Prologue
1873

Cold rain fell on the cobblestones, mixing with the blood in the alley behind Saint Bartholomew’s Church.

Sister Mary put the kettle on the stove, hoping that in a moment the screech of the steam would block out the screams in the alleys and tenements behind the church. She dared a peek out between the window shutters and immediately wished she hadn’t. The smoke rose anew from burning hovels in the vampire quarters that filled the narrow streets behind Saint Bartholomew’s, rising into the dark sky.

Out of the smoke she saw a man dragging step after step through the uneven cobblestone alley toward the church. He was carrying the body of a woman, drenched in rain and blood.

Quickly Sister Mary ran to the rear door, throwing it open to a rush of rain and wind. As he came closer, she recognized Martin, the quiet black man who helped Mr. Crockett with the grounds around Saint Bartholomew’s. In his arms…it could not be Melody, Martin’s sweet wife? The skin of her bared shoulder, normally the color of coffee with the slightest touch of cream, was blackened and blistered, streams of garish-red blood leaking through the crinkled burns.

“Sister, please,” Martin pleaded. “Let us in.”

Theresa, a young novitiate, appeared in the hallway with Sister Mary. “Come in, Martin,” Sister Mary said, and moved to take Melody from him. The poor man was covered in blood and seemed about to fall down.

The novitiate stood still in the doorway. Sister Mary shot a glance over at her. “Theresa, you come over here and help now.”

Theresa sidled past Martin and helped lift Melody’s legs. As they carried Melody through the doorway, Theresa whispered, “I thought they couldn’t enter a church.”

“Be silent, girl,” Sister Mary said in a tone more harsh than she intended.

Martin made the sign of the cross before he entered the abbey.

Sister Mary lay Melody out on the kitchen table as another scream rose from the vampire quarters. “There is evil in this city tonight,” she said, checking the kettle. “Are you well?”

“I’ll be all right, ma’am,” Martin said, dropping into a kitchen chair. “I stopped them before they finished Melody.”

Theresa gasped. “You struck them? Humans?”

Martin dropped his eyes. “White humans, ma’am.”

“Theresa, go and wake the father,” Sister Mary commanded, and the girl gratefully fled from the kitchen. “You must forgive the girl, Martin. She is new to the city and has just begun preparation for vows. I believe you and Melody are the first vampires she has ever seen. All this is strange to her.”

“Strange to me too, ma’am,” Martin said. “We don’t carry the yellow fever. They must know that.”

The kettle began to screech and Sister Mary quickly poured it into a small bowl. She began to clean the rain and dirt from Melody’s wounds with the heated wet cloth. “They know nothing,” she said forcefully. “They know they are afraid, they are dying, and you are…”

“Safe,” Martin said, and made a tired, sarcastic sound that was almost a laugh. “From the fever, at least.” It hurt Sister Mary’s heart a little to hear such defeat in Martin’s voice. He was always cheerful, a quiet man who ignored the terrible things people would say to him as he went about his job on the church grounds.

Suddenly there was another pounding at the back door. Martin was on his feet instantly as Sister Mary swept past him to the door.

“We know there’s one in there, Sister!” a hoarse voice rose. It was Crockett, well-drunk by the sound of it, and there were others with him. Torchbearers. Sister Mary could smell the sweet, hideous scent of burning flesh and wood wafting from the quarters through the church windows.

“Be on your way, Mr. Crockett! This is the house of the Lord!” Sister Mary commanded through the door.

Behind her, she saw Martin pick up Melody’s unmoving form and disappear into the church.

Father Sweeney raced down the hallway, uncharacteristically clad in a dressing gown. Sister Mary could not recall ever seeing the austere priest in anything other than his black robes.

“This is God’s sanctuary!” the priest shouted through the door. “You shall not bring evil here!”

They slammed something against the wooden door. It began to splinter right away. Father Sweeney pulled Sister Mary back just in time as the door broke free. Behind them, the nuns had come, standing together in the small foyer. Crockett stood there with at least nine large men, smelling of burnt wood and whiskey.

“This is a sanctuary!” Father Sweeney protested again, and they shoved him out of the way. Theresa stumbled backward and burst into tears, but the other nuns stood together in trembling resolve. The men ignored them, shoving them inside. They overturned tables and wrenched open large cabinets, storming into the warm, quiet abbey with their boots and cloaks soaked in rain and blood.

Sister Mary ran after Crockett toward the church sanctuary, praying that Martin had found a place to hide in the attic. But when she passed through the stone archway, her heart sank.

Between the gleaming white pillars, Martin knelt alone before the marble altar, murmuring prayer. The statues of saints looked down on him, their faces shrouded in shadow. Above him, the golden cross gleamed mellow and serene in the flickering candlelight.

Father Sweeney stumbled in from the hallway next to Sister Mary, a thin trickle of blood staining his forehead. Crockett surged forward.

“No!” Sister Mary protested, pulling at Crockett’s arm, but he pulled away easily and used his torch to club Martin over the head before the altar.

“This thing don’t deserve sanctuary!” Crockett shouted to Sister Mary as several more of his friends shoved past her into the church. “It’s him and his kind brought the sickness! They’ll rule this earth when we’re all dead if’n we don’t stop it!”

Crockett dragged Martin’s unresisting form down the aisle. Father Sweeney ran after him, grabbing for Martin’s arm in a hideous tug-of-war beneath the saddened eyes of the saints, watching in dark reflections from the stained-glass windows.

Then one of the torchbearers struck Father Sweeney—struck the priest right in the house of the Lord, Sister Mary’s mind whispered to her in horror—and they dragged Martin out of the church.

Sister Mary ran out the church door to the white marble steps outside, now stained with Martin’s blood. They were beating him with sticks and rocks, kicking him with their large boots on the lawn in front of the church. “Stop! Stop, you’re killing him!” she cried. “Help! Someone, please help!”

There was no one. The streets were empty save for a single shadow of a man vanishing back into the warren of slums beyond the reach of the streetlights. No one would be caught out of doors on this night of insanity, and no one would come to help a stranger. A black man. A vampire.

“There is blood on the church!” Sister Mary screamed, and for a second, she had their attention. She stood before the dark sanctuary above the streaks of Martin’s blood, garishly bright against the white marble. Tears streamed from her eyes. “If you do this, his blood is on you! On all of us! Forever!”

That seemed to catch them for just a second. Then Martin’s eyes opened. Crockett let out a scream borne of fury and fear and shoved a torch into Martin’s midsection.

“No!” Sister Mary screamed, but they ignored her, jabbing at the flailing vampire with their own torches, shouting and cheering as his skin began to burn. Martin screamed, and the sound of his scream echoed down the cobblestone street and through Sister Mary into the church itself, seeming to echo inside her heart as it grew inside the church behind her.

The fire lit up the front of Saint Bartholomew’s in dancing shadows and darkness, casting an unearthly jittering glow into the sanctuary. Unable to watch any longer, Sister Mary turned away from the horrible vision on the steps.

Behind the altar, the woman Sister Mary had known as Melody rose up, her blackened skin bleeding anew beneath the tattered remains of her dress. She stepped before the cross itself, moving down the aisle in the dancing glow cast by her husband’s fire.

She walked past the staggering Father Sweeney, stopping beside Sister Mary’s pleading, tearful face. She watched the fire and the unheeding men cheering it, and it lit in her own dark, unfathomable eyes.


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