Father Black gave himself a good once-over; Nice black suit, white clerical collar, a small steel pendant of the cross and spear of the Lancea et Sanctum hung above a slightly larger, more traditional one around his neck and the emerald signet ring of a Bishop sat on his hand. In short, he looked every inch the powerful, dignified leader of the Lord's Church among the Damned in Sacramento. Not a stitch of leather or denim in sight. He could barely stand it.

It wasn't just that the good clothes meant he would have to ride in a car tonight rather than on the back of his bike, though he still felt trapped riding in a cage. What bothered him was the power and position that came with the outfit. Since becoming Bishop, Benton had often wondered if he was really ready for it. His only parishioner had called the inquisition down on him, he had been beaten to within an inch of torpor by a group of petty thugs, and tonight he had to face the leaders of the clans and other covenants. The most powerful Kindred in the city and he was supposed to be one of them? He laughed out loud at the thought.

As always when faced with troubling thoughts, Black turned to God. And so, on his knees, hands clasped around his old leather-bound copy of The Testament of Longinus, Father Benton Black prayed.

"Am I ready for this responsibility, this duty? Heavenly Father, I am your instrument, your spear, your scourge, and I will do as you command, but am I strong enough? Is there no one else fit to shoulder this burden? Please, Lord, show me. If I am to be your vessel, Lord, grant me the strength to lead."

It took him a moment to recognize the feeling, absorbed in rayer as he was. A strange sensation like shudders, like his skin was crawling. His Vitae was moving, and growing warmer as it did. For a moment he basked in the warmth, the radient touch of God.

But only for a moment. Then the warmth turned to burning.

If he had not been on his knees already, the pain would have dropped him as the Vitae in his veins turned to a river of slow-moving liquid fire. Paralyzed and blinded by agony, Black's mind fled back to the Lost Nights. But this fire was different somehow. It didn't consume, it honed. Like a forge fire, it was burning away his impurities. Again it seemed he could see the figure of a cloaked and armored centurion pointing a burning spear at his chest. He watched as though rom outside his body as his own hands grabbed the spear and pulled it into his chest.

And then... Nothing.

Benton's eyes snapped open. He looked around the room; No centurion, no fire no gaping spear wound in his chest. Everything was the same. No, not everything. Within himself he felt the place where his doubt had been burned away in the forge fire of his Vitae. The blood in his veins felt... heavier, greater somehow. "Amen," he said, his voice filled with woonder. He suddenly realized he was going to be late to the night's meeting. But even as he stood he felt weak and disoriented almost as if... Black checked his watch and sure enough, it was nearly dawn. He stumbled to his bed and collapsed just as the daysleep took him.