Innocent Blood(105)

Yet when he turned his ear to the priests around him, he heard nothing.

Only a dreadful silence.

Was he so cut off from the grace of God that he could not hear holy heartbeats, only those of soulless beasts in the field?

Despairing his fate, he went limp in the priests’ hands. His lips formed desperate prayers. Still, all the while, he wished only to tear out these priests’ throats and bathe his face in their blood. The prayers did nothing to quiet this bloodlust. His teeth continued to chatter with longing.

Desire burned hotter than anything he had ever felt, fiercer than any love for his family, even his love for God.

The priests carried him back to the monastery, where moments before he had left as an innocent, a seminary student about to swear his holy vows. They stopped in front of a clean, bare wall that transformed into a door. During his years here, he had never known of its existence.

He had known so little of everything.

The priests bore him below to where a familiar figure sat at a desk holding a goose quill: Father Bernard, his mentor, his counselor in all things. It seemed Rhun’s lessons were not yet finished.

“We bring him to you, Father,” said the priest holding his right arm. “He was felled in the cemetery, but he has tasted no other blood.”

“Leave him to me.”

The same priest refused. “He is in a dangerous state.”

“I know this as well as you.” Bernard rose from his desk. “Leave us.”

“As you wish.”

The priest released Rhun’s arm, dropping him to the stone floor, and headed away, drawing his brethren with him. Rhun lay there a long moment, breathing in the smells of stone, mildew, and old rushes.

Bernard remained silent.

Rhun hid his face from his mentor. He loved Bernard more than he had ever loved his own father. The priest had taught him of wisdom, kindness, and faith. Bernard was the man Rhun had always aspired to become.

But right now all Rhun knew was that he must slake his thirst or die trying. In one bound, he closed the space between them, knocking them both to the floor.

Bernard fell under him, his body strangely cold.

Rhun lunged for his neck, but his prey moved with an unearthly speed, rolling from Rhun’s grasp and standing next to him. How could he be so quick?

“Be careful, my son.” Bernard’s rich voice was calm and steady. “Your faith is your most precious gift.”

A hiss started low in Rhun’s throat. Faith meant nothing now. Only blood mattered.

He sprang again.

Bernard caught him and bore him down to the floor. Rhun struggled, but the older man pinned him against the tiles, proving himself far stronger, stronger than the beast who had changed him, even stronger than the priests who had carried him.

Father Bernard was as hard as stone.

Was this strength proof of God’s might against the evil inside of Rhun?

But his body raged against such thoughts. Throughout the long night, Rhun continued to battle this priest, refusing to listen, trying always to gain a mouthful of his precious blood.

The old man would not be taken.

Eventually, Rhun’s body weakened—but not from exhaustion.

“You feel the approach of dawn,” Bernard explained, holding him, pinning him. “Unless you accept Christ’s love, you will always weaken with the morning, as will you die if the pure light of sun shines upon you.”

A great weariness grew inside of Rhun, weighing down his limbs.

“You must listen, my son. You may view your new state as a curse, but it is a blessing for you. For the world.”

Rhun scoffed. “I have become an unholy beast. I yearn for evil. It is no blessing.”

“You can become more than what you are.”

Bernard’s voice held simple certainty.

“I wish nothing more than to drink your blood, to kill you,” Rhun warned, as his strength ebbed even further. He could barely lift his head now.

“I know how you feel, my son.”

Bernard finally loosened his grip, and Rhun slid to the floor.

On his hands and knees like a dog, Rhun mumbled to the tiles. “You cannot know of the lust inside of me. You are a priest. This evil is beyond your ken.”

Bernard shook his head, drawing Rhun’s eye. His white hair shone in the light of the dying candle. “I am like you.”

Rhun closed his eyes, disbelieving. He was so tired.

Bernard shook Rhun until he opened his eyes again. The old priest drew Rhun’s face to his own, as if to kiss him. Bernard parted those lips in invitation—but long sharp teeth greeted Rhun.

Rhun gaped at his mentor, a man whom he had known many years, a man who was never a man—but a beast.

“I have hungered as you have, my son.” Bernard’s deep voice filled Rhun with calm. “I have indulged evil appetites.”