Chapter XX: The Right Hand of God

"Amen!"

The the dark priest dashed forwards in an explosion of movement, his tall lanky form slicing through the air similar to the way his sword had earlier when it had ended Baron Milan's life. It took all of Rip's willpower not to shriek in fright at the approaching apparition, this black-clothed embodiment of death.

Iscariot, the vampire internally screamed. How the hell are these bastards here?

"Die demon!" The Black Priest snarled as he lashed out with the sword in his left hand, the sharp gray steel singing as it cut through the air towards her neck. Rip ducked the slash, but it was quickly followed by another, then a thrust, then a strike, attack after attack repeated with an ever frighteningly increasing speed and force behind it. Although enhanced as she was with Louise's familiar runes, if this barrage of attacks continued Rip knew it would only be a matter of time before she got unlucky and one of his strikes connected.

The priest lashed out again with his blade, and the vampire sniper moved swiftly to block his attack with her musket. The force that smashed against her raised weapon was unreal. She felt the blow from the sword jar her arms, felt the energy of it rattle her very bones. Despite her vampiric strength enhanced by magical runes, the priest's power felt even greater. The blow was enough to send her flying backwards through the air until her thin form slammed into the brick wall at the end of the alleyway, right below where Baron Milan's corpse hung limply.

The vampire gasped out in pain. Her back ached from smashing into the bricks while her arms stung fiercely, feeling numb from the force of her opponent's blow. If his attack had connected with her body instead of her weapon then there was no doubt in Rip's mind that the sword would have cut her in half. The priest himself seemed undeterred by the fact that she was still alive. He simply leveled his weapon at her and calmly continued his approach, this time showing no rush as he stepped slowly towards her.

"V-vait!" Rip said, attempting to engage the insane clergyman in conversation in order to buy her some time to recover. The priest ignored her. Once he was within range he lunged, thrusting the tip of his rapier towards her heart. The vampire cursed and leaped upwards, sailing over both sword and attacker before landing in a crouch behind the tall man. She didn't get a chance to breath easier because as soon as her booted feet hit the ground the Black Priest was moving again, twisting his body around to direct a slice backwards. Rip twisted out of his way in time, dodging the blade and placing several precious meters between her and the madman.

The vampire sniper took some small comfort in the fact that despite the priest's unholy strength, she was still much faster than he was.

"Damn you, stop!" Rip told him again, this time raising her musket and aiming its sights directly at his head.

The priest hardly seemed concerned at the rather large caliber firearm directed at him. With an air of calm indifference, he stood up to his full height and turned away from her. Rip growled, feeling insulted that the man had the gall to turn his back on her while she was threatening him with her most powerful attack. She was more than tempted to simply pull the trigger, but stayed her hand. This man was definitely from Iscariot, there was no other way to explain his clothing and his abilities. Somehow, like her, he had managed to find his way onto this world. If this man could get here then perhaps he had a way of returning to Earth. She needed answers, and to get them she needed to keep this lunatic alive.

The priest reached up towards the Baron's corpse with his right hand, then grasped the hilt of the silver bladed sword that was still impaled through the heart of the native vampire. With an easy pull the deeply imbedded weapon was yanked out and now with two swords in hand the Black Priest turned around to face her.

"Who are you? How did you get here, to this vorld?" Rip asked him, trying and failing to keep a desperate tremble out of her voice. "Were you dragged here as I vas? Do you have a vay of getting back?"

The only answer to her queries was the priest's blank, dull stare.

"Answer me, damn you!" She shouted, her grip on her musket tightening.

The Black Priest smiled. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth."

"I don't have time for your ridiculous Bible quotes!" Rip stated, her tone softer now but no less angry. "Tell me vhat I need to know or I'll blow your fucking head off."

"Behold, all they that were incensed against thee shall be ashamed and confounded: they shall be as nothing; and they that strive with thee shall perish. Thou shalt seek them, and shalt not find them, even them that contended with thee: they that war against thee shall be as nothing, and as a thing of nought."

"Du Hurensohn!" Rip snarled, then pulled the trigger. A flash of fire and smoke preceded the loud explosion that sent her deadly projectile rocketing out of her jezail's immense barrel. The signature blue after image seared through the air, zipping left and right through the narrow confines of the alleyway as it built up terrible momentum. Finally it sliced forwards, the deadly indigo blur shooting straight for the priest.

There was a massive clap of impact as the bullet hit, the force of the blow sending the black-clothed clergyman backwards into the alley where his tall, lanky form crashed and rolled several times upon the floor. His wild rotations were cut short when his body slammed hard against the brick wall at the back of the alley. Rip's eyes widened when not a moment later, the man stood up slowly, seeming without concern that he had just been smashed around the floor of the alley like a rag doll. Despite the force of the impact her bullet had caused, the priest had not a scratch on him. The only evidence of Rip's attack were the small shards of lead that flaked off his forehead, all that remained of her musket ball.

"What ze hell?" the vampire muttered as she took a step back. Although every officer in Millennium had been briefed on the fact that Vatican Section XIII had several operatives with a whole host of myriad strange abilities, she herself had never been told that one of those freaks was actually invincible. "Oh, that's just cheating!"

"God is my shield. God is my sword," the Black Priest stated as he stepped closer, both his rapiers held at the ready. "My flesh has been sanctified by the Lord's grace." His black eyes flashed, and he gave the vampire a fierce, toothy grin. "No evil can harm me. I am His ultimate instrument!"

"Feh," Rip sneered, giving the priest a cold glare from behind her spectacles. "Is zhat right? Vell then, it looks like there's only vone thing for me to do in zis situation."

Without giving him a chance to reply, Rip turned around and bolted.

"You will not escape Divine Punishment!" shouted the Black Priest as he chased after her, but as fast as his unnatural body was it proved no match for Rip's rune-enhanced speed and she pulled away swiftly.

0

"K-keep moving…" Ophelia gasped as her battered body forced itself to trudge along, her ruined right arm held tightly to the bleeding gash in her belly whilst her undamaged left grasped tightly at the low wall to aid her fumbling steps. Her face was covered with sweat and dried blood, her once pristinely coifed green hair now in tangles around her head. Fresh tears continued to drip down her cheeks, caused not only by her own agony but by the realization that her master had died only mere moments ago. She had felt it in her blood. The Baron, her Baron, was no more.

"Keep… moving…"

"I'm sorry Miss Malhure," Old Man Osmond stated sadly as his ancient eyes glossed over the various notes and records written upon the parchment atop his large desk. "But all your instructors have noted your complete inability to cast spells. Combine this with your failure to summon a familiar today… well, I am afraid I have no choice but to recommend your removal from this Academy. I am so very sorry."

"But, please! Please, Lord Osmond, let me try again!" Ophelia all but screamed, tears dripping from her wide eyes. "I swear, I'll study harder! I'll work during the weekends and my days off! I know if I just study the material more I-"

"Miss Malhure…"

"I know if I get more tutoring or i-i-if I j-just study more during my free time-"

"Miss Malhure."

"-I can understand the concepts better, I know I can! I won't fail again, sir, just please give me another cha-"

"Ophelia!" The Head Master's curt shout cut off the young girl's pleas, causing her to clamp her mouth shut in fright as the old man looked down upon her sternly. "It will not matter how hard you try, how many extra hours you study, nor how diligently you work. You just do not have the ability to perform magic. I am sorry."

"B-but," Ophelia whimpered, knowing deep down that the old man was correct but wishing with all her heart that it wasn't so.

"You are a good student, Ophelia," Osmond continued. "Academically, you are near the top of your class. You know all the theories and doctrines, and your marks in theology are very high. You are a very intelligent young woman." The old man gave her a smile, one he hoped was a reassuring one. "This is not the end of the world for you. Although you will never be a mage, I know that you will find success in other areas."

Ophelia wasn't reassured in the least, as she broke down openly. It took two professors an hour to get the distraught young girl back to her dorm room.

"Keep moving," Ophelia gritted her teeth. She ignored the tattered pink rags that were once her pristine gown, as well as the deep scarlet blood that stained the fabric while dripping down onto the cobbles below. The ghoul state had managed to heal her enough that her wounds were no longer fatal for a human. Unfortunately, upon her master's death, she ceased to be a ghoul. The injuries that remained were still severe enough to kill her if she didn't get aid quickly.

"K-keep moving!" She had to find Daphne and the others. She had to warn them of what happened. Of that monster with the horrible blue eyes and razor-sharp teeth. Of the Baron's ultimate fate.

"K-keep… moving!"

"You are an utter disgrace to this family. Always have been, always will be," her grandmother told her with a cold sneer.

Ophelia was standing in the old woman's study, eyes solidly focused on the wooden floor and nowhere else.

"Well?" her grandmother asked her impatiently. "What have you to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Ophelia muttered.

The old woman shook her head, the green eyes that were so similar to hers growing colder. "Of course you are. Utterly useless."

Ophelia remained silent, weathering her grandmother's abuse and insults like she always did. It was no secret that her grandmother hated her. Ophelia was her son's bastard after all, the shameless result of a tawdry liaison between the boy and one of the housemaids. It would have been quite the scandal if word ever got out, of course. But thankfully for the family, the Malhures managed to pay off the maid as well as arrange a quick marriage for her father. It would probably have been simpler to abandon Ophelia to the maid's care, but her grandfather was a deeply religious man and chose to keep his grandchild (illegitimate though she was) in the family.

Despite avoiding public embarrassment, the situation was not ideal. Because of the speedy marriage, her father was forced to marry a girl from a lower house. The match was not ideal from a political perspective, nor from her father's perspective as his chosen bride was less than attractive. Her father had hated her as well, blaming Ophelia for his situation even though it was his own foolishness that brought her into this world. He had died many years back in an accident, falling off his horse while drunk. Thankfully for the family, he had managed to get his wife pregnant before then, which resulted in a male heir. Ophelia's half-brother was a sickly youth, and sadly had grown up to look down upon her as all of the family did.

"I knew you would be a burden to us. You're tainted by your mother's common blood. I knew it when I first saw you, knew that you would bring nothing but shame to this family." Ophelia wept at her grandmother's hateful words, but the old woman remained unmoved. "You are dismissed," her grandmother told her, turning away to look into the flames of the fireplace, a distinctly disgusted sneer on her wrinkled face.

That night, Ophelia left the Malhure manor. She vowed to herself that she would not return until she made a name for herself, to be something other than a burden to her family. She'd come back a rich woman, or a scholar, or something that held sway; she'd make them see that she wasn't a mistake, that her life had meaning and she was on this world for a purpose. Then maybe they could forgive her for her parents' mistake. Maybe they would lo-

She never returned.

"Keep… keep moving," Ophelia grit her teeth and tried to force her legs to move, but they stubbornly remained still. The agony of her injuries had seemed to dull somewhat, the pain lessening to a soft ache. Actually, her entire body felt dull. Numb. She felt cold.

"Move… move…" she stuttered. "Move!"

Her body refused.

"Cattle. Pigs. Livestock. That's all they were. Beasts walking on two legs."

Ophelia sneered, whispering her mantra over and over again. She sat against the wall of the stone cell, rocking herself back and forth as her arms hugged her knees to her chest.

She hated them. Oh, how she hated them. Stupid commoners. Low-life trash. Filthy, disgusting parasites.

For two years she had lived with them. Working in the poorest parts of Tristain, toiling away at one meaningless job after another just to get enough to feed and clothe herself. When she first came to the capital, she had thought it would have been so easy to make her fortune. She was smart, a hard worker, and knew much about magical theory. But with no magical abilities herself, the only opportunities she was presented with were for secretarial work, and even those she was unable to claim without any good references. After a few weeks she managed to find a position as a seamstress's assistant, helping the old woman mend torn clothing and clean around her shop. It was a good position for a common woman, but to Ophelia it was denigrating. Her noble pride burned at being ordered around by the old seamstress. She hated being talked down to by the commoner guards who patrolled the streets. She abhorred the plebian men who eyed her with lust.

She was the daughter of a nobleman, for Founder's sake! It was abhorrent how she was forced to live in a squalid one-bedroom flat above the seamstress's shop, or had to eat cheap, disgusting filth in the nearby tavern. But the worst part… the worst part was how these filthy commoners treated her. They actually had the gall to look DOWN on her. Just because she was young and all but penniless, just because she didn't have the skills that would help her get a decent wage. How dare these dirty, common trash look down on HER, like they were better than her. They were just like her fam-

It was easy to mix up the poison. She knew just the right mixture of potions and chemicals due to her intensive studies back at the Academy. It was such a simple concoction, one whose ingredients were freely available to the public. Of course, after what she'd done, the authorities would probably put limits on the ingredients for her mixture, all in order to prevent a repeat of her actions.

Thirteen people dead. Over fifty ill, though most would eventually get better in time. It had been so easy. Just pop open the vial containing the mixture, then toss the green liquid down the community well. Such a simple act, with so grim a consequence. Thirteen people dead; over fifty ill.

She confessed to it all, of course. She had nothing to hide, she was not ashamed. She was proud of herself, proud of what she did. At least, that's what she told the guards as they locked her up, what she told the judge she was brought before. She told them, she told everyone, that she had no remorse. She told them that she enjoyed seeing those commoner trash die slowly and painfully, screaming in pain as their internal organs failed one by one. She smiled coldly at the horrified faces of the crowd gathered at her tribunal. She laughed as she told them, as she told herself, that her victims were nothing more than cattle, just pigs to be slaughtered.

But yet, if she truly was so proud of her murderous act… why didn't she tell them her real name? Why did she use a pseudonym on all the official records? Why didn't she want word of her crime to reach her family? Why did she feel ill every time she closed her eyes? Why did her reflection in the mirror look so ashamed and guilty?

"Henry Beuffont," a black voice suddenly spoke up from the darkness, cutting through her thoughts like a red hot knife.

Ophelia shrieked as her head shot up, her eyes turning towards the direction of the voice. Standing regally in front of her cell door was a tall, handsome older man dressed in fine clothing. He was obviously of the nobility, and a wealthy one at that. His dark eyes shone in the shadows of her dreary cell, twin pools of black that seemed to suck in all the light from the candles in the room.

Funny, Ophelia didn't hear her cell door open.

"W-what?" she asked, slightly put off by the man's quiet stare.

"Henry Beuffont," the man repeated.

"What?" Ophelia asked again in confusion.

"Henry Beuffont. He was a servant of mine," the nobleman stated. "He was a good man, and a loyal friend. He had been in my service for nearly twenty years, and was the best damn footman I've ever had. He had a wife and two children, along with four grandchildren, the youngest of whom was only a year old. Henry, good old Henry… along with every member of his family, died in agony. All because of you."

Oh. A friend of one of her victims. Someone who wanted to see the monster capable of such a horrendous act. Fine then, come and see me.

Ophelia steeled herself, then forced her mask on. A disgusted sneer met the creepy nobleman's grim stare, and she spat on the floor. "And you're telling me this, why? Do you really think I care about one stupid plebian and his filthy family?"

"Yes, I think you do care, despite what you tell me. Despite what you tell yourself," the nobleman countered. "I watched your inquiry from the shadows, heard what you told the judge and the family of the victims. Though I admit that you put on a good show, I am old enough to know an act when I see it."

Ophelia flinched and turned away from the man's sharp black eyes. She grit her teeth and refused to meet his gaze. "You're an idiot."

"And you are a liar," the man continued. "You are a very good liar, but a liar nonetheless. You do feel guilt and remorse for your act. That is why you turned yourself into the guards. You put on this commoner-hating lunatic act so that the judge would have no sympathy and thus throw the book at you. You want the families of the victims to hate you, to call for your head. You want to die, to pay for your crimes."

"You're wrong," she told him, eyes shut tight. "I hated them! I hated them all!"

The nobleman was silent for a long time. At first Ophelia thought that perhaps he had gone, vanished in the same way he had appeared. Just when she was about to open her eyes, his deep voice spoke again. "Yes, I believed that you did, or you think that you did. But killing them, throwing poison into that well, you regret that. And the fact that you regret it, enough that you wish to die in order to atone for your sins, shows me that you are a good person in the end."

"No!" Ophelia shouted. She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing as she screamed aloud. "NO! That's not true! I'm vile! I'm worthless! I'm evil!" She was right. Her grandmother was right. All along, that cruel old hateful woman had been right. Ophelia was nothing but trash, a worthless burden that had nothing to give the world but pain and misery. She was a mistake. She should never have been born.

"You are not." She felt a large hand suddenly grasp her shoulder, causing Ophelia to pop her eyes open and shriek. Somehow, the nobleman had snuck up on her and was now kneeling in front of her, his strong fingers tightly gripping her by the shoulders. With him so close Ophelia could smell the scent of bark and the soil; it was an earthy scent and very pleasant.

"W-what?"

"You are, deep down, a good person. You have just been pushed into a corner, and had a moment of weakness," the man said in his deep, rumbling voice. "I can relate. I have done much, much worse than you, believe me. But I was able to repent and become a better man. The same could happen to you."

"N-no," Ophelia shook his head, refusing to believe him. She refused to have hope, never again. "No. I don't want to be better! I just want it all to end!"

The man frowned sadly, then began to lean towards her. "My dear child, you don't have a choice." Ophelia's eyes widened in terror when she saw past his lips and caught the sharpness of his fangs. "This is for Henry."

Her screaming cut off into a garbled cry as the Baron sunk his teeth into her neck.

"K-keep… keep…k-k…."

The ground was cold. Wait… how'd she wind up on the ground? Wasn't she just standing a moment ago? Where was the Baron? Why wasn't he here? Wasn't he just here with her? Why did he leave her behind? Where was he? Baron?

"Baron?"

So cold. It was so cold. Why was it so cold? Why…

Ophelia closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dark sleep. It was so dark, like falling into the blackness between midnight and deep morning. It was a frightening darkness, but a peaceful one. She almost didn't want to leave.

That was when the vampires found her.

0

"Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse!" Rip Van Winkle cursed under her breath as she dashed across the shingled rooftops of the city. Her loud altercation with the insane Iscariot priest had alerted the patrolling guardsmen that something was amiss, and so the nearby streets were currently filled with uniformed soldiers. She had been forced to leap onto the rooftops to avoid them and was taking a twisting path above the streets, away from both the guardsmen and the insane priest that was chasing her.

Thankfully the guards were headed in the direction of the alley she had just fled and thus away from her current location. They would probably come across the remains of the Baron and, if she were lucky, stumble into the Iscariot priest himself and thus buy her a few more precious seconds to escape. She doubted that these simple guardsmen would put up much of a fight against that deranged Catholic, but every little bit helped. Like the Major always said: never underestimate the value of good cannon fodder.

Rip again tried to sense the priest's location using her sixth sense, but once more she found herself unable to. It wasn't like with the Baron's spell, where he had been invisible to all of her enhanced senses. No, it was more like the priest was… a fish, or a slippery eel. He kept swimming through her mind's eye, like a guppy diving through water. She could feel him out there somewhere within her range, she just could not get a solid bead on him. Perhaps the same thing that had made him invulnerable also made him difficult to track?

This night certainly hadn't turn out as planned. Not only did Rip fail to get any blood, but she had been drawn into needless combat with not only a local vampire and his ghoul but a miserable dog of the Vatican as well. What the hell else could go wrong tonight?

As if in answer to her question, a golden mote of light suddenly appeared in front of her. Rip was forced to veer out of the way, lest she crash directly into whatever the hell it was. She quickly flipped around, stopping her forward momentum by planting her feet down upon the rooftop hard. This caused her new boots to skid along the roof, the soles catching several tiles and forcing them off the edge to fall and shatter into pieces upon the cobbles below.

"Vhat ze hell?" Rip asked dumbly as she watched the strange golden mote bob up and down in the air before her. She narrowed her eyes and looked closer, seeing upon further inspection that within the bright golden light was actually the form of a small person. "Is that… a fairy?"

Strangely enough, it did look remarkably like a fairy. The bizarre, glowing being was roughly four inches in height and had the form of a naked young woman with butterfly wings on her back and long antennae sprouting from her head. Instead of regular human eyes though, the creature had the multifaceted compound eyes of an arthropod.

"Gross," muttered Rip. What the hell was a fairy doing up here? Were they common in this world, like fireflies? She'd never seen one before. Reaching out to observe the pixie with her sixth sense, she found that the fairy didn't feel all that different from any other winged bug like a beetle or butterfly, which was probably how the damn thing had managed to sneak up on her in the first place.

The vampire's thoughts were cut short when the fairy, with no warning whatsoever, suddenly flickered forwards with surprising speed and slammed into her chest. Normally, something so small bashing into her wouldn't have bothered Rip much, but the little being was surprisingly stronger than it looked. The blow felt like being hit with a sledgehammer. The vampire sniper stumbled backwards after being hit, only to suddenly get smacked in the face by the fairy, who then rushed through the air to deliver another painful blow to the back of her head.

"Ow! You little-OW!" The glowing mote continued to flash forwards and back, delivering blow after blow to the vampire until Rip finally said enough was enough and lashed out with her hand to swat away the annoying insect. She managed to land a solid blow on the pixie, sending it careening away, but it quickly came back and delivered a devastating counterblow to Rip's face. The vampire scrambled backwards to get away from the evil little thing, feeling blood trickle down her chin from a split lip.

"Stupid fairy!" She brought her jezail forwards, swinging the weapon in a wide arc in an attempt to slice the golden bug in half with the attached bayonet. The fairy, quick and agile as a housefly, managed to dodge the blade. Rip increased her speed and after three more swings managed to hit the irritating insect. The fairy bleated out in pain as it fluttered away, a large cut in its side leaking green blood.

"Let zat be a lesson to you! Never mess vith an officer of Millenium!" Rip shouted out at the fairy, watching with some manner of satisfaction as the annoying insect floated away. She then frowned slightly, as part of her felt kind of bad for hurting it. It didn't feel right beating up on something so cute and tiny.

Her remorse for harming the fairy quickly vanished when she saw that twenty more of the damn things had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were now flying towards her. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she muttered in pure disbelief.

If Rip had been paying more attention to her surroundings instead of the pixies, she would have sensed the presence of a young boy in a nearby alley below. He had a large knapsack resting upon his back, from which he pulled out several sealed jars. The boy carefully pried open the lids of these jars, and from within the dark ceramic more golden fairies fluttered out. They floated upwards towards the roof to join their fellows in assaulting the by-now panicking vampire, who was currently dodging the numerous insects' attacks.

"Zis… night… sucks!" Rip shouted as she ducked and dodged the swarming pixies. She was as fast as ever though, managing to keep away from the angry little army's grip. All was going pretty well, until the point when the fairies started to use magic.

Rip screamed when one of the tiny manaics shot a bolt of lightning at her, the spell only missing her head by the barest of margins. A fairy behind her blew a gust of wind which slammed into her back, causing her to fall directly into another fairy that delivered a painful blow right into her ribs. She managed to dodge several more spells as the fairies started to fire air blades, ice knives, flames, and more lightning bolts at her. Some even caused numerous vines to grow up from the roof in an effort to trip her.

The vampire knew that she couldn't keep this up forever and decided to go on the offensive. Perhaps if she could take out one or two of the little bastards, the rest might panic and leave her alone. She ducked under a small fireball one of the fairies threw and readied her musket, preparing to cleave up with the bayonet into a cluster of fairies above who were in the middle of casting another one of their insane nature spells. She knew she'd be able to get at least one or two of them and hoped that it would be enough.

All of the sudden, the fairies scattered and in their wake something even worse appeared. Rip cringed when the Iscariot priest that had been chasing her suddenly leaped onto the roof. He let out a mad, bark of laughter before madly dashing towards her. The man grinned widely as he shot forwards, his swords held out to the sides ready to strike.

The vampire tensed her body to dodge to the side of him, but her senses told her that the fairies were blocking her on all directions. To the left, to the right, even above. The golden insects were all around her, enclosing her within a tight circle and penning her in for the Black Priest who was steadily barreling towards her. Were they working together? How? And why?

She had to get out of there, now! Move!

Too late, Rip thought, knowing the priest had gotten too close for her to dodge away. She quickly brought her musket upwards to parry the man's in-coming strike. The priest lashed out with his right hand sword, the shining silver blade singing through the air before solidly slamming into the firearm's stock. Like before the force of the blow was insane, the power behind it beyond reason. The kinetic impact launched Rip's entire body backwards and she screamed in agony as she felt the bones in her left wrist shatter like glass.

Her form rocketed backwards like a snapped rubber band and would have gone much further had a stone chimney not stopped her momentum. She smashed heavily into the stone, the force shattering some of the bricks and causing most of the chimney to crumble and fall on top of her. Rip coughed, both from the dust of the collapsed chimney as well as the thick blood gurgling up from her throat. She cringed as pain assaulted her body, not only from her wrist but from a few broken bones in her ribs and shoulder.

The vampire tried to stand, but her battered body protested. She grit her fanged teeth and forced her glowing eyes to open. Her still working right hand wiped crushed stone and dust off her bleeding face and looked up at the priest who was currently towering over her. Somehow her glasses had miraculously survived and had remained upon her face despite being chucked through a chimney. At least she wouldn't have to go looking for another one.

That is, if she survived this night.

The priest stood over the vampire's prone form, a smile of victory upon his dark face. He straightened up to his full height and stretched his arms backwards, the twin rapiers pointing downwards, gray and silver blades gleaming in the moonlight. The swarm of fairies floated around him in an orderly fashion, still keeping a tight formation, not allowing her even an inch to maneuver in which she could escape.

Not that Rip could manage in her current position. She was absolutely beat to hell, and it would take a few hours to fully heal her broken bones. But she had to try. She either had to get up and run, or get up and fight. If she stayed lying down, broken and defeated, then there was no question that this lunatic would kill her. He and his fanatical brethren would not suffer to let a single one of her kind live, not if they could help it.

"Make peace with yourself, monster," the priest spoke up, looking down on her with a satisfied smirk. "For tonight you face Divine Punishment."

"Leck mich am Arsch, Schwuchtel!" Rip snarled. Her right hand shot forwards and grabbed her musket, which had been laying nearby where she had dropped it. Flipping the weapon up, she brought the barrel to bear upon the priest's face. The vampire's glowing blue eyes flared as she pulled the trigger, ready to smash that smug look off the bastard's face with one of her signature warheads.

Sadly, nothing happened. Rip's eyes fell and her determination crumbled when she remembered that she hadn't reloaded the weapon since the last time she had shot this creep. "Scheisse," she muttered.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the Black Priest stated grimly as he raised the silver sword high into the air.

Rip's eyes widened when she caught the glowing white runes upon the back of the hand that held the sword aloft. "V-vhat? Those runes! Th-they ze same as mine!"

"No, vampire," the priest told her. "Not the same. I am Windalfr, Right Hand of God. I am the Flute, the tamer of beasts. I soothe the soul of the most savage monster."

"… uh, wut?" Rip muttered, not at all knowing what the hell this lunatic was talking about. She had just gotten used to his nutso Biblical quotes, and now he was pulling out this wacky, semi-paganish Dungeons and Dragons nonsense. She really wished he'd just stick to one form of crazy and run with it.

"It matters not," the Black Priest told her. "Such things are over for you. Only death should concern you now." With silver sword still in the air, the man used his left hand to perform the sign of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Rip found it strange that the priest would bother to perform such a rite, as all the other members of Iscariot she had come across were more than happy to just kill vampires in as vicious a way as possible; to them, they were nothing but animals to be put down, and not worth being shown any token acts of decency.

When the priest stepped forwards, silver sword ready to strike her down, Rip cringed and shut her eyes. At least with Iscariot you were guaranteed a quick (if somewhat violent) death. Unlike the monster from Hellsing, the Vatican's dogs tried to do things as cleanly as they could.

"Father Renaldo Montoya! Stand down!"

When death hadn't come, Rip popped open one eye and looked around. She was slightly surprised to see that surrounding her and the priest were numerous figures dressed in black cloaks. There were about ten of them, though with her senses she could feel four more hidden in the shadows nearby. Those who were out in the open stood stiffly upon the nearby rooftops, keeping well clear of the priest and his swarm of pixies. Each stood still and silent, seemingly unworried about the tall, imposing priest with his swords and army of magical insects. But what Rip found most interesting about them was their scent; they smelled exactly like the late Baron Milan.

Vampires.

"Do you think you creatures are enough to stand against the Right Hand of God?" The Black Priest asked the group of monsters arrayed before him.

"Perhaps not," said one of the vampires, this one standing directly behind the priest. It was a woman, that much Rip could see, and from beneath the hood of the cloak she could see the pale skin of her face as well as the short dark hair that hung near her shoulders. "But I serve the royal family of Tristain. Any move against me is an act of war against the Kingdom of Tristain itself." The dark lips of the vampire twisted up slightly, forming a small smile within the shadows of her hood. "So tell me, Right Hand. Is Pope Victor prepared to go to war with Tristain just for the sake of one pitiful vampire?"

Rip would have usually taken offense to such an insult, but if being called pitiful managed to save her life then she wasn't about to complain too much.

The Black Priest sneered. "The corruption within this nation is absolute. Not only does one of its noble houses call forth a monster as the Gandalfr, but its royal family employs monsters to serve as its spies." The man lowered his swords, then turned back to direct a fierce glare at the vampire behind him. "It seems as if Tristain is a kingdom full of heretics. One in my position might recommend that such a den of wickedness be cleansed."

Rip wasn't sure, but she thought that she saw the lead vampire flinch upon hearing the dark man's words.

"Would you truly condemn so many innocents to pain and death?" the vampire asked.

"Of course," the priest answered, his grin returning. "Heretics need to be purified. And the best method to purify one's soul is through divine flame." With a swift, complex flick of his wrists, the priest resheathed both swords into their scabbards. He then turned around and started towards the edge of the roof. "Enjoy the cool night, vampire. Things are about to get warmer."

Just as he reached the edge, Rip heard the priest whisper, "We're leaving, Sergio."

To the west, about four hundred meters and atop the roof of a butcher shop, a young boy lay upon the warm shingles. He was calmly watching events through the scope of a high-caliber rifle of Soviet make. Through his earpiece, the boy had heard the priest tell him that it was time to go. He pushed a button on his radio and answered, "Si, Father," then sat up and began to disassemble his weapon. The boy was careful to place each component inside the large knapsack that lay across the roof tiles next to him.

With message sent, the Priest leaped off the edge of the roof and disappeared into the dark shadows of the streets below. His pixie swarm quickly followed, their bright glow winking out as they disappeared into the night.

Rip let out a haggard breath she didn't realize she had held in. She looked around the assembled vampires before her, wondering how to deal with them now that the imminent threat of the Iscariot priest was over. The cloaked figures seemed to grow less tense upon the Black Priest's departure, though they by no means had let their guard down.

If she had to guess, these vampires were from the same group of do-gooders that Baron Milan belonged to. Hopefully, they hadn't yet heard of the Baron's unfortunate fate, and if they had she hoped that they didn't connect his current state to anything she might have done to him. Because, technically she hadn't been the one to kill the Baron, though she did try her best to make it happen. They wouldn't hold that against her… would they?

The other vampires approached their leader, each leaping onto the roof to congregate around her. "What do we do with her?" asked one of the cloaked figures as he pointed in Rip's direction.

"Who, me?" Rip asked, trying her best to appear non-threatening. It was kind hard to do with glowing eyes and sharp teeth. She quickly made sure to make her fangs less sharp. "I'm just an innocent bystander, a victim of circumstances. Vhy don't you just let me go, hmm?"

"Not going to happen, murderer!" snarled one of the cloaked figures. "We should kill you now for what you did to the Baron!"

Shit. So they did know. Well, fuck.

"Um… I'm innocent?" Rip stated, wondering if any of these wanna-be monsters actually bought it. It was true, after all. The priest killed Milan, not her.

"We shall take her into custody," the lead vampire said, her lips tightening into a deep frown. "The Princess… wishes to speak with her."

Well, thought Rip. That didn't sound too bad.

"And if the Princess doesn't like what she hears," the vampire stated, "then this monster will wish that we had left her to that maniac priest."

… Fuck.