Father Ross staggered into the Church, slamming the doors behind him and locking them. He wandered down the center aisle, then slumped down into a nearby pew. He stared straight ahead, though he remained oblivious to his surroundings. His mind still swam with the hellish sight he had just witnessed. He tried to shut his eyes, to block out the images. Images of blood, images of a woman lying in a pool of blood on a dirty subway platform. Images of two men, soaked in blood and laughing. Again, that word rose unbidden to his mind. Vampires… But it couldn't be vampires, could it? Vampires didn't really exist, they were just legends! Weren't they?
He shook his head violently, trying to forcibly expel the visions from his mind. He looked up, finally taking note of where he was. The crucifix in the front of the church loomed up before him. He stared hard at it, trying to get ahold of himself, to draw strength from his faith. Dear God, he thought. Tell me I'm just in shock. Tell me I'm just jumping to wild conclusions. They can't be vampires, can they? Would You allow such blasphemy to exist, to live amongst Your creation? They can't have been vampires, I'm just in shock. Please, Lord, tell me I'm not crazy. Ross stared intently at the crucifix, hands gripping the pew in front of him so tightly they ached. No answer came, no divine sign. Ross sighed. He had faith that God had heard his desperate prayer, but he had not actually expected a response. Such was the relationship between God and His followers. The people prayed, but God rarely let His voice be heard. God's will came through the actions of others, of those who believed in Him. Still, despite the knowledge that God had heard him, Ross still felt no relief. He needed someone to talk to, someone who would not only listen, but would respond in kind.
He knew someone who would listen to him, who would help him sort through what had happened. He stood slowly and made his way down the aisle of the church, toward the Sacristy in the back. He still could not remove the visions of blood and the two men from his mind, but at least, after his brief conversation with God, he wasn't seeing only those sights. Actions needed to be taken, regardless of his views on who – or what – the murderers were. The police needed to be notified, for one thing. First, however, he would make another call, to a friend.
Making his way to the Sacristy, Father Ross picked up a phone and sat down on a nearby stool, still trembling slightly. He dialed the number, then waited a moment while the phone rang. A moment later, someone answered, and a woman's voice came.
"St. Bartholomew's Church, Marie speaking."
"Marie, it's Father Ross, of St. Michael's. I know it's late, but is the Archbishop still there? I apologize, but it's urgent."
"Yes, Father Ross, Archbishop Daniels is in, but he's getting ready to leave. Are you sure this can't wait until tomorrow morning?"
"I'm sorry, but it can't wait. I need to speak to the Archbishop immediately, please," Ross said, desperation beginning to creep back into his voice at the thought of being deprived of the listening ear he so badly needed.
"Very well, I'll get him. Can I put you on hold for a moment?"
"Of course. Thank you very much, Marie. I really appreciate it," Ross breathed, nearly collapsing on the stool in relief. The Archbishop would hear him, help him get his wits back together. The Archbishop would be able to advise him, would tell him that he was just in shock, that there were no vampires. There was a brief pause, and for a moment, "Amazing Grace" played over the phone's receiver. Then, a man's voice came on.
"Yes, Father Ross? I understand this is an urgent matter. What is it, my son?" The Archbishop's voice, though tired, seemed at once doting and mildly irritated, like a parent reassuring a frightened child that had just woken from a nightmare.
"Archbishop Daniels, I have just witnessed something terrible! I have seen murder!"
"Murder? What are you talking about, my son? What did you see?" The Archbishop's voice suddenly lost all traces of fatigue.
"Walking home from the Church tonight," Ross said, relieved to finally be able to speak on what he had seen. "I heard screams coming from a subway station nearby. I went over, hoping that I could help in some way. When I got to the station, even before I could go down the stairs, I heard voices."
"Voices? What sort of voices?"
"Two men, one younger and one older."
"And what did these voices say?"
"The younger one was taunting the woman he was about to kill. He talked about the taste of her blood, and laughed. The other one sounded more businesslike. He said something about someone coming, someone important, from the sound of it. Then, they killed her."
"And you saw them kill her? How did she die?"
"No, Archbishop, I didn't see them kill her. I heard her scream, and then I crept far enough down the stairs to see without them seeing me." Ross was picking up speed now, letting the words flow from him in a quickening flood. "She was laying on the ground. Her throat had been torn out, there was blood everywhere! And they were laughing, Archbishop! They were laughing! They were both standing over her with blood all over their faces and laughing about how she had tasted! And their teeth! They were huge and sharp, like fangs! Archbishop, I think they tore her throat out with their teeth! Like… like…" Ross's voice trailed off, horrified once more.
"Like what? What are you trying to say, my son?" The Archbishop's voice was tense.
Ross didn't immediately reply. There it was, that damnable word again, that impossible word. Vampires. He stared straight ahead, nearly dropping the phone from his trembling hands.
"Like what? Father Ross, are you still there?"
"Like Vampires," Father Ross whispered. "They tore her throat out with their teeth like vampires. But that can't be, can it, Archbishop? Vampires don't exist! They can't exist, can they? They're just myth, right?"
"Who did they say was coming, Father Ross? Who did they think was so important?"
"They said something about someone named Balthazar coming, but I don't see why that's so important! Father, these people, these murderers, what do I tell the police? Should I just call 911 and tell them what I saw? They couldn't have been vampires, could they?"
"No, my son. Do not call the police yet. I want you to stay at St. Michael's tonight. Sleep in the Sacristy. It may not be safe outside."
"W-What? Archbishop, I don't understand. Why shouldn't I call the police, I know I'm supposed to –"
"Just do as I have asked, Father Ross. God be with you."
And then the Archbishop hung up, leaving Father Ross even more confused and frightened than he had been when he called.
Ambrose Fletcher sat alone in his private quarters, the small ramshackle room his acolytes had built for him in the tunnels. It wasn't much more than four walls, a moldy bed, and a battered wooden chair, but to the people who had built it, it was a palace. A cult devoted to the mysteries of the No Life King, the group had long since abandoned the streets above, populated by the pathetic humans they believed to be weaklings. The surface was a place of falsehood, where men made empty prayers to a God that they did not care for. People above did not understand true devotion, did not understand the giving of oneself to a higher cause or power. Every day, the people above unknowingly paid tribute to the Fallen One with their lies and deceit, their everyday malice. Their petty cruelties and crimes were numerous, but without purpose. They were squealing infants who broke their toys for fun and blamed others. They practiced the art of suffering that so pleased the Fallen One, but they did so for their own gain. They were ignorant of the fact that all they had gained in the world was through force and violence, and they ignored he who taught them to use such weapons.
Ambrose Fletcher had been the first of them to see this. He had been the first to rediscover the ancient texts that gave the No Life King his due praise, and spoke of his favored children, the vampires. He had been the first to condemn the actions of man. He had search out those of like mind, to tell them of what he had learned. Together, they agreed to abandon the world above. They left their lives as humans behind to take up new lives as servants of Lucifer. They fled downward, into the tunnels below the city. After weeks of searching, they had finally found shelter, an abandoned subway tunnel far from the functional tunnels. There, under Fletcher's guidance, they waited, offering their very lives to the No Life King. Some had died in the months and years since. Others ascended, having left the tunnels in search of the vampires they viewed as holy, and returned bitten and turned, transformed into that most holy creature. Again, Ambrose Fletcher had been the first of them to ascend to vampires, but like the rest of his followers, he was still weak. A half-blood, a bitten and turned human, could never reach the status of a true nosferatu, whom they regarded as saints. Still, though their vampiric numbers grew, they yet waited for the next sign from their Fallen Lord.
Fletcher sat in his darkened quarters, a gift from his followers, and thought about how that sign was soon coming. After years and years of poring through the holy texts he had found, he had composed a bloodline, a sort of Nosferatu family tree. He utilized all of his followers to track down every precious bit of information he could about the pureblooded vampires, in the hopes that he could locate one's present location. He burned with the desire to learn from a true vampire. He wanted to better know the ways of the favored children, so he could better please his beloved Lord. He wanted to learn the true ways of the Sacrament of Suffering, to become a pureblood, to become a true servant of the No Life King.
And now, after years of searching, he had succeeded. He had found Balthazar, a true pureblooded Nosferatu. Fletcher traveled many hours to meet the legendary Balthazar, and pledged with life to the vampire. Balthazar, to Fletcher's amazement, offered to come to New York, to the subways, to teach Fletcher's cult. The ancient vampire, because of their devotion to the No Life King, had deemed them worthy of his tutelage, and told Fletcher to return home. He instructed Fletcher to continue praying to the Fallen One with his cult, and that when Balthazar saw fit to come, Fletcher would see his sign.
Then barely a week ago, Fletcher had awoken to see a message scrawl itself in blood on the wall of his quarters. Balthazar, the Scourge of All Life, was coming, and Fletcher had seven days to make ready. Six full days of quiet preparation had led to the past night, when he told his acolytes of Balthazar's imminent arrival. The reaction was as he had expected – utter jubilation. A true Nosferatu was coming, they would all become his disciples. No greater boon could be asked. The seventh day had passed without incident, and Fletcher had assembled the cult once more, then gone into his quarters to wait for the sign. Even now, they waited silently outside in the tunnels, deep in reverential prayer to the Fallen One.
Ambrose Fletcher sat alone in the dark, staring up at the wall before him through half-closed eyes. Suddenly, the wall began to bleed, thick, viscous crimson leaking from the rotted timbers. Fletcher's eyes shot open, and he dropped to he knees, head deeply bowed. Above him, the blood flowed up from the floor and down from the ceiling, mingling before the man's tear-stained face and forming shining letters. "I come."
Deep within St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, in a small office hidden in the Cathedral's lowest basement, a phone rang. Sitting atop a very ornately carved mahogany desk, the phone rang again before a man answered. The man, tall and thin, with piercing green eyes and a long silvery ponytail, idly flipped the pages of a large timeworn bible as he listened to the man on the other end. It was a low-level brother working in the Vatican's Public Relations department. Apparently, some American Archbishop was on hold, distraught and demanding to talk with a Cardinal about some "grave danger".
"Shall I patch him through, Cardinal Maxwell?"
Cardinal Enrico Maxwell, head of the Vatican's Section XIII, the Iscariot Organization, merely sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It was probably just another minor scare, some rogue half-vampire setting up shop in some backwater town, as always. No matter, he'd still deal with it.
"Yes, Brother Mario, put him through, and hold any other calls to me."
"Yes, sir."
There was a brief pause and a slight crackle of static as the American Archbishop was connected. Cardinal Maxwell stifled another sigh, and spoke.
"This is Cardinal Enrico Maxwell. How may I assist you?"
The man at the other end sounded distraught.
"Father, thank you for taking my call. I was instructed many years ago to call for you if such an incident occurred."
Maxwell rubbed at his temple. Just like all the others, indeed.
"This is Archbishop Stephen Daniels, of the New York City Archdiocese, is it not?"
"Yes, Father."
"Very good. Now, Archbishop Daniels, what type of incident are you referring to?"
"Vampires, Cardinal Maxwell. I know it sounds far-fetched, but I believe that we have at least two vampires loose in New York. I would never have believed it if I hadn't been warned during my appointment as an Archbishop. They told me that these… things… exist, and that we were to call the Vatican immediately if I became aware of one."
Maxwell began thumbing through his Bible again. He had carried out this same conversation so many times he barely registered the words being spoken.
"Rightly so, and you are to be commended for your punctuality. What makes you believe you have encountered two such creatures?"
"A priest in my Archdiocese, Father Caleb Ross, witnessed two of them murdering a young woman by tearing out her throat with their teeth."
"I see. Did they say anything, or was this Father Ross too far away to hear them?"
"Yes, Cardinal. Father Ross said that he heard them laughing about the taste of the woman's blood, and of someone important coming. I believe Father Ross said the name was Balthazar or something like that."
Cardinal Enrico Maxwell's eyes opened in a flash, and his hand fell idly to the desk, the Bible forgotten. This wasn't like the others after all. In fact, this really was every bit as urgent as the hapless Archbishop believed it to be. Of course, Maxwell had studied enough of the vampires' heathen texts to recognize the name Balthazar. Could it be, he thought, a true Nosferatu? A true demon? He spoke again, fighting to keep his voice composed. After all, better to not alarm the Archbishop of the true danger his archdiocese was in.
"Very well. Where is this Father Ross now?"
"He is sleeping in his parish, as I told him to do. I did not want to put him in danger."
"Excellent. You did right to tell him so, Archbishop Daniels. I shall send a detachment to you and Father Ross by tomorrow evening. Until then, instruct Father Ross to stay in his Church and to close it until further notice. You and Father Ross are never to speak of this event, this conversation, or of the detachment, is that understood?"
"Yes, Father, and thank you."
"Very good. God be with you, Archbishop."
With that, Cardinal Maxwell abruptly hung up. He sat there for a moment, steepling his fingers in front of his face and staring at the open Bible on the desk in front of him. Father, he prayed. If this truly is one of Satan's favored flock, let our power not fail to destroy it. Give us your strength, O King of Kings. He sat silently for another moment, then reached back to his phone. He dialed, and waited for the brother at the other end to pick up.
"Yes, Cardinal Maxwell?"
"Put in a call to St. Patrick's Orphanage in Dublin. Get me Father Anderson."
There you have it, folks, Chapter 2's a wrap! I know, I promised Anderson in this chapter, but this one was getting longer than I liked as is. So, stay tuned for next chapter, in which I WILL debut both Anderson and Balthazar!