Author's Note: Please forgive my longer-than-planned hiatus. I am in school again, and as such I don't have as much time as I would like to write. This chapter is based on the first chapter of Rage Against the Moon Volume 1's prologue. All characters, except for those who do not appear in any of the canon, belong to Yoshida et al.

Chapter 1

Twenty Years Later

The pain exploded in her head like a thousand guns firing simultaneously. With a groan, Sister Naomi Kent sat slowly upright, dazed. With the slightest movement her body protested, and she could not repress a wince as she drew herself upwards. It was dark and cold, but the faint remnants of incense and candle smoke still hung in the air from the evening mass only a few hours previously. The darkness was broken by the moonlight filtering in through the beautiful, ancient stained-glass windows, causing soft colors to play across the marble floor.

She tried to move, but found her wrists were bound in irons. Her back was pressed against something cold and hard, and she could feel the intricately-carved reliefs through her habit. The altar. Why was she chained to the altar? Any attempts to call out for help proved futile, as she discovered she was gagged as well.

Then she remembered.

She had been struck from behind while she was returning from the private chapel in the back of the church. She had not even heard the footsteps, but she had felt a presence, a strange one she had never before felt. She had not been afforded the chance to turn round to see who it had been.

Suddenly a voice, that of an elderly man - soft, gentle, and reverent of the ritual he was conducting - began to softly echo through the sanctuary. He was speaking in Latin, reciting the ancient holy Mass that had been passed down for centuries. Of course she knew it, but at this moment, it had taken on a sacrilegious meaning. The desecration of the Church's traditions was blasphemy, yet this elderly priest who now murmured it seemed not to be even phased by it.

She knew that voice. Father Alexander Scott; he had been a priest here for as long as she could have remembered, yet he had disappeared a month before. He had returned, and this time she knew he had changed for the worst - he was now thoroughly damned, and if he was aware of his fate, he seemed not to care.

Indeed, why should he? Methuselah had such long lifespans that there was plenty of time for atonement if he chose to take the opportunity.

"This meal I have prepared," Father Scott whispered, "is my body. On this most holy night, I give thanks."

Her eyes widened and her pulse quickened, pounding in her ears like rushing water, as he approached her.

"Sister Kent, as always, you have the patience of a saint. But alas, it's time for the Last Supper." His tone was somber, yet there was a glint in his eyes that told her he was feeling anything but solemn.

She struggled against her bindings as she caught a metallic reflection in the moonlight. In his weathered hand was an intricately carved blade, one that he had used countless times in Communion before his transformation. Its beautiful edges and carvings, however, were now tarnished and bloodstained.

"Take this bread, for it is my flesh."

With utmost care and precision he cut her veil from her head. The ripping of the fabric seemed to reverberate through the cold silence of the sacred edifice. His icy fingers trailed down her fair skin. Her stomach lurched with revulsion and she turned her head away from his touch. Her body had tensed, and she struggled again against the iron fetters.

"Now, now, Sister Kent, you should be honored to have such a position in this holy rite," the elderly priest said, clicking his tongue lightly against the roof of his mouth. He leaned forward, his breath rank and hot against her cheek, and continued, "You will become a part of me, Naomi. Your blood will live in an eternal night. Can't you hear it already? The sound of your sweet, intoxicating essence flowing forever through my veins?"

He flashed a wicked smile at her. Long, sharp fangs, stark white against the darkness that concealed his face, caressed his lips. He could hear her heart pounding. That delicious source of nourishment, he could hear every beat reverberating, echoing endlessly inside his skull. His every fiber began to thrum with her rhythm. She was a frightened doe, this beautiful nun, looking at him with widened eyes and a pounding heart. She would make an excellent feast.

"Take this wine, for it is my blood." He sighed wistfully as he drew the knife across her white breast, just enough to draw blood. "Oh, my angel, you are beautiful, aren't you? Your beauty should not be ephemeral - no, I should make you mine…after this rite…bring you into the darkness."

He paused momentarily, however, as he caught sight and scent of it. Her blood had a strange color to it, so unlike all the others. In the moonlight, her essence had taken on a strange, slightly golden tint. It smelled sweeter than any others. Was this that infamous ambrosia the gods of old so loved?

A very excellent feast, he thought. Excellent indeed!

He leaned forward to catch that sweet ambrosia on his tongue, to lick it from that soft, fair flesh-

"Ite miss est. Mass is over, Father Scott."

Both Naomi and Father Scott froze, and the Methuselah whirled round. Just beyond the pews, draped in shadow, stood a tall gentleman. Even Father Scott's extraordinary senses did not detect him. How had he-?

Naomi had barely sensed this stranger's presence, but his presence did not carry the same malevolence that Father Scott's had. No, this stranger's presence, his aura as the occultists would say, was comforting, yet it belied unspeakable, almost otherworldly power.

The man's voice, commanding yet not arrogant, rang out: "Father Alexander Scott, priest of St. Patrick's Cathedral of Londinium, in the name of the Trinity, you are hereby under arrest for seven counts of murder and blood extortion."

"Who in the hell are you?"

"Forgive me. I come from the Vatica-"

It was a fatal mistake to allow the Methuselah that much courtesy - indeed, any courtesy. Instantaneously, Father Scott flung the knife at the stranger at impossible speed. The tarnished blade barely glinted in the silver moonlight. Father Scott's aim was true, and the knife buried itself squarely in the stranger's chest. Naomi tried to scream, but the gag prevented anything more than a choked sob from escaping her lips.

"I don't know who you think you are, but how dare you interrupt my holy rite!" Father Scott hissed. "It was foolish to barge in on the living dead, my son." Suddenly, much to Naomi's repulsion and horror, the priest began to laugh. His shoulders trembled with his mirth, causing his white garb to ripple. His fangs were poking out again, that stark, cold white against the veil of darkness. His laughter was shrill, shattering the silence with its unholy echoes.

"Foolish of you, Father, to think that I would fall so easily." The knife was buried deep in the man's heart, yet he stood there, completely unfazed.

"How the hell-?"

"I heard one of your sermons once, Father," the man murmured regretfully, solemnly. "You preached that humans are the only beings capable of believing in themselves. Your faith made me want to show you compassion. However…"

He trailed off as his eyes met hers. She did not see them, but she could feel them burning into hers. It was not an unwelcome sensation; indeed, it calmed her somewhat, soothed her fears. She shivered. Though this time, it was from neither cold nor fear.

"Are you a vampire too?" Father Scott's cold voice, no longer masked behind feigned piety, broke the contact, causing both the stranger and Naomi to turn their attention to him.

"No. I am…" The shadow-veiled man hesitated. "What I am."

A strange noise split the silence. The sound of bending metal and some sort of popping. The figure stepped forward into the pool of moonlight. Naomi could see him, at least his outline; he was tall, broad-shouldered, and was obviously a priest, as he donned a black habit. Naomi watched, stunned, as the knife retreated - no, it was being absorbed - into his chest.

Father Scott apparently knew more than Naomi did regarding this stranger, for he said, "I'd heard of your kind, when I was still Terran. I'd heard that a sect at the Vatican headquarters in Rome kept a monster. They unleashed him whenever they had problems beyond the scope of what mortals can handle. It's you, isn't it?"

The black-robed priest cocked his silver head. "AX. The Arcanum Cella ex Dono Dei. My boss hates scandals - she wouldn't want news getting out that a priest had turned. That's why she sent me."

Naomi watched, frozen, as a crimson, double-bladed scythe manifested in the stranger's hand. He lifted it high into the air.

Father Scott's eyes widened and he shrieked in outright terror, "You're Caterina's beast! The Crusnik-!"

"Close your eyes," the stranger said to Naomi. It was a command, one that she could not disobey. The stranger's voice had deepened somewhat, had become more husky.

Father Scott broke out of his frozen stance and hurried to Naomi, breaking her bonds with one fell swoop of his hand, and yanked her to his chest. She let out a surprised cry. He spun her round so that she was facing the stranger, his hand grasping her throat.

"Make one more move and she dies!" Father Scott hissed.

"Let her go. She has no part of this."

"Don't do it!" Father Scott cried as the stranger took a single step towards them. "I will kill her! Her blood will be on your hands!"

This made the stranger stop in mid-step. "Let her go, Alexander. I will not tell you a third time."

Father Scott was not stupid enough to challenge this monster's orders a third time. He threw Naomi to the ground. She hit the marble with a dull thud and, before either she or the stranger could stop him, the Methuselah disappeared into the dark recesses of the cathedral.

The stranger approached Naomi, his boots falling softly on the cold marble. He knelt down before her - he could sense that the Methuselah was still in the vicinity, and that he was hiding like a frightened animal.

"Are you all right?" His voice was soft and calm again.

"Y-yes…I'm all right…" She wondered whether she was hoarse. Her wrists were bruised and sore from the fetters, and she rubbed them. "Who are you?"

"Father Abel Nightroad," he answered, looking her over for any signs of injury. "What's your name?"

Whether he was asking out of genuine curiosity or attempts to keep her calm, she did not know, nor did she care. "Sister Naomi Kent."

"Well, Sister Kent, we're going to have to get you out of here."

"I have nowhere else to go."

"I can make arrangements to find you somewhere safe. Don't worry about that."

"She's not going anywhere!" Father Scott cried out from the pulpit. He had returned. "Not her! She's the rarest of all jewels!"

"Sister Kent, hide," Abel murmured to her, keeping his eyes on the Methuselah.

She nodded and rose shakily to her feet, then took off into the darkness. Father Scott tensed as if to go after her, but a strong hand grabbed his throat in a vice-like grip and pinned him to the wall behind the altar.

"You will not touch her!" Abel hissed.

Father Scott grinned, despite his fear and current predicament. "You've not smelled or tasted her blood! She is neither Terran nor Methuselah! Her kind is legendary!"

"I don't care - you are never to touch her again!"

The Methuselah made to reply, but his eyes widened in fear. Abel's appearance had changed now. His silver hair was unbound, flowing around his head like a halo. His lips were blackened, and his skin was even paler than it had been. His eyes glowed red in the darkness. The scythe appeared in his hand again, and Father Scott could see it was not of metal, but blood.

The howling winter wind drowned out Father Alexander Scott's final scream.