Seattle, Washington

"And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free."

You can find these words in the Gospel of John. You can also find them on the front of the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. Just what Jesus of Nazareth would make of this depends on whether He has a well-developed sense of irony. Judging from the course of human history, it is fair to say His Father does.

Christians came up with a corollary to this maxim: telling the truth shall set you free. All forms of the Christian faith advocate, in one form or another, the confession of sins. As he did every Sunday after the 9am Mass, Father Merrin prepared to hear confession at the Church of the Blessed Virgin. Few of the penitent faithful ever came. Few wanted to go to the trouble of seeking formal absolution. To Father Lankester Merrin, it seemed that nowadays everyone just assumed the Lord's forgiveness was automatic, like some sort of entitlement. Most of those who still came were pious elderly women whose faith was moulded by an earlier, more God-fearing era.

Father Merrin was of average size and trim, with white hair and very prominent cheekbones. His face was wrinkled, if kindly, and his brow was lined. He wore a suit jacket and jeans, and while he was a little intense most people got used to it quickly. Born in Holland, he had lived a rich and full life, had seen the world and done a lot of good, worked as a volunteer in third world countries, assisted as a teacher, a doctor, anything he could do. He had been forced to retire recently due to a heart condition, and was a priest again. But not an American priest.

He was here (In Seattle an in this country) on a favour for an old friend, one he hadn't spoken to in years. Father Jacob Fuller was on a road trip with his family as he tried to put his life into perspective and come to terms with the tragedy that had befallen his wife, spend some time with his kids and do some thinking. What he hadn't said, but was clear on his face, was that he had felt his faith slipping, and was unlikely to return. Merrin had prayed for his friend, but no good seemed to have come of it.

He hoped him all the best in his ordeal to come, but there was nothing more he could do for him.

The parish was very different from his own. Quiet most of the time, except on weddings and funerals. The only person Father Merrin expected to see soon was Father McGruder, who would assist him with the noon Mass, and perhaps Father Anderson, a visiting priest from Italy.

So the old man was surprised when a young woman entered his confessional that Sunday morning. She was small, and petite, and had a certain feline look about her, with wide, slanting eyes that didn't blink, and a heart-shaped face. Long flaming red hair, burnished copper, framed her delicate face in gentle curls, she walked with a casual self-assurance while still appearing meek and penitent.

Moving over to the box she sat herself gently, smoothing her jeans that clung to her hips as she did so, and began to speak in a low, throaty voice.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last Confession," she began, her voice slightly husky and trembling slightly. Through the grating, he could see she was looking at her knees, and there was a glimmer of something at the corner of her eyes.

"Two months ago, the man I loved was taken from me. A long time ago, my mother and father were taken from this world. So were all of my brothers and sisters. They loved god. They were pious and gentle, and kind. They lived by His word. But he didn't lift a finger for them." She was still looking down. He thought he saw a glimmer of something in her eye, although the gating between them and the low light conditions made it difficult to be sure.

"Then my James came, and gave me a new life. We would have been together forever. Then he died, and I am empty."

"My child, I am sorry. But they are in a better place…" He said, patiently and reassuringly. Priests learn to comfort victims of tragedy. It's one of the jobs less appealing aspects.

"Quiet." She snapped, and all traces of meekness vanished like smoke. "I have killed. Men and boys, women and children. Every few nights for the last few hundred years. I have drained their blood, and cast aside their empty shells. I have murdered, and tortured, and enjoyed every second of it by my James's side. But now he is gone, taken from me by that bastard and his whore." She snarled, her face contorting. She didn't look quite so pretty now. She looked bestial, monstrous. Inhuman.

The priest leaned back, emotions flickering over his face. He had to assume the woman was crazy, or else delusional. He hoped to God the latter, but either way, she was dangerous. "My child, God has not abandoned you. No matter how grievous your sins, redemption is possible. You have shown that yourself, by coming here now, by seeking my guidance. It is not too late. Have faith, and repent," he said, his voice admirably steady.

The women laughed, in a way that was terrifying not because it was dark and inhuman, but because it was not. It was the laugh of a girl, young and carefree, who had just been told a joke.

Her delicate fingers twined around the grating that separated them, and the timber groaned in protest for a moments, then with a final, resigned crack, she tore it away. The priest fell backwards in shock, but there was a blur of movement as she caught him, stopping his descent as surely as if gravity had ceased to function.

"No!" She shouted. "It is too late. He's gone forever! There is no god. Or if there is, he doesn't care. About me. About you. I have killed. I told you as much." With no perceptible effort she drew him close until his face was inches from hers. He was gaping like a fish, breathing rapidly as perspiration beaded his brow and ran in streams down his chin, while she was cold, seeming almost detached, though her voice shook with pain and rage.

"Where was God then? Did he come and save them? Huh? DID HE?" She roared, her face still expressionless, tears in the corners of her eyes. "Did he save me? Of course he didn't!"

With a violent move she threw him aside, and he crashed against the walls of the booth with bonecracking force. He slid to the ground with a groan, still dammnedly conscious, and blearily saw her standing over him, her hands on her hips.

"You believe in God? Why? What's he ever done for you?" Drawing back a leg she kicked him in the stomach. He gasped, and felt something rupture. She drew back her leg to kick him again, but though better of it, and rested it on his chest. "He wasn't there for anyone I killed. Oh, they begged and screamed and soiled themselves and prayed, and where was he?" She tilted her head, at odds with the violence of her words. She seemed serene, almost bored, as if this whole thing didn't mean very much.

"You… you're a monster." He choked out. He was pale, and was clutching his stomach weakly, his eyes tearing in pain, and his breathing little more than a strange, wheezing, crackling sound. He wasn't afraid. He felt like he should be, but he wasn't. He was calm, accepting. This only seemed to enrage her even further.

He had seen the supernatural before. Once he'd exorcised the demon Pazuzu from a little girl that it had possessed, and the experience had almost killed him. But this was different. Worse, somehow. Because the demon had been nothing but an extension of evil, a being that had been, in it's own way, honest. This was not. He was convinced that for all her depraved power, this really was just a young girl.

"I am. I'm a vampire. You're about to die. And as far as I can see, God doesn't seem to be stepping in. This is his house. Did he step out to go for a walk? Or was he never here to begin with?"

Father Merrin's shaking hand closed around the crucifix on his neck, yanking it of its silver chain and holding it in front of him with the faith of the desperate, his lips desperately forming the opening of the Lord's Prayer.

"My father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, for –"

She flicked her head to one side and pulled the cross out of his hand. For a moment she seemed to flinch, but it must just have been his imagination, because she brought the silver a few inches from her face, kissed it, then threw it aside. "I told you. There. Is. No. God. You've dedicated yourself to a lie. You're a seventy year old virgin who likes to make old ladies feel guilty, not a priest. Telling a lie over and over again, wasting away your existence."

She picked him up again, her eyes as dark as the void between stars, burning with a terrible hunger and hate. She opened her mouth, and the poor Father noticed how sharp and glistening her teeth were.

"Will you look at that? He doesn't seem to care about you either. God, if you will let me kill this priest, make no sign." She said, waiting an instant, baring her teeth again. "What do you know? Nothing. He doesn't exist. "

"Ah hae ta' disagree thar, lass." A deep, rolling Scottish brogue interrupted, and the monster was lifted easily and thrown aside to crash into the pews, splintering several rows beneath her with the weight of her impact.

She rolled sluggishly to her feet, looking shocked.

Father Merrin never really quite understood his Scottish colleague. He now was starting to understand why. Father Anderson was enormous; he had to be closer to eight feet then seven. He was extremely heavily built, with broad shoulders and thick forearms, which seemed more at place on a stevedore than a man of the cloth. He had always seemed as gentle as a lamb, good with children and quick to laugh.

It was almost impossible to reconcile that image to the grim figure standing in front of him with all the strength, power and conviction of an old testament prophet. His smile, that had always seemed so kindly and gentle, had promised nothing but love and happiness to the world. This was a very different grin, a pearly white perfect grin that had no pity or compassion, a grin of one who cannot be deterred, swayed or defeated. And the fact that the glare off his glasses made his eyes look not like eyes, but rather opaque, soulless, circles only made matters worse. Anderson seemed powerful, unflinching and unstoppable.

He stared at the vampire, and it seemed the height of folly that such a little thing like that could have had him so much in its power only moments ago.

"He cares, in hi' own way." continued Father Anderson, glasses shining like mirrors. "Sae dinnae worry, fer He is wit' ye. Do nae be afraid, fer He is ye're God. He will make ye strong, an' will help ye when ye need it most. He will support ye with His right hand, and He will save ye from any peril." He says, quoting Isaiah, Reynolds slow, barely conscious mind observes. A bayonet slides down Anderson's right hand from his sleeve, which he points at the vampire.

"Amen."