“Come behold the work of the Lord, what dissolations he has made in the Earth...And I only am escaped alone to tell the News.” (The Narrative of Mary Rowlandson)



Patience is fifty. She still looks a bad twenty-five. Awful really. Especially in the fluorescents. Under this light, it’s like her face is melting.

Still better than the hunk of meat handcuffed, balled up on the floor at her feet. It shudders, rolls over.

What’s left of the Mekhet’s face still has one eye. It stares up at Patience. Nothing but pain and rage. The mouth hole works, but there’s no tongue. No teeth either. Just blood.

Patience walks to the freezer door. She does not breath and her skin is cold, so she makes no steam. She pounds on it and Garritt opens from the outside.

“Get him out of here,” Patience orders. “Do not let him die.”

Garritt is the weaker Beast. His curse makes him look and feel like a giant, hairless rodent. He cringes and complies. The Mekhet leaves a streak of vitae in his wake. He has yet to produce the necessary information concerning his little coven. Patience will see him again.

For now, though, she has an appointment with her Father.

Patience exits the freezer, shuts and bolts the door behind her. Turns to the basin, washes the blood off her hands. The water turns a darker shade of pink.

“Bring me the robe,” she says to the Ghoul standing attendance in shadows nearby. “Now.”


*

It is the same room. Where she first met Him.

He has a name, outside of this room. But here and with her, he is simply Father.

It is as dark as that first night, but now Patience can See.

Like her, he is wearing a simple robe. Black. Rough fabric. It hangs past his ankles, despite his impressive height. The hood is thrown back from his misshapen head.

Father stands above a man laying face down, long wounds cover his back. The flesh has been stripped away. As if he has been scourged.

He reaches down, lifts the man up by the scruff of his neck. In his other hand is a chalice. With it, Father collects blood dripping from the wounds.

“Come, Patience. Drink. Take sustenance at the Lord’s table.”

Patience approaches, accepts the proffered cup. “Praise be to God, Father.”

“Praise be,” her Father answers, setting the man down gently though with no trace of concern or tenderness.

Patience drinks. Feels the strength of the Lord’s purpose fill her. Their purpose. She hands the chalice back to her Father who finishes the draught.

“Let us pray,” he says. Both bow their heads and offer thanks to the Lord in silence.

It is how it always is. With them.

Patience speaks first: “Father. The heretic still holds his silence. He will speak.” Patience knows he will.

“I do not doubt, Patience. But there are other matters to discuss.”

Patience does not answer, simply approaches her Father and kneels. Eyes down. Hands clasped before her as if in prayer. His Beast is hidden from her, thankfully. She knows he will speak when he is ready.

Eventually, he does: “Patience, you know the importance of our Blood, do you not? You know our purpose.”

She nods. Patience knows it well.

“The Church here. In Buffalo. It is dedicated to preserving our line. It also understands our significance. But...”

Patience raises her eyes. Curious. She cannot help it. The ruin of her Father’s face is painted with a look of contemplation. His glaucous eyes are upon her.

“They are perhaps too concerned. Too dedicated. Patience, I am trapped here. We are trapped here. It...hampers our ability to truly serve the Lord’s purpose.”

Patience has never considered this before. That someone might control her Father. That the Church’s protection might also be...a cage. She is silent for a long time. Accepting it. He permits this.

“What would you have of me, Father?”

“I would have you leave, Patience. I would have you go out into the Long Night. To spread our work. To bring our Gift to the world.”

He places a hand on her head. A benediction. Though not exactly gentle.

“I have told them that your embrace was a failure. That you were not truly worthy. That you show no signs of our Blood’s promise. I believe they will let you go.”

The hand grips her skull. He could crush it if he wished. Patience is not afraid.

“Where, Father? Where would you have me go?”

The hand is removed. She glimpses a look of satisfaction on his face. Grim as it is. She will serve. He knows it.

“Wherever you will be able to make a place for yourself. Wherever you can establish your authority without the strictures we face here. You have held off on coming into our Blood as I instructed?” It is not really a question. Obedience is assumed.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Only when you find your proper place are you to make the attempt. Until then, you are a Nosferatu only. And a servant of the Lord always.”

“I understand.”

He turns his back to her, towering above the kine on the floor. The man has not moved. Patience stands.

“Pack what you need. You depart tomorrow night.”

No sentiment. Never. Not even at parting. She understands her mission. It is her Father’s will and thus the Lord’s.

And she understands that she has been dismissed.

“Praise be, Father.”

“Praise be, my Childe.”

With that, Patience leaves her Father to his Good Work.