Sidor had only stopped off briefly at his ordinary basement haven to ensure it was secure, and pick up the scant few personal possessions that he cared enough about to keep near him. There were very few, anyway. He had a spartan existance, because it suited him. Possessions were fleeting, tangible things that mortals clutched to as symbols of status. He no longer had a need for the trappings of mortality, and thus he no longer had a need for such foolishness as greed. Not that he'd been a particularly indulgant man in life. His sins had been multitude and unforgiven, but he had not been a glutton or a miser.
No, the Russian Haunt considered. But I have been a murderer and a torturer and a hunter of the innocent. This existance is just. This is fair. This right; an apt punishment for the blood on my hands.
That was perhaps the most frustrating thing about his doubts. He couldn't think of an alternative that made sense; a God who had not forsaken the Damned would not condemn them to such an existance. As for the alternative, a God that did not exist... no, he could not accept that. Vampirism was unscientific and ridiculous to any right-minded thinker. The Dark Miracles he could command were impossible. The blood-powered terror he could inspire in others was supernatural, so much more potent than anything he had performed in life.
The shadows on his face were unpiercable by any light. Barring some sort of black hole having opened inside his skull, that too, was physically impossible. Not to mention the fact that they moved on their own.
He slipped the rucksack with his possessions in over his shoulder and walked towards the Ridge Motel. He'd already sent Bishop Flores a text message to request an audience. He had nowhere else to turn, after all. The Sanctified were the only refuge he had. They were still his brothers in Damnation. He still believed that.
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