Chapter 36

At the Crimson Cathedral, a priest, belly thrust forward in self-importance, had a gun pressed to his head by Baron as he performed the requiem mass for the girl.

The girl with the braided hair lay inside a coffin of solid carved wood, her face pale and serene.

The rite had been thrown together in haste; apart from the clergy led by the priest, only Baron and Al—his wounds freshly bandaged—remained in the vast church.

Sheila had no family. Al explained that her parents had been famine refugees who died in Mondra soon after her birth.

Baron had taken her in and given her work as a maid—ten copper coins every week.

Al said they had been on their way back from Miss Yalilan's estate when the attack came. The Viscountess, considerate as ever, had assigned two demon-hunters to escort them in case beasts emerged after the Day of Reversal's fog.

But before that day arrived, the blood fiend that should have been hunted had struck instead.

The demon-hunters were killed. The horned blood fiend seized Sheila; Al was knocked senseless. When he woke, the girl's body was already cold.

Baron listened without sorrow or joy, his gaze as still as a frozen lake, giving no hint of his thoughts.

Only after the priest finished the mass did Al, tears streaming, speak of revenge.

Then Baron finally murmured, low and calm, "I understand."

Sun and Black Moon rose together; light streamed through the rose window at the church's rear, casting a great shadow beneath the crucifix.

Baron studied the sleeping girl from above. The little maid's cheeks were bloodless from loss; her eyes were swollen, her fine dress streaked with dust and tears—she must have died in despair and agony.

Death had not come from the arterial bite of a blood fiend but from a gaping wound that pierced her chest.

The attacker had torn her open, drained her blood, devoured her heart, and vanished.

Baron laid the flowers the maid had once bought for him upon her breast, covering the wound, and stared at her profile in the shadows.

The maid's uniform hung loose on her, her face and hands so small—still only a child...

A sudden ache clenched his heart—grief, sorrow, the urge to weep.

One more person in the world who had cared for him was gone; how could he not feel the loss?

When the others had left—the priest and nuns yawning as they retired, Al asleep on a pew, shoulders twitching with silent sobs—Baron drew an old porcelain shard from his coat.

...

The little novice nun burst in, sobbing. Her cries woke Al. Baron asked what had happened.

"Cecy's gone," the girl wept.

"Go at once to Viscountess Yalilan. Tell her the blood fiend is in Baron Cambera's manor. Have her summon the demon-hunters in Ford City; the task will be difficult."

He paused. "Prepare for the worst."

Without another word Baron dashed from the church, mounted the black war-horse he had taken from the prison, and galloped away.

On the road he met Sister Theresa, cradling a child and murmuring hymns.

The nun's black habit was tailored close; beneath her wimple her face was striking.

Setting the child down, she waved to Baron and asked where Mister L was bound.

The motion bared her forearm, smooth and white, gleaming faintly in the light of the twin suns and moons.

On the night of the Day of Reversal there are two moons—one that moves forward, one that moves back.

By day two suns blaze, scorching earth and river alike.

To spare the world, the Lonely Silver-Faced Goddess among the ancient gods sealed herself away, using the Black Moon to veil the reversed sun—hence the founding of the Black Moon Church.

Baron reined in. "To Baron Cambera's manor."

"What for? Calling on Miss Sheila?"

The nun, unaware of the arrests—or of Sheila's death—spoke innocently.

Baron opened his mouth, yet said nothing of the cruel truth.

"I'm going to find Sheila," he said.

"May I come? I have business with Miss Sheila as well."

Baron helped her onto the horse; she clasped his back, the faint scent of maidenhood drifting forward.

Baron noticed nothing. "Hold tight," he said, and urged the stallion to a reckless gallop.

Partway, the nun asked suddenly, "Mister L, do you like virgins?"

Baron thought of the girl in the coffin. After a moment he answered, "Flowers are fond of them."

"That isn't what I meant." Sister Theresa tightened her arms around his waist.

The demon-hunter froze. "Sister Theresa, you overstep."

"No," she whispered. "Do not go. God says—do not."

"That place is Hell."

"Perfect," Baron replied. "I've always wondered what Hell looks like."

Silence.

Then, with a swift motion, Baron spun and caught the nun about the waist.

Startled, she saw in his obsidian eyes the reflection of a monster. She pressed her face to his chest, breathing in the mingled scents of tobacco and gunpowder.

The horse screamed. Hooves skidded; together they tumbled to the ground.

The cry cut short as the horse's head was severed. The monster steadied the headless body and buried its maw in the gushing neck.

Baron rose, placing himself between the creature and the nun—a blood fiend.

Broad daylight, a forest path, yet here it stood.

Baron's gaze flicked over the creature's right leg and horns—neither injured. A third blood fiend, not the one that had killed Sheila nor the one Yalilan had wounded.

The fiend glanced past Baron to Theresa, then hurled the horse's corpse at him. Claws slashed through the air.

"Close your eyes. This will be bloody," Baron said.

Theresa shut her eyes, hands crossed in prayer. "God loves all..."

Faith, he thought, was a fearsome thing.

Baron smiled, silent, as nameless wrath and majesty flared within him. A cross-shaped scar blazed on his right cheek; obsidian eyes turned molten gold.

The carcass flew toward him, igniting mid-air like a demon breaking free of Hell.

Flesh turned glass-clear in the flames, every breath sparking with embers.

"God grants all..." Theresa murmured.

Baron caught the blazing horse as though it weighed nothing. Drawing the longsword from the saddle, he let the creature burn to ash even as it charged. Ashes scattered like black leaves, only to be cleaved by the fiend.

"God says: let the restless live..."

Bat-like wings unfurled; a forked tongue flickered. Claws, dripping venomous light, stabbed at the wall of fire surrounding the man.

In an instant Baron exhaled, body drawn taut as a bowstring.

He swung the sword—plain, unadorned.

Steel met claw. The claw held; the blade shattered.

A mere jailer's weapon, unfit for a demon-hunter's hand. How could it match the fiend's stone-hard hide, steel-sharp talons?

The fiend's eyes flashed with gleeful contempt.

Its roar shook the flames; excitement quivered through its body. In a human tongue it sneered:

"Is that... all?"

Then it saw its own headless body falling.

Baron's form, wreathed in flame, walked past the corpse. The broken sword blazed anew—fire replacing steel.

Too late the realization dawned.

The fiend's head struck earth, green eyes reflecting the fading fire. Baron was nowhere to be seen.

Theresa finished her prayer: "God says: let the restless die..."

Silence fell; only the wind stirred the treetops.

She opened her eyes to find the demon-hunter's black muzzle leveled at her.

"You're from the Lamb-Blood Nunnery."

Though a gun pressed against her brow, she smiled gently. "When did you know, Mister L?"

Molten light flickered in his gaze. "When I lost the scent of blood."

He had used the forbidden shard of Dagda's Cauldron; never again would he smell blood. From the girl's dying words he had learned her killer.

"Lost the scent?" Theresa gave a wry smile, lowering the knife she had held to his chest. "You always speak in riddles, Mister L."

Baron's voice was ice. "Because you're not human."

"Still fond of virgins, Mister L?" Theresa asked.

Even with a gun to her head her expression remained tender, a river that bends around every hill.

Baron said nothing.

"From the first moment I saw you," Theresa whispered, "I knew you hated me."

Her lovely oval face was etched with quiet sorrow.

"Because... I'm no longer a virgin."

When she spoke, tears trembled in the nun's eyes; hatred and sorrow—impossible to call anything but moving—knotted between her brows. Her lashes were long, her face pale and pure as a believer painted on chapel walls.

After a quiet moment, he smiled. Meeting the nun's piteous, despairing gaze, he enunciated every word.

"Kill a man, pay with your life. Tell your story to the devils in hell."

He squeezed the trigger. The nun toppled backward, a bright red spot blooming between her brows.

Baron did not linger. He snatched the broken sword-hilt from the ground and sprinted toward the manor.

It was his first time taking a life, yet he found the act surprisingly familiar.

Perhaps because the one he killed had once been a friend.