The vampire was still trapped.
The chains held his wrists and neck. The symbols on the walls glowed pale blue along with the strange crucifix. The creature moved, but couldn't get free, while its black eyes stared at Maristela.
Mother Teresa was bleeding, breathing heavily, her left arm broken at a wrong angle. Her right arm pressed against the open wound.
"Maristela," her voice came out tired, dragged, "in the corner… the second drawer of the cabinet. Get the chalice. And the knife on the floor."
Maristela's legs still trembled. She forced herself to walk. Her arm reached out, her fingers closed around the cold iron handle. The drawer creaked open.
Inside, a chalice of dark silver. Small. Engraved with symbols she didn't recognize.
On the floor, the hummingbird knife. The short blade still gleamed, stained with black blood.
Maristela took both.
Mother Teresa approached the vampire. The knife rose.
"I'll cut his wrist. You'll fill the chalice."
The cut was simple and fast. It almost seemed like Mother Teresa was used to it.
Black blood flowed.
It wasn't like human blood. It was thick, dense, like oil. It flowed slowly, with the texture of honey or molasses. Liquid, but it seemed rancid, heavy, as if it didn't want to come out.
Maristela held the chalice. The black blood filled the silver chalice.
"Mother," Maristela's voice came out thin, "what is the blood for?"
"So you won't get caught." Mother Teresa took a deep breath, her eyes watering with pain. "You're part of this now."
"Why me?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. None of this makes sense, damn it."
She tore a piece of her habit, a dry cloth. The blood in the chalice smelled of rotting fruit, spoiled meat, and lavender. The rest corrupted the smell of lavender—sweet and nauseating at the same time.
Mother Teresa offered the chalice to Maristela.
"Drink."
Maristela stepped back half a pace.
"Why didn't you drink, Mother?"
Mother Teresa shook her head.
"Even if I drank, I wouldn't be able to fight. And I'm too injured."
Maristela hesitated.
"STOP WHIMPERING AND DRINK HIS BLOOD, DAMN IT!"
The mother's voice was a shock, a scream from a dying woman's body.
'Don't trust her' — the Orphan whispered in her ear.
If I don't trust her, what's left for me?
Maristela tipped the chalice with the black blood.
The blood was ice cold. And Maristela felt it didn't go down to her stomach. It got stuck in her chest, in a part of her body she didn't know the name of.
Her muscles began to feel heavy.
She stepped back a few steps, trying to balance. Her hand grabbed Mother Teresa's bed for support.
Maristela fell to her knees. Her hands found the floor as the world around her went dark.
She saw everything around her in shades of gray and black. Color disappeared, and something was beside her, as it had always been beside her. A shadow.
Her own shadow beside her. Same size, same shape. But the face was different — it was hers, but the eyes were bright yellow, two slits of fire in the dark.
And the shadow smiled.
And it had teeth. Three rows of teeth coming out of its own mouth, like a shark.
Maristela's shadow had become a predator. It whispered:
'One more sip and I'll eat you too. Let's play a little.'
Her body felt different. It didn't tremble anymore.
The world seemed less heavy and less oppressive.
"Mother, I don't…"
"It's not about you." The mother's voice was firm. "It's about who will be protected by you."
Tears ran down Maristela's face.
I need to go, to keep the others safe. I can make it. I need to make it.
Clapping.
Slow. Measured. Striking once, twice, three times.
Coming from the door.
Maristela turned her head.
A man in a suit was there. Leaning against the doorframe. Watching. Waiting.
She could see he wasn't in a hurry. He hadn't roared. He hadn't pounded on the door. He just clapped — like someone watching a show.
Maristela understood that he was also a thing, a creature, a vampire.
The man took three steps and entered the room, looking at the vampire trapped in the chains. He was five meters from Maristela and Mother Teresa.
"The nun got you good, Silvo," he said, his voice calm, almost polite.
"And to think Domingos would send us here for so much trouble…"
His black eyes scanned the room. The chains. The bound vampire. The silver chalice. Mother Teresa, pale, bleeding.
And then his eyes stopped on Maristela.
"Are you the novice who bit the priest?" The man in the elegant suit said, with a smile.
"Are you sure you're human, girl?"
The man touched the chains around the vampire's neck. His hand also smoked in that moment.
"Why are you after me?" Maristela said, keeping her distance and protecting Mother Teresa with her own body. "Why did the priest try to kill me? Who are you?"
The man stopped, looked at Maristela, and smiled. A smile that couldn't be human. He took two more steps. Four meters.
"We didn't come for you. We came for the priest. And he was already dead when we arrived. And the safe was empty. Why would Domingos need a child?"
Maristela felt anger rise in her chest. The same anger she'd felt when Father Dan squeezed her neck. The anger of being irrelevant and having her life discarded by the powerful.
The man took two steps forward. He was now three meters from Maristela and Mother Teresa.
She positioned herself in front of Mother Teresa. The hummingbird knife pointed at his chest. The short blade trembled in her hand, but she didn't step back.
"Stay away from her," her voice came out strange, calmer than it should have been. "Thing."
Flávius smiled.
The smile had no warmth. It was the expression of someone who had just found a new toy.
"ON YOUR KNEES."
The scream came like a punch to the skull. Maristela felt something enter through her mouth, through her nostrils, through her eyes — an invisible worm that devoured all her thoughts, one by one, until nothing remained.
Except one word.
Kneel.
The muscles in her legs lost their strength. The floor rushed up to meet her knees. The knife was still in her hand — but she no longer controlled her fingers. It was as if she had become a shirt thrown on the floor. Used. Disposable.
Flávius took a step forward.
"You almost got away, little rat. I'll give you that."
Mother Teresa moved her good hand.
The symbol on the floor — the Ankh — glowed a different color. Ice blue. And the chains on the wall responded. The trapped vampire felt his own mouth forced open, his jaws separating as if someone were tearing them apart.
"Fláv… Flávius," he choked, his voice coming out wet, strangled. "The hunter… she…"
"I know, Silvo." Flávius didn't even look at his companion. "She's a blood witch."
He took three quick steps toward Mother Teresa. But on the third step, something stopped him. The air in front of him became solid — and his hand began to catch fire. White flames, without smoke, rose his forearm without consuming his clothes, but that made his skin blacken.
Flávius stepped back. The flames went out.
"A barrier," he said, his voice now with a tone of dangerous amusement. "Hiding in the corner is your idea of salvation?"
Blood dripped from Mother Teresa's mouth. Bright red, human, warm. It ran down her chin, dripped onto her torn habit, mixed with the dirt and soot.
Maristela saw Mother Teresa grow paler. Paler than before. The mother's eyes were focused on Flávius, but her pupils trembled.
"Mother," Maristela tried to get up. Her legs wouldn't respond. The command still echoed in her bones.
So she used her arms. Crawled. Scraped her knees on the rough floor. Reached Mother Teresa.
"Mother, what…"
Flávius didn't move. He just watched. As if he had all the time in the world.
"Eighteen novices," he began to count. His voice was calm. Methodical. "Nine nuns. Four friars. One mother superior. One dead prior."
He paused. Looked into Mother Teresa's eyes.
"I want you to remember where you are. Remember what lies behind the doors of this convent. Remember what I can be capable of."
Another pause. Silence filled the air like water filling a grave.
"And I want you to answer just one thing."
Mother Teresa didn't blink. Didn't breathe. She just waited.
Maristela held her breath.
The silence lasted one second. Maybe two.
And then Flávius changed.
His pale skin turned gray, like dry clay. His eyes went completely black, with only two points glowing with a blue light. Black veins appeared on his face, going down his neck, disappearing under the impeccable suit.
His mouth opened in a smile that was no longer human. His teeth deformed, grew, twisted outward — like a wild boar's tearing through the flesh of his own face.
And then the scream came.
"WHERE ARE THE COINS?!"
The voice vibrated through the walls, through the furniture, through Maristela's bones. The oil lamps flickered. The Ankh on the floor glowed red for an instant — and then went dark.