Obviously, the central character does not belong to me. The films and book do not describe how she reacts to Christian iconography, so I have assumed she reacts in the classical manner of a vampire. All else follows from that.

In The Beginning

Summer 1643 – Part 1

These days, the executions were held as the night began. From his position at the side of the execution stand Father Owen could see the apprehensive faces of the crowd, lit by torches around them. The pyre behind them had just been lit and they would soon be hard to see in the glare. But they would have a view that was intended to be instructive.

The prisoner was brought on to the stand by four guards. Usually they struggled wildly, but this one was quiet and unresisting. He held a crucifix the length of his arm in his left hand, and Father Owen noticed that his knuckles were white. The rope around his left foot was tied to a ring bolted to the center of the stand. They were almost ready to receive the executioner. Three of the guards moved away to their posts at the corners of the stand, while their chief announced to the crowd the prisoners name and sentence for heresy. He was to be burnt, but as an act of clemency by the Prince-Bishop, not until after he was dead. Father Owen had to wonder just how grateful the prisoner was for this mercy.

He heard an inhuman scream fall from above. He flinched. As it echoed around the square he felt naked, frozen in the sight of something irresistible and merciless. After a moment to recover he looked up, to see silhouetted black wings, circling under the dark blue sky of twilight. The wings circled lower and lower, until it became clear that they belonged to no bird. Something black,000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 and featherless. It gave another cry, almost deafeningly loud. There was a brief impression of black-skinned wings and black fur as the creature swept low over the crowd, which ducked with instinctive fear. The stand jumped beneath him with the impact of its landing. Its body was invisible beneath its cloaking wings. The wings drew back into an ordinary black cloak the creature was wearing. The hood of that cloak was thrown back to reveal the head of a young girl of eleven or twelve, with skin as white and smooth as milk.

She was very pretty, standing there in the flickering firelight. To Father Owen she looked like a child of angels, rather than of woman and man. The firelight glinted off her hair. Around her neck she wore a simple wooden cross.

The executioner had arrived.

The prisoner kept as far away from her as the rope would permit, eyes fixed on her, and holding the cross out rigidly in front of him. She turned to face him, saw the cross, and flinched. She circled him, and he circled her, as far from her as possible. Sometimes she moved unexpectedly to his left or right, trying to get to him without looking at or touching the cross. Always he moved it desperately to face her, and fended her off for the moment. She was playing with him. She moved far too quickly for him, but always gave him time to bring the cross to bear. But she was not playing when she flinched. Father Owen could see the sudden pain on her face when she saw the cross directly. She tried to keep the prisoner and his cross in the corner of her vision.

Father Owen could see something that she could not. The prisoners hand was moving towards something he had kept from the guards. A knife that he flung straight at her face. She caught it carefully, but with ease. After a moments examination, she threw it to the feet of the guard who was supposed to have searched the prisoner.

The prisoner showed no emotion at the failure of his gambit, and kept his eyes fixed on her.

She glanced towards Father Owen, and for a moment she appeared slightly uncertain. He gave her a tiny, encouraging nod. She glanced back towards the prisoner, and struck. Before he could react his left arm was broken with a crack that could be heard at the back of the crowd and she was leaping onto him, wrapping her arms and legs around him, pinning his arms to his body. Her teeth closed around his right carotid artery as his crucifix fell to the ground. She drank. He stood there for an astonishing time before he fell to his knees, and she continued to drink.

Eventually she released her bite, and her grip. She took a deep breath, holding his body up with one outstretched hand. She looked towards Father Owen, and smiled with childish pride. A single bloody droplet fell from her lips.

She turned to face the crowd and then, with an easy strength, used her remaining hand to twist her victims head around, until it came off. Hardly a drop of blood fell from its empty veins. She threw it over the crowd, on to the pyre behind them. Then his heart. And then she grew wings and claws once more and, like a black and blood soaked angel, flew over the crowd carrying the remains of her victims body, until she dropped it to fall in to the burning pyre, and flew off into the gathering night.