesh as he had run a man through with a sword, the hot splash of blood as his knife slashed the throat of a surprised sentry. Remembered holding a struggling man's head underwater till he drowned, because he had lost his sword and in the thick of the battle there was no room or time to find it…
With a gasp he collapsed on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Had he really done all of those things? But they were the folly of youth, the madness of war… Surely God would forgive? Stumbling to his feet Andre shuffled over to the dresser again, reaching for the brandy. Tears blurred his vision as he poured himself another cup and drank with shaking hands. He didn't want to die. All his life he had believed in God, had tried to be good, but he still didn't want to die. How was he to know if he had been good enough?
 With a grim chuckle, Andre fell back onto the bed, ignoring the pain as scabs on his back and side pulled and tore. What if there was no "good enough?" What if you couldn't get into heaven once you had sinned? What if there was no heaven anyway, no God? Staring sightlessly at the ceiling, Andre's mind spiraled through paranoia, questioning beliefs that had always seemed so secure… What if there was no God, no heaven, no hell…
 Rolling to his feet, Andre began pacing the room again. He was going to die. He knew it, if Father Gregory had seen his arm he would have known it too. He was going to die because some twisted, hell-spawned lunatic had chewed on his arm. What awaited him beyond the grave terrified him.
 Coming to the dresser again, he leaned heavily on it, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was pale and beaded with sweat, his eyes were wild. Staring at his own terrified face in the mirror, he finally said the words that had been rattling around in the back of his mind, haunting his soul like a ghostly wind.
 "Thou shall not kill…"
 Rearing back, Andre struck at his reflection in the mirror. It shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving nothing but dark wood where his image had been. Turning, he slid down to the floor, his back to the dresser. He didn't know if God thought he was a sinner or not, didn't know what would happen to him after he died. He had seen the atrocities that man was capable of, how much worse would be the torments of hell? He didn't know, and was terrified that he would find out…
 Andre's head slumped forward onto his knees, and he began to rhythmically pound the floor. "I don't want to die… I don't want to die… It isn't fair, why should I die…" Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stop when he realized he was punching a floor covered with broken glass. Snorting in exasperation, he checked his right hand, expecting to see ragged flesh and blood.
 For a moment Andre held perfectly still. His hand was undamaged, its pale skin unmarked by cuts or bruises. Appalled, he pulled back his sleeve. The skin of his forearm, so swollen and infected before, was smooth and clear. The only evidence that remained of the bite marks were small punctures on the surface, like he had jabbed himself on a nail.
 The words of the priest came back to him, telling of those bitten by the Vampyre. "He may consume his own blood to restore himself, and take upon himself the corruption of the Vampyre. It must sound so simple- to simply choose not to do so, and to die one of God's children."
 Andre began to laugh.

 Pierre looked up from the musket that he was checking, hearing laughter echoing through the corridors of the house. He had heard Andre laugh many times, as they had spent nights drinking in the tavern, but this sound disturbed him. It held no mirth, only despair- sardonic laughter, as if someone had just learned that their whole life was a joke on them.
 He started as the Mayor's meaty hand clapped down on his shoulder. Looking up, he knew that the older man had seen him jump, though he probably did not know why.
 "Buck up, Pierre!" joked the mayor, his voice filled with forced cheerfulness. "Even if these things are as bad as the priest fears, you will be in the back, where it is safe!" Chuckling at his own wit, the mayor moved on to check on the rest of the men.
 The last rays of the sun were fading, and so they were closing and locking down all of the windows and doors. Sturdy wooden boards covered them from the inside, barriers more to give warning than to deny entrance.
As the night would be long, they had divided into watches. At each side of the front door was a guardsman with a halberd, backed up by two others with rapiers. That put six at the door, while deeper in the room another four with muskets sat braced behind benches. The remaining five guardsmen tried to rest, lounging in chairs and couches. From their restless stirring, Pierre suspected that they were not getting much sleep.
The mayor himself carried his own pistol, as his worth in a fight was questionable. He saw his job as more encouraging his men, then fighting anyway. Exuding confidence, he roamed the cavernous room, checking that everything was in order.
More comforting for the men was Father Moreau, who had chosen to stay behind as well. On each side of the door was a bowl filled with water he had blessed, and even now he was murmuring prayers from the back of the room near the fireplace.
 A flicker of motion in the back of the room catches Pierre's eye, and for a moment he is sure that something is back there. Staring intently, he watches for it again, but it is gone. Shrugging his shoulders, he turns back to the door. Behind him, Jacques gives a sight of relief from his position at the maid's door. Trying to move as little as possible, he settles deeper into his shadow, gnawing at a chunk of cheese. It was going to be a long night.
 

 A knife is a dangerous weapon, far more so than most people think. By itself it looks fairly harmless- usually it is the thug holding it that terrifies people. Idly Andre tried to remember how many people he had killed with his knife, as he passed its blade through the candle flame. It wasn't the main gauche that he had used on the Vampyre, that was a parrying dagger, for sword combat. No, this was a quieter killer, a long, narrow bladed knife that he kept concealed in his left sleeve. He was disturbed that he couldn't remember the number it had killed.
 Clad in a clean shirt and breeches, Andre sat in front of the remains of his mirror. Around his neck was a silver crucifix, and on the dresser's top was a bible. It had taken him most of an hour to set things up, after he had healed his arm. That also disturbed him- it should take more time to get ready to die.
 Staring at the healed wounds, he had realized that he couldn't do it. He had always thought of himself as a strong man, able to do difficult things. But he knew now that he simply could not sit and wait while the poisonous infection spread through his system, slowly killing him. Already his arm was swollen and infected again, and it was all that he could do not to heal it again.
 It was so easy now, now that he had done it once. That was why he had decided that he needed to finish it himself. Quickly, cleanly. So that there was no chance that he could back out in the end. Setting the knife down on the dresser, he took a deep breath. It would have to be pretty extreme. Something quick enough that he could hold out long enough to die. Wrists were too slow. Lifting his chin, Andre could see the throbbing of the big veins in his neck. It would be hard to do, but he had cut those for others often enough. He was a strong man, able to do difficult things.
 A sudden wave of terror passed over him, and he shivered, his eyes closing. Even this was a gamble, one that he couldn't tell if he would win. Suicide was murder, too. All he could hope for was that even though it was a terrible sin, it was so much less than succumbing to the darkness, that God would have mercy…
 Leaning forward, he clutched at the cross on its chain. Pressing the cool silver against his forehead, he found that he couldn't stop himself from shivering. Still clasping the Christ's image, he lowered his head in prayer.
 "Our lord, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name... This great sin that… That I am about to commit…" Andre mumbled, his voice thick and clumsy. "Forgive me, lord, I am not strong enough… I do it only… Only that I may not do a greater sin, one for which there is no chance of forgiveness… Forgive me, lord… Forgive me…"
 Opening his eyes, he stared into the cracked remains of the mirror, seeing the pale, terrified face of a man that knows that he is about to die. He had seen that face before, too many times, but always at the other end of the blade… Fumbling for the knife, he tried to think how to do the deed. His hands were trembling so hard that he had to use both of them to hold the knife. Lightly he traced the tip along the taut skin of his neck, trying to visualize what he would have to do. A quick, strong slash, severing all of the veins on one side. It would have to be hard, and deep.
Sliding the tip down, behind his ear, he placed it below the bone there, laying the blade flat against his neck. The blade was sharp, he had just made sure of that. In the mirror, he watched as a bead of cold sweat rolled down the blade, felt it hit his hand.
Dropping the knife on the table, he dropped his forehead against the hard wood. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and he still could not stop shaking. Had he condemned himself already? He had touched the forbidden power, healed himself a little… Surely that would not condemn him in the eyes of God? But he was about to commit another great sin to atone for the one he had just made. But if he didn't, he knew that he would commit a much, much greater one. If he could not kill himself here and now, could he wait while the poison killed him so much more slowly?
Andre shivered once- convulsively, a tremor that moved through his whole body like a wave. Sitting up straight, he snatched up the knife. Pinching the tip between finger and thumb of his right hand, he held it against his right eye, steadied by his left hand on the hilt.
"Right. The brain then, straight through the eye." Andre could barely recognize his own voice. "One quick move. Smash your head down on the table. The knife goes in, it is all over. Do it. Do it. You can do it. Do it. Do it!"
Chanting his mantra, Andre began to rock forward and back, getting used to the motion. His chest kept spasming, his breaths coming in jerking gasps. One sharp smash, and it would all be over. He could do it. He could do it.
When the scream came, Andre thought for a minute that it was his own. First screams of surprise, then of terror. Eventually there only remained screams of terrible agony, and those lasted a long, long time.
 

 Though they had grumbled at the priest's cautioning words, the guardsmen had intended to follow them anyway. Thus, when there was a timid knock on the door, one of them had been sent for a glass from the side table. Michael had been on door duty, and had grudgingly accepted it, and filled it from the bowls of holy water.
 Before opening the door, he first peeked through a small crack, almost unnoticeable in the darkness. Though the sun was well set, some light was spilled from a small window above the door, which they had set a lantern behind. At first Michael could see nothing, and he began reaching for the rapier at his waist. Then there was a swirl of fabric, and Michael realized he had been looking at a dark cloak. As the figure leaned forward to knock again, the dim lamplight played across a low neckline and nicely rounded breasts.
 There was a murmur from the men behind him, but Michael raised a hand to forestall them. "Wait…" he whispered, still peering through the crack in the door. His patience was rewarded as the woman leaned in again, giving him a good look at her cleavage. Straightening, he wiped the leer off his face before he turned to the others.
 "It's a woman." he murmured, his face serious. "I think it's alright, but let me check."
 The mayor's face betrayed his anxiety. "Remember to test them with the holy water!" he stage whispered. "We don't know what these things look like. They could be anyone!"
 "Yessir." Michael replied as he turned back to the door, but in his mind he was thinking, "Yeah, right, a sweet, soft little thing like that. Maybe if I play my cards right, I can get the job of finding her a nice safe bed to sleep in for the night…"
 Drawing his rapier, he opened the door a crack and stepped halfway out. The woman was huddled in her cloak, the light of the lamp playing just on the edges of the dark fabric.
 "And what would a young lady like you be doing out in the night?" He asked, edging his rapier into sight for effect. "Don't you think it is a little dangerous for a pretty little thing like you?"
 The woman peeked at him from under long lashes. "I… I was out riding and got lost in the woods. I tried to find my way home, but… Well, eventually I saw the buildings on the edge of town." Timidly, she pulled the cloak closer around herself, showing Michael the tantalizing hint of curves at waist and hip. "I tried to stop and ask for directions, but… But no one was here! Finally I found this manor- it is the only house in town with any lights on… I was so frightened! Why is the whole town deserted?"
 Embarrassed at her outburst, the woman looked away. Michael was about to ask where her horse was now, when she turned back and his questions blew away like smoke in the wind. Fascinated, he watched her nervously lick her very red lips, and attempt a timid smile. Trying to make his own smile seem comforting and confident, he moved a step closer to see her better. Looking into her big, dark eyes, he barely even realized where he was.
 "Why don't you take me inside, and we can find some nice, quiet place to… talk." She whispered, her voice low and smooth. Michael was almost panting, and he heard a faint roaring in his ears. She was so beautiful, so perfect… He could tell from her smile that she was interested in him, all he needed to do was find some secluded place…
Michael blinked in confusion. He was carrying a glass, and for a moment he tried to remember what he was supposed to do with it. Then the woman laid a delicate hand on his chest, and he realized that it didn't matter. His eyes were so fixed on her bosom that he didn't even notice the delicate fingers ended in cruel, hooked claws. Stepping closer to Michael, the woman pressed herself against him and whispered in his ear.
"Just tell them that I am from the next town, and that I got lost. You know me, and are going to let me stay in one of the back rooms." Her voice was sensual and full of promise. Michael shivered as she caressed his cheek with a cool hand. "After we are alone, we can… Well, you have something that I really, really want…"
 Michael gave a quivering sigh as she slid her hand down his chest. Then, giving him a teasing smile, she pushed him lightly towards the door. His head still spinning, he turned and walked back into the front room. As he entered, the people staring at him seemed almost like strangers.
 "It, ah… its just a woman from the next town." He stammered. "I know her, a little… She just got lost in the dark, and I told her that she could stay in one of the back rooms for the night." He felt her move up behind him, pressing up against his back. Her pale face peeked over his shoulder, dark eyes hidden behind long lashes. "I, um… I'll just take her to one of the back rooms and… Well, she can stay there for the night."
 From the corner of the room the priest spoke up, his voice frightened. "Did you test her with the holy water, Michael? Do we know that she is safe?"
 "Of course, Father," Michael replied, his face showing annoyance. "Do you think that I would just lead some strange woman in here without checking that?"
 The other men in the room murmured assent, shuffling their feet, trying to get a better view of the woman. The temperature in the room seemed to have risen noticeably, and even the men who had been asleep were shifting to see. Of the men with muskets, only Pierre was still in position, and even he didn't have his musket up.
 "Michael… You said that you know this woman." Pierre blinked as the woman's eyes turned on him, but he kept on regardless. "You know her. What is her name?"
 For a moment there was silence, as Michael searched for an answer. Then the woman's pretty, seductive face twisted into a terrifying mask of rage and hate. With an inhuman howl, she grabbed the back of Michael's jacket and threw him bodily into the men on the right side of the door. Reversing with lightning speed, she grabbed the halberd of the man on the left, and used him as a club to bowl over the others. Pierre was the first to recover, firing the musket into her back. Though the musket ball tore a hole in the back of her bodice, it barely caused her to stumble. Then the others were there, black shapes flying in from the night, and the butchery began.
 The guardsmen were all experienced brawlers, but they were hopelessly outmatched. There were three Vampyre, not two, but the third barely fought, preferring to watch from the side. Three guardsmen lunged at the newcomer, rapiers questing for his heart. Rather than evading the attack, he simply let them strike, giving only a grimace of pain as the blades passed through his body. Grabbing one man's arm, he wrenched him sideways, sending a second sprawling. Locking eyes with the third, he simply stared at him, as he ripped the throat out of the first. As soon as he locked eyes, the third guardsman stopped and began to shake. After a moment, his rapier dropped and crouched on the floor, covering his head and shrieking in terror.
On the other side of the room, the screams were more of pain as the female Vampyre did her best to paint the room in blood. Dodging and weaving her way through the terrified guardsmen, she ripped arms from their sockets and opened huge gashes with her claws. Though her dress and bodice were tattered from a dozen cuts, all of the blood coating her was other people's. Spinning away from disemboweling one man, she turned directly into the thrust of another. It hit cleanly between her breasts, the first half of the blade punching into her flesh. She gave a little mewing cry of pain as the tip thrust out her back, but the blade was clean of any blood.
Looking up, she smiled at the man, a wide smile, showing her long fangs. "That hurt, little man…" She crooned. Grabbing his wrist, she pulled him closer, pushing the rapier blade through her body till the hilt nestled against her bosom. Horrified, the man tried to pull a knife from his belt, but she grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall. Holding him there with her body, she squirmed against him, licking his throat and laughing as he desperately clawed at her with his free hand.
She had just begun to bite little chunks from his skin when Merle stepped in with the halberd. Swinging it like a huge woodsman's axe, he chopped diagonally into her back, near the neck. With a shriek of pain she collapsed forwards into the trapped man, only to be pulled backwards as Merle tried to pull the axe out for another swing. Seeing a chance for freedom, the trapped man tried to lunge out from beneath her, only to have his face caught in her splayed had. Twisting her entire body, she ripped the halberd from Merle's hands, in the same motion smashing the trapped man's head against the wall. There was a sickening crack as the boards buckled and shattered along with the man's skull, leaving the body dangling from the jagged hole. Shocked, Merle began to back away as the grinning Vampyre turned on him.
Soon, the only guardsman left standing was Pierre. Having retrieved another's musket from the bloodstained floor, he aimed it with trembling hands at the second Vampyre. Grinning, the Vampyre crooked a bloody finger at the terrified guardsman.
"Come here, mortal. Let me end your miserable existence." The Vampyre chuckled, licking blood off of his lips. "You were the brave one, weren't you? Not that it did you or your friends any good in the end."
It was all that Pierre could do to hold the musket up in the face of the blinding terror that he felt. In a distant corner of his mind he knew that it was what the priest had said, the dark powers of the Vampyre. They were playing with his mind, using his feelings of terror as a weapon, just as the woman had used lust. Several of the men curled up on the floor had taken no physical wounds, just this.
As the Vampyre got closer he slowed, smiling at the barrel still pointed at his chest. "You know, we easily have enough people here to replenish our blood." Grandly he gestured at the figures huddled on the floor. "We really don't need to even drain blood from the dead. Perhaps we will not even kill you. Perhaps we will simply make you one of us, an immortal. Would you like that, mortal?"
The Vampyre's smile was closer to a leer, playing with his victim. However, unknowingly he had said exactly the wrong thing. Pierre had listened to the Bishop's words, knew what becoming a Vampyre meant for his soul. The stark terror of eternal damnation pushed back the Vampyre's power for an instant, allowing him to think. He knew that he could not escape, but perhaps he could at least save his soul. Seeing Pierre's eyes clear a little, the Vampyre frowned.
"I'll not meet you in Hell, bastard." Pierre hissed through clenched teeth. "You'll go there alone."
 Lifting the musket a little higher, Pierre fired. The musket ball punched through the Vampyre's face, shattering his jaw and cutting upwards through his head to punch out the back of his skull. He knew that he couldn't kill him, but perhaps he could infuriate them enough to get a quick death. Pierre's hopes were fulfilled as the third Vampyre stepped forward before Pierre could follow up. His casual backhand caved in the side of Pierre's skull, and sent his limp body hurtling across the room.
 Standing above the wounded Vampyre, the other laughed uproariously. "Jean-Paul, you imbecile! If you continue to assume that all mortal are so weak willed, the Angels will get you yet. Annette!" He called, gesturing to the female Vampyre, who had been drinking blood from the throat of a twitching victim. "Come see what a mess Jean-Paul had made of himself here!"
 Grinning, Annette sauntered over, blood dripping off her chin and drenching her dress. Crouched on the floor, Jean-Paul glared up at the third Vampyre who was obviously their leader, gingerly holding the remains of his face in his hands. He grimaced as the ragged flesh and jagged bones reshaped themselves, beginning to reform into his jaw.
 Kneeling down next to Jean-Paul, Annette cooed in mock sympathy. "Oh, Van Aubreck, you shouldn't be so hard on poor Jean-Paul. Why, what a terrible wound! And with his poor little mouth hurt, how can he drink the blood to replenish himself? Here, let me help you, you poor baby…"
 Cradling his ruined face in her arms, Annette pulled his head close to her bosom. As his mouth began to heal itself, he lapped blood off of her breasts while she giggled. Van Aubreck threw up his hands in amused exasperation, looking away as they played in the blood and gore.
 "You did it!" A small voice accused from the back of the room. "You are the one that killed my father! I can tell, you… you witch!"
 Crouched in the doorway, Jacques pointed an accusing finger at Annette. In his other hand was a crudely sharpened stake. About two and a half feet long and clumsily shaped, it was a child's weapon, hardly a threat to the monsters that had just slaughtered a dozen armed men. Eyes widening in mock horror, Van Aubreck chucked, shaking his head. Annette simply smiled, pulling Jean-Paul's head back into her cleavage when he tried to turn and look.
 "Van Aubreck, sir, would you be so kind as to catch that tasty morsel for me?" She asked sweetly, gazing up at the leader. "I feel faint after such a hard-won battle, and feel the need for more blood to replenish myself…" She chuckled evilly, spoiling her façade of innocence.
 Stepping resolutely out from where he had been huddled in the corner, Father Moreau placed himself between the boy and the Vampyre. In his quavering hand he brandished his crucifix, holding it as a shield in front of him.
 "You'll do no such thing, abomination!" The priest's voice was firm, though his terror was evident. "Run, Jacques! Get away from here! You cannot do anything here, do not give your mother another victim to mourn. Run!"
 His eyes never leaving the Vampyre, Father Moreau reached back and began pushing the child back through the doorway. Despite the fury in his eyes, Jacques could see that the priest was right. Tears sparkling in his eyes, he turned and ran, his footsteps fading through the halls.
 Annette growled deep in her throat and began to rise, but Van Aubreck gestured her back down again. Walking slowly towards the priest, smiled slowly.
 "Do not worry, my pet. The child will run to the one that we seek. When we find him, we will get the child as well." His rich voice was languid and assured. "No one shall escape us this night. But first we should deal with this… Creature. You should have fled with the child, old man."
 Father Moreau stepped forward, thrusting the cross in Van Aubreck's face. "Begone, foul creature! Jesus is my savior and protector, you cannot harm me! In the name of God I cast you out, and command you to leave this place!"
 Van Aubreck shied away slightly as the cross came close, but his smile never faltered. His hand flashed up with inhuman speed, locking around the priest's wrist with an iron grip. The priest's eyes widened as he realized that he could not pull free. For a moment Van Aubreck peered at the cross in curiosity. Then, with a single sharp pull, he broke the priest's forearm. Both bones broke cleanly, ripping through the skin as the Vampyre absently shook the hand so that the cross fell harmlessly to the floor.
 Father Moreau's scream of agony was cut short as the Vampyre stepped forward, his other hand locking around the priest's throat. Without much effort, he lifted the old man off the floor, leaning back to balance the weight. Blood splattered them both as Van Aubreck lifted the broken arm, the shattered forearm doubled back on itself., pulsing from the The priest's body spasmed, his face turning purple.
 "You see, Father," Van Aubreck crooned, his voice smug, "the word of God has little effect on us. If God were going to strike us down, he would have done so already. Believe me, we have given him enough reason over the years. For example, you aren't the first priest that I have tortured to death… Perhaps it is time we showed you how much protection your faith in Christ really does for you."
 He dropped the struggling priest to the ground. For a moment the old man simply huddled there, cradling his arm and trying to gather enough breath to begin screaming again. Smiling evilly, Van Aubreck cracked his knuckles.
 "We really don't have enough time to do this properly, I'm afraid. Dawn is a long ways away, but there are other things we need to do tonight." Van Aubreck shrugged. "Other people that are more important than foolish old priests. But we will do what we can."
 Finally getting his breath back, Father Moreau began to scream.
 

 "I'm frightened, Father…" Jacques whispered, huddled on the steps next to the priest. He had found him in the back gallery, sitting on the stairs leading up to the servant's quarters. It was a large, long room, with a ceiling that almost reached to the top of the second story. It's walls were lined with paintings of the mayor's ancestors, but in the dim candle light, most of the room was filled with shadow. When asked, Father Gregory had said he was waiting here because he liked the sense of space.
"They are going to kill us, aren't they?" Jacques asked. "Like they killed Father Moreau? Why does God let them do things like this? Why doesn't he stop them? Doesn't he care?"
 "Hush, child." Father Gregory replied. "Of course God cares. When you were little, did you ever want to play with your father's tools?"
 Jacques nodded, looking confused.
 "And did your parents let you?" the priest continued. When Jacques shook his head, the priest asked "And why didn't they let you?"
 "Because when I was little, I probably would have hurt myself." Jacques answered plaintively. "But Father, we are not doing anything that could hurt us! What does that have to do with there being monsters that just finished torturing Father Moreau to death, and are going to come kill us?"
 Father Gregory smiled at the child's logic. "Absolutely nothing, really, my child." He answered. "My point was that when you were little, you probably didn't understand why your parents didn't let you do some things. Likewise, we don't really understand why God won't solve some of our problems. Why do people get sick? Why does he allow wars? I imagine that there must be some reason, but I don't know either."
 Jacques glared at him angrily. "I don't think that is a very good answer! I mean, if we are supposed to obey God, then why doesn't he do the right thing and protect us? That's what I would do if I were God!"
 "Well, Jacques," the priest said sadly "I would have to agree with you, mostly. I have some questions that I want to ask God myself, when I see him."

 "Well, Gregory, I would have to say you are in luck!" A voice proclaimed, from the far end of the room. From the doorway stepped Van Aubreck, flanked by Annette and a fully healed Jean-Paul. Van Aubreck's previously spotless jacket and trousers were splattered with large amounts of blood, despite attempts to dab it off.
 "I mean, you want to talk to God, and here we are to send you to him! Oh wait, you may not be going to see God, will you? Hmmm… I mean, you have almost as much blood on your hands as we do!" Behind him, Annette covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Glancing back in amusement, Van Aubreck continued. "Well, alright, as far as numbers are concerned, perhaps we are a bit ahead."
 Father Gregory stood up and stepped down to stand on the floor. "You are a monster in the eyes of God, and I will do whatever is necessary to destroy you."
 Van Aubreck smiled again, but it had lost some of its humor. "Ah yes. The peerless Vampyre hunter. You know, that will eventually be the death of you… I think that God may find that your little ritual is as great of a sin as our stealing immortality." Van Aubreck continued forward, stopping in the center of the room. "Oh yes, we know about that, just as we know about that little piece that you wrote for your Pope. What was it called, again? The book of blood? All about the Vampyre and how they came to exist? Not that he will ever be including it the bible, I would think."
 "Now, don't take me wrong- I think that it has some marvelous passages in it. It is just not the sort of thing they release to the huddled masses, though, is it? Don't look so surprised, Gregory." He laughed "Of course I have read it. Do you think that the Vatican is an impervious fortress, its guardians immune to our powers? I particularly liked the sections about God binding us from the heavens…"
Van Aubreck struck a theatrical pose. "And in that day, Lord of hosts did send forth his Angels and did gather up all those who had taken their reward before their time. And he did command his Angels to strike them down, and banish them to the flames, where they would languish until the day of judgement.
 Then did Kell, who was a great sorcerer, speak unto God, saying "What crime have we committed, oh Lord, for which we are banished to the flames of Hell? We have done nothing, save to try and become like unto your other servants, the Angels. Are we not pleasing in the sight of the Lord, that we might serve him in the Heavens like his heavenly hosts?" And God was greatly wroth, saying unto Kell, "Thou art an abomination in my sight, and not fit to serve in my hosts. Think not that I do not know the secrets of your heart, and the evil that you will do with these ill-gained powers. For thou wert created mortal, not divine, and shall be as evil spirits on the world."
And Kell did tremble before the power of the Lord, but did say "Oh Lord, yes, we art mortal, yet thou suffers that mortal man may sin, and not strike them down. If we are but mortals, should we not be allowed to stand until the day of judgement, for our sins?" And God did hear the pleas of their fathers, and did relent, saying "Go, then and never more be seen in the light of the heavens. For thou art not my servants, and shall not look upon my kingdom. So long as thou doest hide thyself from the heavens, I shall spare you."
But then did Kell tremble again, for God spake again, and the wrath of the Lord is terrifying to behold. "Know ye this. Even should thou hide in the bowels of the earth, I will know ye. And on that day that you shall stand exposed in the light of my glory, my hosts shall destroy thee, such that nothing shall remain. Thus shall you be bound to the darkness that thou hast embraced."
And thus were the Vampyre bound from the heavens, that they might never know the light of day. And for each of the fallen, whom had taken their reward before their time, and vengeful Angel was sent, that should he violate the Lord's command, he would be utterly destroyed."
 There was silence in the room as Van Aubreck stopped speaking, his voice trailing off as he voiced the terrible edict. No one moved or spoke, Van Aubreck and the priest simply staring at each other across the room.
 "You know how it began, then." Father Gregory said finally. "You know how the first of the Vampyre were born, how this terrible scourge was created. Why not live out the rest of this age in peace, till the day of judgement? This madness of death and blood is unnecessary."
 "Unnecessary?" cried Jean-Paul angrily. "You hunt us, hypocrite, sending dozens of men to their deaths to destroy us, and you claim we kill unnecessarily?"
 Father Gregory snorted in contempt. "Your lap dogs have lost their wit as well as their will, Van Aubreck. Do you think that we could find you, if you were to curb your taste for blood and massacre?  Immortals, with the power to warp men's' minds to your will? No, we simply look for the mangled remains of your sport. Were I to send a dozen men to God fighting you, how many weeks would it be till I had saved lives in the end? Three? Four? You bring this down upon yourselves!"
 Jean-Paul was about to reply when Van Aubreck abruptly gestured him to silence. Still staring at Father Gregory, he spoke again.
 "Do not play the fool with me, Gregory. You know as well as I why we ravage the countryside, and kill mortal chattel. You know, because you have written it in your damnable book, exposing it all to the mortals on whom we prey."
 "And after Kell had seen the foremost of his progeny fall before the might of the Angel, he knew that his followers could not overcome the power of the Hosts of Heaven. And for many years he did hide in solitude, striving to find a way that he might lead his Vampyre into the light.
 And after many years of searching, Kell did come unto the abyss, where Rafael had bound Abaddon, the fallen one. And he did speak with Abaddon, and did form a pact with him, that before the day of judgement, the Vampyre would serve him, and overthrow the Hosts of Heaven. And Abaddon did teach him many secrets, that the Vampyre might become strong, and grow untill that day.
 But until that day, when Abaddon would rise from the abyss and do battle with the Hosts of Heaven, the Vampyre are not strong enough to defeat the Angels that watch over them. Thus they must stride through the night, increasing their number and strength so that on that day they might triumph over the hosts of the Lord."
 "That is why we stalk the night, and why we will not simply wait patiently for our doom to arrive." Van Aubreck smiled, showing his fangs. "Certainly you do not believe that God will allow us to inherit the kingdom of heaven on the last day, do you? I think not."
 Father Gregory shook his head. "You are a fool, Van Aubreck. Do you really think that one fallen Angel will be able to raise you above the hosts of heaven? Any morning you should be able to stare out of your hole and see the insanity of that. You are not fighting against some mortal army, you are fighting against the Angels of God!" The priest snorted in derision. "You just don't seem to understand that right now, you are like an ant that has stolen breadcrumbs from a man's bread. Marveling at your own power, you aspire to kill the man, that you will have bread forever. Fools!"
 "And you are equally a fool!" Van Aubreck snapped, losing some of his cheery calm. "Do you think that you are the only one that sees the Angels? Of course I see them, waiting for me. But there are more powers here than just your vaunted God's jailers! Yes, right now we may be ants. But you see, to ants, a ragged piece of bread seems like a priceless treasure, and a dog looks like an unstoppable foe… But when we have grown, we will see how pathetic they really are…"
 "Enough!" roared Father Gregory, his voice filled with rage. "I will hear no more blasphemy from your twisted mouth, Van Aubreck. Why have you come here?" He smiled, but for the first time his smile had a vicious edge to it, showing a hint of teeth. "Surely you do not think that coming here and killing a humble servant of the God you so revile will help your cause?"
 "Don't bother to lie to me, Gregory. Your tricks are useless now." Though calmer, Van Aubreck had lost his veneer of geniality. "We know that you are the one that is sending these incorruptibles against our brethren. Immune to our powers and unable to be drained of their blood, they are a threat. We know that you have already caused the deaths of several Vampyre. But we also know that you are the only one who will do this ritual… Thus when we remove you, there will be no more incorruptibles."
 The priest looked away. "The ritual can be done by anyone, Van Aubreck. Surely, since you have read the Book of Blood, you know that it is listed there. If I die, there will be others who will follow in my footsteps…"
 Van Aubreck smiled again. "No, Gregory, I don't think so. The cost is too high. Who would imperil their own soul to stop us? One of your little priests? The Pope perhaps? Maybe if you were some saint or something, but they will not use some ritual given to them by a madman with a vendetta. Really, Gregory- If God really wanted your blessed incorruptibles to cleanse the world of Vampyre, why would he not just have his Angels guide them to us? He knows where we are, we know that."
 Gregory gave a long, tired sigh. "All right, Van Aubreck. So you intend to kill me. We might as well get on with it. Unless you are frightened, that one old man is going to send the three of you on your way to Hell?" Reaching into his robes, Father Gregory pulled out his dagger, still in its sheath. For a moment he stared at the crucifix that formed its handle, his lips silently mouthing a prayer, before he pulled the blade free.
 "Now, now, old man…" Van Aubreck laughed evilly. "Why are you in such a rush? You see, before we remove you from this world, my dear Annette has something that she was going to do first. Didn't you, my dear?"
 Annette smiled in anticipation, flexing slender hands tipped with cruel claws. Stepping forward, she crooked one clawed finger at Jacques, where he hid behind the priest.
 "Come here, you sweet, little child." She crooned. "You were so upset before, that I had taken your daddy away from you. I feel so bad that I had done that, I really do. So I figure that I should make it all better… Come here little one, and I will send you to your daddy. It will hurt a little bit, but then you will be away from all of this." She smiled a wide, gleeful smile that showed her fangs, and ran her tongue slowly around red lips, as if searching for any blood she had missed.
 "You see, Gregory, while I know that you are no weakling like the priest in the front room, I imagine that Jean-Paul and I should be able to keep you occupied while Annette… amuses herself." Van Aubreck's face showed a twisted combination of hatred and glee. "You wrote a whole book about us, my dear Gregory, but you do not seem to really understand how being a Vampyre works. We are the damned, Gregory- There is no redemption for us, no matter what we do. We traded it for immortality and power. But what good is power, if you do not use it, enjoy it, revel in it? There is no point to being good, no pleasure in helping these mortals…"
Van Aubreck spun around in place, his arms spread wide. "This, Gregory… This is our paradise! This is where we enjoy the fruits of our labors! There is not better place that we go to if we are righteous, no heaven for us. But there are no rivers of milk and honey here, no idyllic existence. We cannot even live our lives in the sunshine, like any mortal." Turning to face the priest again, Van Aubreck's face was still.
"So what do we do to enjoy our paradise? How do we make it worthwhile? What makes something valuable, anyway?" Van Aubreck's voice dropped almost to a whisper, barely audible to Father Gregory. "What makes things valuable is that we can have them, and others cannot. That we can take things from anyone, and thus show that they are below us. Money, power, carnal pleasures… We are immortal, Gregory, we could have all of these things. But how much more it means when we can take it, can show that we are better than all of the other mortals that have the same. We are not kings, or rich merchants… But we can do things that they cannot. Can do things that would ruin them."
Van Aubreck straightened up, a look of glee on his face. "I mean, really now, Gregory. We are going to torture a small child to death, drink his blood, and then kill a priest- a second priest tonight, in fact. And no one can stop us. That is power, Gregory. Maybe, if you see God after we kill you, you can ask him what he offers that is better than such absolute power!"
Though unreadable, Father Gregory's face was markedly paler. "You are more of a monster than any person that I have ever met, Van Aubreck. You cause suffering for no reason than your own amusement, cause death for mere thrills. I do not know why God suffers you to live, but if there is any justice in the world, perhaps one of your jailers will decide that it is a lesser sin to kill you anyway…"
 "Yes, frustrating, isn't it, Gregory?" Van Aubreck mocked, "Your God tells you to be good, and kind, and nice. He claims that if you do all of that, he will reward you in the end. Yet it is people like me- the monsters, the murderers, the perverts- that have all the fun, and gain all the benefits. Even your precious church has gained much of its power through… questionable actions."
Van Aubreck laughed maniacally. "But then, you never really know what you are getting in the end, do you? You aren't sure if you are a sinner, or a saint. There are no set rules, so that you can see if you are being good enough, are there? For that matter, mortals don't get to see heaven, do they? They never get to know where they are supposed to be going. Why is that? Why should they even believe that there is such a place?"
"You, of all people should not be questioning the existence of God." The priest snapped. "If you are so unsure about God, why don't you go out and watch the sunrise at dawn?"
 "Oh no, I am not questioning the existence of God. Not me." Van Aubreck barked another short laugh. "I know that he exists, and that he will kill me if I break his ban. I stand under the sun and I die, but killing dozens of innocent people? No, that he will let me do. You have to wonder about God's judgements, don't you? What about all the people that murder and torture people, who aren't one of us, a Vampyre? They never get touched, no Angels are sent after them. Maybe when these mortals die, they will find that God really doesn't care about how you did things. Maybe he will just see how rich or powerful you have become."
Watching Father Gregory's face, Van Aubreck's smile grew wider. "No Hell for them, just a pat on the back and a cozy position in the angelic choir? That would be ironic, wouldn't it? All your guilt and suffering for nothing, while God was really just seeing who had the guts to go get things for themselves? Huh, maybe the meek shall inherit the earth, because all the good spots in heaven will be grabbed by those that fought for power here?"
 For a moment, a ghost of a smile flickered across the priest's face. "Well, my son, if you are right, then it would be truly ironic. Here you are, just the type of vile creature that such a God is searching for, and you did the one thing that would truly anger him." Had he been looking, Father Gregory would have seen a trace of concern pass over Van Aubreck's face, but he wasn't. "I pray to God that your vision of Heaven is not true, but I think you may find out sooner than you might think…"

 Father Gregory's voice trailed off as he watched a shadow emerge from the doorway behind the Vampyre. It was Andre, his knees and sleeves already stained with blood. Instead of a rapier, in his arms he cradled the broadsword from the main hall, candlelight glinting off its massive blade. But what caught the priest's gaze more than blood or blade was Andre's face. Obviously he had seen the carnage in the front room and overheard some of the Vampyres' plans, and his face was twisted in a mask of fury that was almost inhuman. Untainted by hatred or avarice, it was a pure passion for vengeance that the priest had only seen one other place. And when avenging Angels came, looking like that, it meant someone was going to die.
 For the Vampyre, the realization that Father Gregory wasn't looking at them and the sound of Andre's footsteps came at the same time. Though their reactions were faster than any human's, they were still too late. As the Vampyre spun to face him, Andre spun as well, twisting his body like a top. As he neared the completion of his circle, the broadsword lashed out towards Jean-Paul. With the entire force of Andre's body behind it, the heavy blade caught the Vampyre at waist level, shearing all the way through his torso. For a second the other two Vampyre froze in disbelief as Jean-Paul gave a terrible, shrilling scream. Arms flailing, he fell in two pieces, stolen blood splashing everyone nearby.
 Though short, the pause gave Andre time to recover. As Van Aubreck lunged, claws reaching for his throat, Andre stepped back, swinging the broadsword back again like an axe. Never intended for Van Aubreck's body, the sword caught his outstretched arm just below the elbow, shearing completely through it. Andre continued the stroke over his head, ready to swing again, but Van Aubreck had already leaped back, clutching bloodless stump.
 Seeing Jean-Paul still scrabbling on the floor, and Van Aubreck circling to get his lost arm, Andre turned to face Annette. Neither moved, their eyes locked. Careful not to move forward, Annette drew herself up, thrusting her chest forward. Her eyes still on Andre, she smiled slowly and sensuously licked her full lips.
 "Andre! Don't look at her!" Jacques yelled from where he hid behind the priest. "She's playing with your mind! She's evil, Andre, you have to kill her!"
 Despite the child's warning, Andre continued to stare, his furious face quieting. Then he smiled in return. Though the smile was very cold, the sword slowly dipped as well, the hilt dropping to his waist and the tip nearly hitting the floor behind him.
 "That's right, my dear…" Annette cooed, twisting sinuously. "Silly child, did you really think that you could keep him from falling under my spell? Ah well, you really are too young, aren't you? You see, men are really just animals, slaves to their own passions and desires. Even before I had the power to twist their minds, I could still control them- it is just a matter of showing them something that they want. And you do want it, my dear, don't you? Oh yes, oh so very much…"
 Never breaking eye contact, she rolled her hips suggestively. Pulling up skirts already tattered from the brief battle with the guardsmen, she extended one shapely leg. Pointing her toes, she twisted back and forth, till her leg slipped through a rent in the dress, baring it to mid-thigh. Though her smile never wavered, her eyes narrowed for a moment as she realized his face had never changed throughout her show. Then they widened again as she realized just how cold his smile was, but by then he had burst into movement again.
Keeping the hilt of his sword glued to his hip, he twisted. Arcing up and forward, the broadsword cut downward at the proffered leg with incredible force. Cutting through flesh until it hit the bone with a sodden sound, it sheared right through with enough force to still imbed the tip in the wooden floor. With a shriek that combined both pain and sheer outrage Annette toppled to the floor in a heap. Snarling, she threw herself towards the severed limb, but Andre was there first, kicking it away towards the stairs. Unable to move fast enough to get away, Annette raised her hands in a futile defense as the blade rose once more. Andre's smile was gone and in its place was the mask of fury, showing no pity.
Annette screamed again as the blade fell, but she was granted a reprieve as a dark shape hurtled into Andre from behind. Thrown wild by the impact, the sword stroke still took of her hand at the wrist as Andre and Van Aubreck catapulted into a desk across the room. Carved wooden legs cracked under the force of the blow, spilling both men to the floor in a snowstorm of papers. The Vampyre was up in an instant, his severed arm healed as if it had never been cut. Andre rose slower, unsteady on his feet but still ready in time to dodge as Van Aubreck lunged in for the kill.
For a time the two engaged in a deadly dance. Van Aubreck rushed in again and again, only to clash with a wall of steel that Andre furiously spun around himself. Long considering himself invulnerable, the Vampyre had always depended on his inhuman speed and strength to overwhelm any opponent. While Andre could not match that, his sword did much to level the odds, and on many battlefields he had honed his butcher's skills.
Finally Van Aubreck broke off, eyeing Andre in surprise. "I have lived many, many years, mortal. In that time I have killed many of your kind- more than I can count. Never have I run across one who could survive against me… Perhaps, if you are very unlucky, you shall live to regret that."
 Andre made no reply, his breath coming on ragged gasps. Obviously it had been many years since Van Aubreck had been mortal, for he showed no sign of pain, despite the gaping, bloodless rents in his flesh. Stepping out of the reach of Andre's sword, he began to heal his wounds, the skin writhing and flowing like syrup to fill the cuts. Only when he had to regrow most of the fingers on his left hand did his face take on a look of intense concentration.
 Finished with his repairs, Van Aubreck smiled. "You see, little man, your skills mean little. You can no more kill me than you can kill the storms that wreck the ships at sea. And when I have you, I will drink your blood to replenish that which you have cost me! Annette!" he yelled, glancing up at the stairs "Stop playing games with the brat, and come help me destroy this man!"
 "I am not playing, sir!" Annette nearly screamed in frustration. "The little devil has my leg! I will be there once I catch up with him, and break all of his limbs! Oh yes, little man, I will not kill you right away- I will save you for later, when I have lots of time!"
 Lunging forwards again, Annette clawed her way up several more steps. She had reattached her hand, but dancing just out of reach was Jacques, lugging the leg, which was almost as tall as he was. Wrapping his arms around it again, he dragged it further up the staircase, out of reach.
 "You fool," shouted Van Aubreck "regrow the leg! You have fed, and once this one is gone, we can feed again."
 Turning to face Andre again, Van Aubreck smiled, deliberately showing his fangs. "You see, mortal, most Vampyre are like children. They do not know the extent of their own powers. Some things are harder to heal than others, but we are immortal, after all." Raising his rebuilt left hand, he slowly clenched it till the tendons stood out. "But you know how it is- it is so hard to find good help these days!"
 Too late, Andre realized that Van Aubreck was deliberately distracting him. Long arms wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his sides, and the blade up against his right shoulder. His breath came out in a forced cough and his ribs creaked against the strain as Jean-Paul began to squeeze. Seeing Andre trapped, Van Aubreck threw his head back and laughed maniacally.
Without hesitation Andre dropped his left hand from the sword, the narrow dagger dropping into his hand. Pain blazed out as he felt something snap inside, making his vision fade dangerously. Ignoring Jean-Paul's body, he jerked his arm upward to saw at the tendons in the elbow. Jean-Paul yelled in surprise as his left arm flopped away uselessly. Twisting around Andre's right to see, he grabbed at the knife with his good right hand. Instantly Andre released his hold on the knife, his hand shooting up to tangle in Jean-Paul's hair. Arching convulsively, he slammed Jean-Paul's head down onto the point of the broadsword. Driven with all his strength, the blade punched cleanly through Jean-Paul's right eye, stopping only when it hit the back of his skull.
Van Aubreck's laughter cut off suddenly at Jean-Paul's scream. He looked back in time to see Andre twist at the waist, using the sword as a lever to throw Jean-Paul past him. Van Aubreck caught Jean-Paul as the Vampyre reeled into him, his one good hand clasped over his eye. Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Van Aubreck was too slow twisting aside as Andre reversed, lashing out one-handed with the sword. Passing mere inches from his face, the blade neatly removed Jean-Paul's head.
 There was a moment of stillness as both men paused. Jean-Paul's head rolled several more feet before stopping, his jaw working madly, as if to yell words that he could no longer say. Still staring at Andre, Van Aubreck let go of the twitching body, which fell heavily to the floor. Swaying on his feet, Andre dropped the tip of the sword to the ground, leaning on it slightly. He coughed wetly, wiping blood off his lips with one shoulder. Cautiously, Van Aubreck started to reach for Jean-Paul's head, intending to reattach it to his body, but as soon as he moved, the sword rose to point waveringly at him.
 On the stairs above, Annette finished regrowing her leg. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she slowly walked down to stand beside Van Aubreck, sparing a venomous glance for Jacques. Though whole, she looked drained, as if healing so much had used all of her stolen blood. There was a thunk of steel hitting wood and she flinched before realizing that Andre was just leaning on his sword again. She managed a smile, but it held little cruelty- mainly fear.
 Bolstered by Annette's presence, Van Aubreck regained a little of his bravado. "Like I said, mortal- your sword cannot help you in the end. Your flesh is weak, while we can go on forever. While I must admit you have shown remarkable ferocity, it is obvious that you are spent. Perhaps you had better kill yourself now, before you are incapable of doing even that. Why, I imagine that if I blew hard, I could topple you from here."
 Van Aubreck's taunts were not too far from the truth. Andre's face was ashen, and it was questionable whether he could even stand without the support of the sword. His breath, which had come in ragged gasps before, were now fast and shallow because drawing a deep breath ignited a blazing pain in his ribs. But in his pale face, his eyes still burned with anger. He had faced death on the battlefield before. Determinedly, he ignored the pain from his wounds and forced himself to stand still as another cough ripped through him. His face twisting into a sneer, he spat blood at Van Aubreck, but even that landed short.
 Van Aubreck's laughter was short and mocking. "Defiant to the last, eh? Perhaps we should give you a little time to consider, while we deal with the brat and Gregory. I hardly think that you will be a threat to us now. Maybe, if Annette takes a very long time making the little one die, by the time we get to you, you will be able to lift that sword, eh?" Cocking his head to one side, he considered the blood dripping down Andre's arms and over the hilt of the broadsword. "On second though, you seem to be bleeding quite a bit… By that point you may be hard pressed even to stand!"
 At Van Aubreck's taunts about killing the child, Andre's sneer disappeared. Becoming very still, his face regained some of its initial intensity. Lips curling back from clenched teeth, he straightened till he was no longer resting on the sword. Surprised, Annette gave a frightened squeaked and scuttled backwards as very slowly and deliberately he took a full, deep breath. As they watched, Andre seemed to renew himself, shedding his exhaustion like an old skin. Bracing himself, he lifted the heavy sword without noticeable strain, its tip angled towards Van Aubreck's heart.
 "What are you?" Van Aubreck hissed, fear showing in his voice. "You are no mere mortal… you can't be. No… no, you are something more. Are you some creature of Gregory's? What are you, and why do you stand against me?"
 The sword in Andre's hands quivered slightly with strain, but his face betrayed nothing, frozen in an almost inhuman mask of wrath. For a moment it looked as if he would not answer.
Finally, in a voice almost to soft to hear, he whispered. "I am what you fear most, Vampyre…"
"No!" howled Van Aubreck, his control shattering. "You are not an Angel! I know you lie! You cannot be!"
 Enraged, he lunged forward, clawed hands reaching for Andre's throat. Instinctively Andre brought the sword up between them, but Van Aubreck was far past caring. The tip of the sword punched in level with his waist, but angled up so that it hit his ribs in the back rather than sliding cleanly through. Relentlessly Van Aubreck pressed forward, carrying Andre backwards like driftwood caught in a wave. Unable to stop himself, Andre slammed backwards into a heavy table with a sickening crash.
 Finally given something to push against, Van Aubreck lunged forward again, pushing against the sword. Twisting inside him, the blade finally slid between two ribs, allowing Van Aubreck to slide down its length towards the stunned Andre. At the last moment Andre managed to throw up a leg to catching Van Aubreck's elbow, barely stopping the claws short of his throat. With a convulsive heave, Andre wrenched upwards on the sword's hilt, catapulting Van Aubreck away. The blade had opened the Vampyre from navel to sternum, before the bone had given enough resistance to throw him off. Stolen blood splashed across the floor as the Vampyre writhed in agony.
 Andre collapsed to the floor as well, doubled over and clutching his back. Somehow he had managed to hold on to the sword, its blade covered in gore. Rolling over onto his knees, Andre tried to rise, but his back spasmed, tumbling him down again. Blindly, he clawed at the broadsword, trying to use it as a crutch to regain his feet.
 Terrified despite Andre's wounds, Annette wasted precious moments convincing herself to finish him. Still barely able to get to his knees, Andre tried to twist to face her as she circled around behind him. Abruptly she stopped, letting out a shriek of pain as Jacques rammed his stake into her back. Though he had struck with all the force in his small body, the stake mere inches, causing pain, but nothing more.
 The shaft was ripped from Jacques' hands as Annette spun to face him. Reaching back, she pulled it free and threw it across the room, her eyes fixed on the child. He tried to look brave, but was trembling so hard he could barely stand. Throwing himself backwards, he tried to escape, but the Vampyre's reactions were much faster, cruel claws hooking through the cloth of his jacket. Dropping to one knee, she pulled the struggling child towards her, smiling at his terror.
 "Let me go!" Jacques screamed, his anger overcoming his panic. "Let me go, and I'll kill you like you did my father! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
 Holding him effortlessly, the Vampyre smiled. "If righteous anger was all that was needed to kill us, we would have died long ago, child. I am afraid that life is not like the stories they tell little children. There are no happy endings, and God does not protect all of his little sheep in the end…"
Flexing her other hand, she caressed the side of his face with the tips of her claws, laughing as he tried to bite at her fingers. Still laughing, she drew back her arm, and Jacques closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the inevitable. When it didn't come, he peeked out, to see that another hand had closed on her wrist.
"The poison of the Vampyre's touch may have stolen your soul, but you cannot blame anyone else for the loss of your humanity, woman." The priest's voice was soft, almost gentle, but his grip held firm as the Vampyre tried to pull away. "I swore that I would not become like you, that as my penance I would never take another's life by force. I thought to hold myself to a stricter standard, to prove I would follow God's will. Often I have wondered if I was wrong… perhaps it is time to sin again…"
Whatever violence Father Gregory had intended was cut short as Andre's sword smashed down on the Vampyre's shoulder, nearly cleaving it from her torso, leaving the priest holding a severed arm. Another swing and Jacques was free as well. Snatching up the child despite his objections, the priest turned away from what he knew would have to happen next.
"You can't do this… you can't!" Annette cowered, trying to scuttle away from the figure looming over her. "I haven't broken the rule, the one rule! As long as I never stand under the light of day, you can't hurt me!"
Andre looked down at her, the heavy sword held over his head. Despite her pleas, his face showed no pity.
"I'm not an Angel." He snarled.
Annette's scream was cut short by the sound of steel cutting into the wooden floor.

 From across the room Van Aubreck laughed. It was not a laugh that held any humor, or any scorn, or even any cruelty. It was a rueful laugh, the way someone laughs after they have made a terrible blunder, and they find it hard to realize that they had been so stupid. He had healed himself, evidenced by smooth flesh showing through the bloody rent in his jacket, but it had cost him. Blood to heal previous wounds, more to heal this one, and even more pooling on the floor.
 "Well, this was not the way I expected this to go." He chuckled, straitening his ruined clothes. "I thought we would have a nice night of murder, mayhem and slaughter, Gregory… I knew that we would have to remove your incorruptibles, but your pet demon here… well, that another matter. I wonder if you aren't as evil as we are… That's a compliment, mind you."
 Setting the child down, Father Gregory walked slowly toward the remaining Vampyre. "Now Van Aubreck, you cannot leave us now, like this. What about your comrades, your fellow miscreants?" The priest's voice was low, but unusually savage. "Alright, so we did cut off their heads, which is fairly hard to heal...." With a callous smile he kicked Jean-Paul's still twitching head towards Van Aubreck, making Jacques wince. "But really, I'm sure that if you dropped them in a bucket of blood for a while, they could eventually grow their bodies back." He stopped, still about ten feet from the Vampyre. "Come to think of it, if you kill us, their bodies are still here, which would be a lot easier. Otherwise you know what is going to happen- come dawn, the Angels will finish what we have started…"
 "Mortals are so naïve… But I must say that I am disappointed in you, Gregory. There is no honor among thieves, yet you think that I would risk eternal damnation just to save those two? Oh really now, Gregory. Don't be ridiculous. I hate to disappoint you, but finding new cohorts is not that difficult, I'm afraid." Gathering his tattered dignity, Van Aubreck gave them a short bow. "Gentlemen, I suggest that we call this a draw. Perhaps even a slight victory on your side. You have killed three of my Vampyre, but you have lost me. I am sure that we will have another game someday."
 "No." Tugging the tip of the broadsword out of the floor, Andre crossed half the room in several long strides.
 Turning to flee, the Vampyre snarled, lips drawing back to show long fangs. "I still don't know what you are, creature. Not human, yet not quite like one of us… No matter." His snarl turned into a mocking smile. "Like a mortal, you are weak and slow. You cannot stop me from leaving!"
 With a laugh he turned with unnatural speed to race through the door, only to come to skidding stop. Somehow the priest had gotten there before him, and stood leaning with his back against the door. Van Aubreck raised a clawed hand as if to strike, but the priest merely smiled, idly twiddling his crucifix in gloved hands.
 "You know," he murmured, arching his eyebrows, "I don't think that I am the one you should be worrying about…"
 Spinning away, Van Aubreck went for a window, only to find that Andre had closed the remaining distance. The sword opened a long furrow across the Vampyre's back before he was able to get clear. Trapped away from the door or windows, he snarled again, searching for an escape. While unskilled and overconfident before, he was not dumb. Realizing that he couldn't face Andre's sword unarmed, he leapt to the table, sweeping up two heavy candleholders.
Brandishing the brass candleholders like clubs, the Vampyre rushed in, hoping to overwhelm Andre with sheer speed and ferocity. Once again he was met with a wall of spinning steel, but this time the steel met brass instead of flesh., Andre knew that he couldn't keep up the furious pace for long, and was forced to shift to the offensive.
For a moment it seemed his skill would win out, as a solid blow sheered one of the candleholders in half, but then the counterstroke smashed into his elbow. He couldn’t tell if it was broken or not- it really didn't matter. The sword was too heavy for him already, and one-handed it was simply too slow. A second lightning strike landed, hitting his leg just below the knee with crushing force. Had he continued, Van Aubreck could probably have killed him, but he was too shaken by his previous defeats to risk it. Dropping the candleholders, he rushed for the window.
 Andre took a step to follow and felt his leg give out under him. With all his remaining energy he pushed off on his good leg, throwing himself into an all-out dive. Reaching with his right hand, he snapped the heavy blade out like whip, letting it slide through his fingers till all he held was the pommel. The whole length of his body, arm and sword lashed out in a singe line, straining to touch the fleeing Vampyre.
 The blade struck Van Aubreck in the neck, three or four inches from the tip. A move of desperation, it did not have the force to shear through, but did manage to lodge in the Vampyre's spine. Instantly lethal to any mortal, it managed to stun the Vampyre for a moment as he tried to rebuild severed nerves. Unable to stand in time, Andre jackknifed his body violently to one side, tumbling Van Aubreck almost onto his legs.
 Andre scrabbled for a better grip on the sword, but one-handed he simply couldn't apply enough force. Now the long blade's leverage worked against him- even with the hilt braced between his shoulder and good hand he wasn't strong enough to remove the Vampyre's head. His lips curled in a savage snarl as he saw the Van Aubreck stir, his clawed hands clenching spasmodically.
 "Ah, so that is what you are…" the Vampyre whispered, his windpipe still half-severed. "On the last day, I will see you in Hell, then!"
 "All men are monsters on the battlefield!" Andre growled in reply, still tugging uselessly on the sword.
 In desperation, Andre kicked forward with his good leg. There was a crunching sound but no blood as the boot smashed into the side of Van Aubreck's head. Driven with terrific force, the kick sheared the Vampyre's head off against the braced blade, not stopping until it hit steel itself. Van Aubreck's face cycled from gloating to disbelief to pure terror as he felt himself rolling away from his body.

 "We did it! We did it!" Jacques screamed in a frenzy of relief, prancing around the prone Andre. "I was so scared, Andre! I thought I was going to die so many times, but I didn't! We're alive!"
 "Yes, Jacques, we are alive." Andre's voice was soft, but something in his tone stilled the child. "We are alive, but you must always remember those that didn't. Remember them, so that you don't become a monster like the creatures we fought here. Life is precious, Jacques. Even if we have to kill, we do so only through necessity, never for pleasure. They had forgotten that, so God destroyed them…"
 Jacques dropped to his knees next to Andre, his face confused. "But God didn't destroy them, Andre… You did. God didn't send his Angels to protect me, or Father Moreau, or any of them. That terrible woman, she said that God didn't really protect his sheep, and that there are no happy endings." Jacques' eyes looked huge in the candlelight, his face earnest and suddenly frightened. "Why didn't God save us, Andre? Why did so many people have to die, and you get a chopped up? Weren't they evil, those people that killed my father?"
 Careful not the move the sword still embedded in his leg, Andre reached out, tracing the child's cheek with the back of his gloved hand. "Of course they were evil, Jacques. They were evil, and they deserved to die for the things that they did." He sighed, his face sad. "You see, Jacques, sometimes God doesn't do things directly. Now, I'm not saying that he can't, just that sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he sends people to do the things that he has to have done. So that is why I had to do the fighting this time, and sometimes it costs us more that we would like…"
 "Now, in this case, I am pretty badly hurt. Neither of my legs are working well- one 'cause of him, and one 'cause of me." Smiling, he patted the child's leg lightly. "What I need is for someone with two good legs to go down to Master Durant's house, and get me some bandages and ointments. Do you think that you could do that for me, Jacques? I would ask Father Gregory to go, but he is the only one here strong enough to help me up, and I imagine you are faster anyway."
 Immediately Jacques' face brightened. "I'll go really fast, Andre!" He said, leaping to his feet. "I know the way, even in the dark! I'm sure that there are no more monsters out there tonight!"
 "Jacques!" Andre snapped, halting the boy before he got out of the room. "Listen, Jacques, I want you to go out the back door. When you come back, too." Andre smiled reassuringly as Jacques' confused look. "I want you to stay out of the front room until it gets cleaned up, Jacques. Do you understand?"
 A shadow passed over Jacques face as he nodded, but then he was gone, running down the corridor. Andre sighed tiredly, scrubbing sweat and hair out of his face. Looking over at the priest, he saw that Father Gregory had gathered up the heads of the Vampyres, and had set them on the table near one of the windows. Andre thought that was a little cruel of him, but then again, they had all been hunting each other for a while.

 Walking over to Andre, the priest crouched down next to him. Initially Andre's hand tightened on the grip of the sword as the priest reached for it, but then he sighed again and forced himself to relax. As gently as he could, Father Gregory pulled the blade out from where it was embedded in Andre's leg. A little blood dribbled out as the sword came free, but not nearly as much as should have. Sitting back on his heels, the priest shook his head. In the candlelight his eyes were very dark and sad.
 "I guess I really knew already…" the priest murmured, his voice dull. "To kill one Vampyre was phenomenal, but then to come back and kill three more? You had no blessing, but none of their powers worked on you… because you were already one of them."
 "One of them. You make is sound like I was walking in the king's garden, and arbitrarily decided to condemn my soul to the pits of Hell." Andre grimaced, but there was no real anger in his voice. Already the tips of his incisors had grown- eventually they would turn to fangs as long as Van Aubreck's.
"The first one bit me. On the arm, while I was trying to hold it off after my sword broke. I guess it bit me again while I was sawing its head off, I don't really remember." Andre looked to the priest for reassurance, his face stricken. "I wasn't going to become one of them, Father! At first I didn't believe you- They seemed like small enough wounds. I have taken many worse ones in the past. But then, after I realized that what you had said was true, and that I wouldn't be able to keep myself from using that power to save myself, I intended to kill myself first."
Reaching out with his good hand, Andre pointed at the knife, still lying near Jean-Paul's body. "I had the knife all ready, and was about to do the deed…" he complained in a plaintive tone. "But then they come, and all the screaming started. What was I supposed to do, Father? I went out to check, and everyone was already dead. Even then, I was just going to go back and do myself in. But they were going to go after Jacques, and you can't fight…"
"Oh Andre…" Father Gregory's face twisted with a private pain, but Andre didn't see. "I understand why you did it. But my son, you transgressed the edict of God. Committed an unforgivable sin…"
Still looking down, Andre began pulling off his stained gloves. "But Father, I was doing a good deed, wasn't I?" He looked up to see Father Gregory's slow nod. "Doesn't that count for anything? I would have killed myself before, it… happened, except that they were intending to torture the child to death! Even after I tried to fight them, I could have just let myself die, rather than use the power to keep myself fighting. But that would have been just as pointless, wouldn't it?"
With a final tug, Andre tugged the glove off his left hand, wincing at the pain from the shattered elbow. His face filled with despair as he saw that from each finger, a wicked claw had begun to grow.
"What a fool I am. I tried to act as God's agent, and what do I find?" He barked a short laugh, but it was an ugly sound, full of mockery and self-loathing. "All I have done is turn myself into one of them. A horrid creature, a mockery of God's image, with fangs and claws…"
"Shhh, my son." The priest reached out to comfort Andre, but stopped before he actually touched him. "You are too hard on yourself. "You saved the child from a pointless, agonizing death. Even now I know that you are trying to spare him the pain of seeing what will come next. Those are not the acts of an enemy of God. As to the claws… they do not make you evil. The animals have claws, and so do the Angels. God does not love them any less."
"But what about me, Father?" Andre cried, his voice trembling. "I have broken his laws, I know. But I only waited because I wanted to do a good deed first, to save an innocent child… I know I should have died, but surely God will not condemn me for waiting to do that? Doesn't that count for something?"
Andre looked to the priest, but Father Gregory couldn't meet his eyes. Uncomfortable, the priest stood and shuffled around the room, searching for what words to say. The candles were almost gone, their flickering light throwing shadows across the room.
"Perhaps it will, Andre." Father Gregory said finally, turning back to face him. "Perhaps when you are judged by God, he will look at the reasons why you have done what you did. We are taught that he is merciful and that he loves us like his children. Perhaps he will look on all the things that you have done in your life, and will realize that you are a good person, and that you only transgressed his law because you were trying to do the right thing…"
"But Andre," He continued, his voice sad, "here on the Earth it will not matter. You are becoming a Vampyre, and when that transformation is complete, you will fall under God's condemnation, just as Van Aubreck did. I know that it doesn't seem fair, and that we don't understand why, but there is no way to change that. Perhaps if you could talk to God, plead your case… But you can't do that."
Coming back across the room, he crouched next to Andre again. "All you can do it try to show that you were trying to obey him. You said yourself that you should have died- don't wait around till some Angel destroys you. Go to God now, before you have committed any more sins. Plead to him that you only transgressed to save Jacques, that you never meant to become immortal. Show him that you were not stealing his gift, but that you only borrowed in need!"
Andre's face went suddenly pale, but Father Gregory continued with more fervor. "Right now all you have done is to delay your death. You have hidden your face from the Angels, have not drank the blood of any mortals. If you die now, perhaps God can forgive you. But if you stay here, you are going to prove your guilt through your own existence, regardless of whether or not it is your fault."
"But what if it is not enough? What if God will not forgive me?" Andre's voice was tense and afraid. "Once I am dead, I can't come back down again. I will spend eternity in Hell… Perhaps I should wait and see if God sends Angels to bar me from Heaven. Maybe… Maybe if he is going to forgive me he will give me a sign that he has not condemned me…"
"Please, my child, trust me. That is not the way." Again, Father Gregory's voice held a deep sadness. "Your very existence is an offense to God. No matter what you do, not matter what great deeds you accomplish, he will not forgive that."
"But Father, what about the Vampyre that you spoke of, the one at the Vatican. You said that he had dedicated his life to serving God, even though he could never become a real priest." While still tense, now Andre's voice held despair. "You said that he had been there for years, had given you all the information that you use to hunt the Vampyre with. Surely God will forgive him, eventually? He is immortal, as I am. He has eternity to atone. He must know that God will eventually forgive him, or what would be the point of all that suffering? He must know."
"You have no idea how much I wish I could tell you yes, my child, but I cannot." The bleak, terrible sadness in the priest's voice convinced Andre more than his words ever could. "He knows, he has known for many years now, that God will never accept him again. Some sins can never be forgiven. He is just too… afraid to take the final step."
Andre's voice was little more than a whisper. "Do you think that God will forgive me, Father?"
"I do not know, child. I cannot know the mind of God." Father Gregory's voice was scarcely louder than Andre's had been. "All I can say is to throw yourself on the mercy of the Lord. If he will not grant it to you, than nothing that you do, no matter how long you live, will change that."
 Steeling himself, Andre sat up, still cradling his shattered elbow. "I guess I knew that, from the beginning. That is why I sent Jacques away, after all. Take care of him, Father. He has seen more here than any child should. I don't know what effect it will have on him, but he will need someone to guide him." For a moment he became introspective. "I tried to do this before, when I was alone. I don't know if I would have succeeded before, and now, with these wounds… and these powers, it is even worse. I know that this is a terrible thing to ask, but… can you help me, Father?"
 "Of course, my son." Moving around behind the seated man, Father Gregory's face and voice were still. "Believe me, I have committed worse sins- I could do no less for you than I do for my own incorruptibles. I have helped others before, though never so far advanced."
Kneeling behind the seated man, he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Reaching up with other hand, he removed his silver crucifix from around his neck, and dropped it into Andre's lap.
"All you need to do, Andre, is concentrate on not healing yourself. I will do the rest. Believe me, that may be the hardest thing that you have ever had to do. Hold the cross, my child- it will burn, for it is blessed, and holds the power of God, but it will not really harm you. Focus on that pain, and ignore what I must do. Remember that the pain that you feel is proof that there is a God, and that you are willingly going to him."
In front of him, Father Gregory saw Andre pick up the cross, and quickly drop it as it burned his fingers. Taking a deep breath, Andre closed his eyes and leaned his head back, exposing his throat. Fumbling slightly, he found the cross again and picked it up. His hand trembled again for a moment, but then he clamped down hard, the tendons in his hand showing the strain.
Reaching into his robe, the priest pulled out the crucifix dagger. Careful not to make any noise, he unsheathed the blade. For a moment he paused, looking at the man in front of him, before coming to a decision. Setting the dagger down, he quickly but carefully removed his own gloves, setting them down on the floor at his side.
Gently he placed hand back on Andre's shoulder, careful not to catch anything with the claws. Picking up the dagger again, he silently grimaced, showing fangs with tips that had been broken off, years ago.
"Forgive me for what I must do now, my son." He murmured, his voice showing no pain, or any emotion other than concern. "Believe me, there is no other way. Are you ready?"
"Make it quick, Father…" Andre hissed.
 
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