Page 30 of Of Faith and Fangs
I staggered back, the room spinning around me. “Oh God,” I whispered, though the evocation of God sent jolts like lightning through my skull. “Oh God, what have I done?”
Silas stood watching, his expression a calculated mix of disappointment and something else—something that looked horribly like satisfaction. He slid his dagger back into its sheath with deliberate slowness.
“Control yourself, Nightwalker,” he said, his voice stern but his eyes gleaming. “This is not what we trained for. I thought I forbade you from drinking directly from a human.”
“But you cut her, you meant me to—“
“No excuse!” Silas’ voice boomed, almost rattling the dead woman’s cabin. “These missions will often involve struggle. You must resist the temptation to feed in the presence of blood! You have enough evil within you to atone for as it is. The more you kill like this, like a vampire and feed, the more you’ll have to atone properly. The Lord will only accept these sacrifices as whole-burnt offerings.”
All words. A charade, carefully crafted. He wanted me to believe I’d made an error. I’d added to my guilt, binding me more to the Order and their promise of redemption.
Did he really want me to believe this had been an accident? The careful way he’d cut her arm. The strategic step backward.
He had meant for this to happen.
“You knew,” I whispered, wiping blood from my mouth with a trembling hand. “You knew I would—“
“I knew your nature could overcome your training,” he corrected smoothly. “A regrettable weakness, but one we must work to correct.”
He knelt beside the dead woman, making a show of checking for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. His fingers came away stained with her blood, and I saw him subtly rub them together, testing its consistency.
“The Order will be disappointed,” he continued. “Our mission was to interrogate her about her coven. She could have led us to other witches in exchange for an easy death. Do not mistake my resolve. She needed to die, but we must be judicious about it.”
Lies. All lies. I could see it now in the satisfied set of his shoulders, the careful way he was constructing this narrative.
“She wasn’t what you said,” I managed, my voice barely audible. “She was praying. That was the Lord’s Prayer.”
Silas stood towering over me. “Many witches hide behind false piety, Alice. It was a desperate ruse to deceive us at the last minute. You of all people should know that. Didn’t Mercy Brown attend your father’s church? Didn’t she have a bible at her bedside in the sanitorium?”
The mention of Mercy sent a fresh wave of confusion through me. Mercy, who had seemed so kind. Clearly, Silas used her name for a purpose. Mercy was the one I’d tried to save, but couldn’t. She was the one who bit me, who made me what I was. He wasn’t wrong—a part of me wanted revenge, even as I still pitied her.
“We must leave,” Silas said, already ushering me to the door.
“You’re not going to burn the body?” I asked.
Silas huffed. “Other members of the order will take care of it. You are in too fragile a condition, too vulnerable.”
I remained frozen, staring at the woman’s lifeless form. The herbs hanging above her—common plants for healing, just like the ones Mama had used. The symbol on her door—no different from decorations I’d seen in Christian homes. The prayer on her dying lips—the same one I’d recited every night of my human life.
Chapter 14
The abandoned mill loomed against the moonlit sky, its broken windows like empty eye sockets in a decaying skull. Two weeks had passed since the cabin, since I’d drained that woman dry while her Christian prayers died on her lips. I’d barely spoken to Silas since then, but silence was its own kind of communication. He knew I suspected him. He simply didn’t care. “Another witch,” he’d said this morning, sliding a crude map across the table. “More dangerous than the last.” His eyes had held a challenge, and God help me, beneath my dread lurked a shameful anticipation.
The great wheel of the mill hung motionless above the stagnant river. Rust had frozen its mechanisms decades ago, though water still trickled through the rotting paddles. Silas moved ahead of me, his dagger already drawn. I followed with a reluctance that wasn’t entirely feigned.
“She’s skilled in fire manipulation,” Silas whispered as we approached the mill’s sagging door. “The Order believes she’s responsible for three house fires in Providence. Children died, Alice.”
I nodded, but doubt had taken root. “What evidence do we have?”
Silas’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been over this. The Order doesn’t require your approval of its intelligence. Do not forget, Alice. That we are offering you this chance at redemption is a mercy we’re not required to offer. It’s only on account of your past faithfulness, and for your father’s sake, we’ve agreed to allow you this chance to save your soul.”
“Right.” I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore, but what else could I do?
Inside the mill was a hollow cathedral of dust and shadow. Machinery stood like forgotten altars, and the floor was littered with debris from the collapsed upper level. Our footsteps echoed despite our caution. If anyone was hiding here, they already knew we’d come.
She emerged from behind a massive gear assembly—a red-haired woman in her forties, her face lined with exhaustion rather than malice. Her hands rose immediately.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said. “I’m just seeking shelter.”
