Penance

Father Tallo opened the church doors and looked out at the clear dark skies. Hours still until the sun, the air was dry, the ground cracked, grass brittle and parched-the world around dying for a drop of water that showed no sign of falling. He stepped back into the church. The worn floorboard creaked under his feet as he made his way to the altar, ready to prepare for the day’s mass.

The priest knew his reflexes had dulled with time. He was an old man now, a priest, ministering the small town named Rust, right at the edge of the Safe Zone where no one would recognize him. He liked his life. It was quiet and simple; he was ensuring people who lived hard lives in the wasteland found comfort in a loving god who would forgive them for the things they had to do to survive. He gave up the life that relied on his reflexes, he had made peace with it.

He still wished he had noticed the vampire before it tapped him on the shoulder.

The church was small and drafty, the doors creaked, and the floorboards groaned, but he hadn’t heard the visitor. Vampires are silent in ways that humans simply aren't.

Vampires were not supposed to enter the Safe Zone, but since the end of the war security had grown lax and so long as someone was not an obvious ravenous monster, the guards did not check identities with scrutiny anymore. But there was no denying what the man before him was.

Vampires could not hide their condition, not on holy land where their eyes were entirely black-soulless pits some say- and the air seemed to almost ripple around their form, as though it knew something unholy that did not belong there. Father Tallo knew what he was looking at the moment they locked eyes, little good that did him. A vampire this close was a death sentence, if that’s what the creature was here for. Father Tallo wasn’t armed, or armored; his robe was hardly convenient for fighting.

In Tallo’s time around Vampires, he observed two distinct types: the born and the created. Born vampires and lean, quick and lithe. Created are big, not as fast as the Born but powerhouses of strength. This one has wide shoulders with muscles stretching a tailored, soft, dress shirt. His clothes are simple but well maintained, an indication of money but not an abundance of wealth. The vampire’s head was bowed a little, shoulders tight and hands held loose at his side, legs spread to lower his center of gravity, it’s a soldier’s stance the vampire has adopted. Father Tallo swallows, discouraged to know that even if he weren’t retired, even if he was in his prime and armed, this one would be difficult to defeat.

He was once told vampires thought it bad luck to feed on a priest, something he was always unsure if he believed. Not so much the idea itself, more the thought of vampires having their own superstitions.

It’s too late to wipe the surprise and recognition from his face, but Father Tallo tries to school his expression into something friendly, curious even, as he asks, “Are you here for confession?”

The vampire’s long hair is messy, curls falling out of a silk ribbon that isn’t managing to control them. In the shadows of the church, Father Tallo can see the pools of black from behind the messy strands. There’s a deeper shadow that splits the stark cheekbones and angular jawbone. He can't see him clearly, but Father Tallo assumes this one is as beautiful as he is dangerous. All vampires are. It does make luring their victims easier.

“Yes.” The voice is broken. Not the smooth baritone Father Tallo is expecting. It has quiet gravel that scratches at the priest’s ears. A sound that carries pain and despair, not something he expects from a vampire Yet, it’s the answer that is most surprising.

He doesn’t touch the vampire, like he would a man. The feeling of his skin can set them off, especially when they haven’t been feeding, and Father Tallo can see this one hasn’t. The skin is too loose, too pale; not tight and flushed from a recent kill. The vampire is starving, and that makes him more dangerous than ever, but Father Tallo won’t - can’t - turn him away.

“What’s your name?” Father Tallo asks, keeping calm.

“Buchanan,” the vampire answers, and Father Tallo wants to offer him water to soothe his throat but knows it will do no good.

“I’m glad you’ve come to me, Buchanan.” It’s only slightly a lie, and only that because Father Tallo is worried this is going to be his last night on Earth. “Come, sit. Let’s talk.”

Father Tallo gestures, leading Buchanan into the pews. Not the confessional; he wants to be able to see this vampire, watch him, even if he doesn’t stand a chance in a fight. There’s no one here this time of early morning anyway, just Father Tallo, the saints in the stained-glass windows, and the candles guttering in their votives. No one will hear whatever the vampire - Buchanan - has to say.

“Forgive me, Father,” Buchanan starts, haltingly, searching for the words he probably hasn’t used in a long time. For a moment, Father Tallo wonders if the words themselves hurt as Buchanan continues, “for I have sinned.” Buchanan stops and coughs, raising one gloved hand to his mouth. Father Tallo hasn’t seen it often, but he was trained in the signs. It was a warning, then. A vampire that hasn’t fed will go into a feeding frenzy, murdering dozens before it has gorged itself completely. “It’s been a very long time since I have last been to confession.”

“What’s brought you back to us, Buchanan?”

Father Tallo thinks he knows, guesses - hopes - but he won’t put the words in Buchanan’s mouth.

“I…” Buchanan swallows. “I don’t want to be like this.” The cough that interrupts him is dry, and rattling. “I want to be saved.”

A shudder wracks Buchanan's body, hard enough Father Tallo can see it. He doesn't like the state Buchanan is in. He reeks of starvation and desperation, but, as much as Father Tallo would love to just trust his apparent penance, he knows vampires. He knows that after a certain point in their long lives, they lose whatever mind they have. They become nothing but hunger.

“God can help,” Father Tallo promises, “if you truly desire salvation. If you truly want to atone.”

“I want to,” Buchanan says. “I want that more than anything.” He reaches out a gloved hand and wraps it around Father Tallo’s shoulder. The grip is hard, but not painful. Father Tallo is grateful for the layers separating them, though, as much as he’s wary of such closeness. “I will do anything to atone for the pain I have caused.” His words turn feverish, stumbling over each other. “For the lives I took, the things I’ve done… I seek forgiveness, father.”

Tentative as he is to touch the vampire, Father Tallo makes himself cover Buchanan’s hand with his own.

“Tell me." He says quietly, “how long has it been since you fed?”

“Four weeks.”

The words send a shiver through Father Tallo’s spine. One month is a lifetime without blood. He knows this creature is in agony, a hunger no human could ever comprehend.

“Why aren’t you feeding, Buchanan?” That’s what Father Tallo really wants to know. The answer will tell him more about the vampire’s true intentions than anything else he can ask. A vampire would never forgo food, never without reason.

“I don’t want to kill anymore. I can’t.” His hand clenched down painfully, and Father Tallo barely restrains a gasp. “I want to be rid of this cursed life,” he hisses, harsh and desperate. “It has to stop.”

Father Tallo blinks, surprised for the second time that night. “That’s why you’ve come to me,” he says aloud.

“A merchant recognized you,” Buchanan whispers, hand loosening, but Father Tallo will still bruise. “He said a hunter is now a holy man in this tiny place.” He raises his head, face finally catching the pale light of the sparse candles, and showing Father Tallo just how beautiful he is, even under all the misery. “I knew you would grant me salvation.”

Though it’s on the tip of his tongue, Father Tallo doesn’t say he’d left that life behind for a reason. This is the reason. Vampires aren’t the pure evil the Church teaches. They are as varied as man in their desires and motives, and Father Tallo would not play judge, jury, and executioner any longer.

“Your life is not mine to take,” Father Tallo says, “it’s not anyone's but our lord's, not when you’ve shown you are not a slave to your hunger.”

“It will win.” Buchanan says, his soft murmur carrying through the piers and the rafters. “It always wins.” His hair falls into his face as his head droops. “I was in love once, father, with a human who did not care I came back from the war a monster. I had a home and a life. This curse has taken everything from me. I have nothing left but my regret.”

“God is with you my son, even in our darkest of times, so long as you welcome him into your heart you are never truly with nothing.”

“I’m tired, father.” His hand slips from the priest's shoulder, falling into his own lap. They are large and calloused, telling of a life of hard work before the curse rendered him unable to be damaged. “I do not fear pain and I do not fear death. I wish to be freed of this life, but not until I atone for the pain I have caused, the curse I have spread, and the lives I have taken. Please father-” a rattling cough interprets the vampire, he curls into himself, a shiver racking his entire being.

“Who am I to take what the Lord has given you?” Father Tallo asks, rubbing gentle circles in the vampire's back. “This person you loved, what would they say if they saw you like this? Seeking punishment as though starving yourself were not enough? What would they say to you seeking death?”

Buchanan sits up, one large hand returning to Tallo’s shoulder, his bottomless black eyes peer at the priest through the curtain of loose hair. “They’re dead, father. They cannot say anything. I killed them. Four weeks ago. I took what the lord gave them, like I’ve taken so many others.”

The tears of a vampire are as red as the blood flowing in their veins, though if they are blood, Father Tallo cannot say. He watches Buchanan wipe his face with the back of his hand, smearing the thick red tears across his face with little care. Father Tallo is suddenly reminded of blood in the snow.

“It is clear you seek forgiveness, that you did not do these awful things out of anger or malice. If you open your heart to the lord and truly seek forgiveness, it will be granted.”

“Pray with me?” The words are soft and desperate.

Father Tallo nods, squeezing the vampire’s cold hand. “Of course, my son.”

They bow their heads as the vampire begins the prayer through a cough-stricken throat.

“Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; According to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

“For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight, so that you are justified in your sentence and blameless when you pass judgement. Indeed, I was born guilty, a sinner when my mother—”

He is forced to stop by a hard all consuming heave. He coughs into his arm, painful and hacking. The sound of his throat tearing is loud in the quiet room. Blood spatters across the sleeve of his dress shirt. He sucks in a couple labored breaths.

“When my mother conceived me.” Father Tallo continues.

Buchanan rocks slightly back and forth, whispering softly in his damaged throat.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me.”

A shiver racks Buchanan’s body, his lips tear with the force of his fangs sinking into the dry flesh.

“Restore to me the joy of your salvation and sustain in me a willing heart. Heavenly father in your name we pray. Amen.”

“Amen.” Buchanan echoes. “Thank you, father.”

Father Tallo pats his hand and together they sit. The vampire’s ragged breaths are the only sound in the quiet church as his starving body consumes itself. Buchanan is shaking beside him. Father Tallo does not speak as the vampire’s eyes slip closed, brow knotting as though deep in concentration. They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity before Buchanan speaks.

“The sun will be up soon.” He finally says.

“Yes, I believe it will.” Father Tallo tells him. He himself does not know but vampires are always keenly aware of the rising sun.

“I would like to watch, I think.” Buchanan tells him. “It has been so long since I’ve seen a sunrise.”

The priest looks at the haunted man and can see in the slump of his shoulders and jut of his chin that there is nothing he can do to stop this.

When Buchanan speaks again, his voice is quiet as though he is afraid of being heard, “Will you join me?”

“Of course.”

Father Tallo was not a killer; he left that life a long time ago. He was a priest, he helped people now, and that is why he would not let Buchanan die alone. Together they left the church to sit on the dry cracked ground, their hands clasped in one another’s.

“I wonder, will it hurt.” The vampire’s dark eyes were fixed on the sky where a small sliver of light peaked over the horizon. “Burning would be a fitting penance.”

The response is still in Father Tallo’s throat when the sky opens up and rain begins to pour in thick sheets. The sliver of light is smothered by the rolling clouds that seem to appear from nothing. The icy droplets feel like new life. The priest tilts his face towards the clouds, perhaps as grateful for the rain as the grass and the land.

“God is not ready for you, it would seem.” Father Tallo says. He turns then and finds red tears being washed from the vampire’s pale face.

Buchanan squeezes his hand.

They do not go back inside until they are both drenched to the bone.