This is a piece of amateur writing and is not meant to infringe on the rights of Anne Rice or her publishers.

'...sicut erat in principio, in saecula saeculorum. Amen.'

'Amen,' the monks said in respose to the abbot. Without a sound they stood up and left the church to the peasants who had joined the mass despite of the late hour. There were more of them than usual, and others were still coming to pray to God for sparing of their lifes. In the little hospital of the monastery, the sick already had to lie on the cold stone floor, since the few beds had been occupied for weeks now. The Black Death stalked Italy, and every day thousands fell victims.

The monks walked silently through the cloisters, back into the dormitory. In three hours they would rise again, celebrating one more in the numberless masses that were their life. And the poor would be watching them throw themselves onto the floor to praise God. They would show awe and fear at the sight of the Dominicans, the 'hounds of the Lord' as they were called sometimes.

The abbot was the last to leave the church, checking that this night's vigil was already on his walk through the buildings. Every night one monk stayed awake during the night, guarding the church and waking his brothers in time for the masses. It was a responsibility delegated to the young acolythes mostly, but only the very old didn't spend one single night wandering through the dark during the year. When the abbot saw that the monk was putting the candles on the altar out, he sighed with content and retired to his chamber.

Frater Marcus hated the vigil, as he hated the life in the monastery as a whole. Every new day was like the preceeding, a neverending chain of routine that would only be broken by his death. How could anyone choose this life voluntarily? And yet, during the last month three young men had asked to be accepted into the order and were now lying in the dormitory the acolythes shared. Three lifes more spent in this endless monotony. If they had been poor, he would have been able to see their reasons, since the order was rich and took care of its members, but they were sons of wealthy families, one even an aristocrat. They hadn't been forced to take the habit, could have done whatever they wanted. They had opportunities Marcus could only dream of. And despite of all that, they had chosen to live their lifes in the most senseless way he could think of.

The cold made him shiver, and he started walking to keep himself warm. When he left the church, he saw that another group from the village had come. Five or six men, dressed only in rags that clang to their dirty skin. He could tell from their hollow faces that they were starved. Since the plague had reached the region the fields hadn't been cultivated properly anymore because there weren't enough people to do the work. The villagers had been living upon grain as long as it lasted, but now, after the hard winter, they must be on the verge of dying. Marcus found himself clenching his fists at that thought. All that suffering could be prevented! The wealthy landowners were living like kings, throwing food away without even thinking about it. The church owned so many acres of fertile land that an average harvest could feed every soul in Italy. And though the peasants knew that very well, they kept quiet and dropped dead of starvation in their shabby huts, not daring to revolt against the lords who took away nearly all their harvests and raped their daughters and wifes.

The new arrivals entered the church, an awesome expression on their faces. Marcus knew that they carried it only out of fear. They connected Dominicans with the Inquisition since the pope had authorized the order to use this cruel tool to fight against the heretics. It was known that if somebody was accused of anything, his dead was only a matter of time. The inquisitors didn't care if the accused was guilty of not, as long as they could use him as a deterrent for those who dared to oppose the Holy Church. The profit they made was enourmus; half of the 'heretic's' property belonged to the church, the rest to theinquisitor.

Marcus had once been forced to watch the Court of Inquisition question a woman who was accused of being a witch, and he would never forget the sight of her when she was burned. The flames that licked at her loin cloth, her screams as the fire reached her flesh... He hated the church for it.

He was walking across the cemetary now, passing the numerous new graves. One day he would join the death, would be buried in the sacred earth that surrounded the church. Sacred earth! The thought alone made him laugh. Nothing that was in any way connected with the church could possibly be sacred. He saw that the diggers were already working, preparing the graves for the next day, so that al those who died during the night could be buried as fast as possible. The dead weren't even given a proper funeral anymore, they were too many. In one grave two, three, sometimes up to eight people found their eternal rest. The priest would only say a paternoster for each and then leave for the next funeral.

It began to rain, and Marcus returned to the church. In about three hours he would have to wake the others for the prayer, until then he had nothing to do but take care of the church.

Inside the peasants were kneeling on the floor and praying. Some were weeping, they had probably lost a member of their family. Marcus didn't want to disturb them in their grief and silently sat down in a niche. This was his favourite place here, this little corner. Nobody could see him in the shadows, and it gave him a feeling of safety. Drawing his legs up and laying his arms around his knees, he settled down and watched the flickering of the candle inside his lantern.

Suddenly he felt something touch his face. He jumped to his feet, his eyes frantically searching for the intruder. He saw a movement, heard the rustle of clothes. Obviously somebody had already taken advantage of the quiet corner, perhaps a tired wanderer who had been looking for a place to sleep.

'Pax tecum,' he murmured, taking his lantern.

'Pax tecum,' a soft voice answered. A woman's voice! Marcus was alarmed. A woman who spent the night alone in a public place was either a thief or a whore, and both was not a suitable company for a monk. He decided that he better should leave to avoid any more contact with her, but she had already risen and now took his hand.

'Woman, what do you want?' he asked, trying to hide the shaking in his voice.

'What I want?' She laughed quietly. 'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'No.' She had moved into the dim light now, which enabled him to see her clearly. A young woman, dressed in dirty rags. Looking at her face, he had to admit that she was rather pretty, with large blue eyes and blond, nearly white hair. Judging by her looks, her ancestors had been Celts or Teutons, and her slight accent confirmed his speculation.

'Do you want something to eat?' Again she laughed.

'I will eat later, don't worry.'

'Are you ill?' he asked. 'You look so pale.'

'No, I'm perfectly healthy.' He was becoming impatient now.

'Well, what are you doing here?' She stared at him for a moment, smiling.

'I'm looking for company. There aren't many people around nowadays, you know.' So she only wanted somebody to talk to. Marcus sighed with relief.

'I will keep you company, if you want to. It's my duty.'

'Oh. The monk's duty,' she said mockingly.

'Yes. What do you want to talk about?' She hesitated, staring at his face again.

'Tell me about yourself.' Marcus was puzzled. Usually he was asked for advise or comfort, not for telling stories. 'Yes, tell me a story.' Had she read his thoughts? That was impossible, wasn't it? No, it had to be pure chance.

'I'm not sure what you mean,' he said slowly.

'Your story. Your life.' When he didn't answer, she continued, 'I'm sure you had a life before you entered the order.' Her choice of words made him flinch. You had a life. And now it was over. To hear this from somebody else made the fact a thousand times worse. He was already past. Absent-minded he wiped a tear away. His life was over. He was living, yet he was dead. Her hand gently touched his cheek.

'Don't cry,' she whispered softly. 'Don't cry.' He wanted to tell her what he had just realized, wanted to scream at the top of his voice what he knew now. 'Tell me the pain,' she said.

'I can't. You wouldn't understand.' He forced himself to smile and tried to change the topic. 'What's your name?'

'Didn't I tell you? I'm Freya.' The name sounded familiar. If his memory served him right, a nordic goddess had been called Freya. A dangerous name, and certainly not one anybody would say in the presence of a Dominican. But it seemed that the woman was sure that he wouldn't inform the abbot. 'And you are?'

'Frater Marcus.'

'Marcus.' She seemed to taste the name. 'It doesn't sound right. What was your former name?'

'I don't think I'm allowed to tell you.'

'Why not?'

'When I entered the order, I gave up my secular life, and with it my name. The rules are strict about that. If somebody hears me, I will be punished.' She smiled at him.

'Oh, of course we can't risk that. I'll have to find a name for you, my saint.'

'Don't mock me.' He wondered why he felt so comfortable in her presence. He had only just met her, yet he felt he had always known her, and trusted her completely. So strange, all this. She touched his cheek again with her cold hand.

'I'm not mocking you, my saint.' He caught her hand in his and leaded her away from the niche. 'Where are we going?'

'Outside. I don't want to disturb the prayers.' *And I don't want to be seen with a pretty young woman who touches me*, he added. For a second he thought he heard her giggle, but he wasn't sure.

It was still raining, so they went to the stables. Marcus opened the door, and they entered the low building. The only sound was the breathing of the horses and the mice rustling in the straw. A far better place to talk than the church. He knew that he was supposed to stay there and supervise the churchgoers, but that didn't worry him too much. At the moment he was too intrigued by Freya to think of his duty. The way she moved, her voice, everything was fascinating. For him, she resembled everything he had given up.

They sat down in the hay, Marcus marvelling at her catlike movements.

'So... where are you from?'

'Ultima Thule. That's Iceland for you,' she continued, as if she had seen his puzzlement, though that was impossible in the dim light.

Her answer was surprising. Hardly any people from Iceland went to Italy. The island had always been mysterious and without much contact to the rest of Europe. Only the Scots and the Norwegians sent ships that far. She noticed his surprise and continued,

'But I've lived in Italy and France since my parents died.' So she wasn't only from the end of the world, but also an orphan who cared for herself. His curiosity grew with every second.

'And where is the rest of your family?' he asked, simply to keep the conversation going.

'Some may still be in Iceland. My husband died.' So she had been married.

'Sorry to hear that,' he murmured. She smiled and shook her head.

'You don't have to be. I never liked him.' Marcus found himself imagining her body, lying there in the straw... He pushed all those thoughts back. The others would have to be awakened in no more than an hour, and some of them always rose earlier. There was really no time for amorous adventures.

'Were you married?' Freya asked, shifting into a more comfortable position. Marcus hesitated.

'No,' he said finally. She looked at him closely, and he felt uneasy.

'But there has been a woman.'

'Yes. But she is dead.' He hoped that she would not ask any more questions. Every thought of his beloved still hurt. The thought of her body turning into ashes...

The sobs came suddenly, impossible for him to fight them down. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was shaking. He had never cried over her death before, and the whole grief poured out now. He felt Freya's hands trying to comfort him as she pulled him into her embrace. Pressing his face against er shoulder, he cried and cried, until no more tears would come. She was rocking him, gently stroking his hair.

'Shh, calm down, little saint, calm down,' she murmured soothingly and placed a kiss on his forehead. He didn't really notice, the pain was too strong. The memories he had tried to forget were coming back now, hitting him like arrows, and he experienced everything again.

The guards were dragging the frail girl to the stake, ignoring her twisting, her screams that she was innocent. The judge asking her one last time why she wouldn't confess, and her desperate cry that she didn't know what she had done. Her face was half covered with blood from the cut on her cheek, and she was crying. The guards tying her to the stake, so tight that the rope cut into the tender flesh at her wrists. And then the torch, carried by the man who had denounced her. He spit at her face, cursed her, and tossed the torch into the dry wood at her feet. The flames flared up immediately, creating dancing shadows. The girl screamed with pain when the fire licked at her skin. She screamed that she would do whatever they wanted, would they please put the fire out. Her beautiful face was turned to the sky, as if she was pleading to God to stop her suffering. The light danced on her red hair, which had been her pride and finally her death sentence. Her clothes were on fire already, and she was screaming, not articulating any words anymore. The flames swallowed her completely, veiling her. She was tearing at the bonds that held her, and collapsed in a heap when they gave way and nothing was holding her up anymore. The smell of burnt flesh was suffocating. She tried to escape the flames, but when she crawled away the guards pushed her back. Her screams became higher and higher, and finally faded away. The fire was dying, and when the last flames disappeared, they left only ashes behind.

'I couldn't save her,' he sobbed into Freyas shoulder.

'It wasn't your fault, little saint.'

'But I loved her... I- ' a sob cut him off again. Freya sighed.

'To see those you love die is painful, nothing can hurt that deeply. But you must let go. Let her die, set her soul free.' Marcus looked up, into those enormous blue eyes.

'But what if I can't? She meant everything to me, I can't simply forget her!'

'I didn't say that you should forget her. On the contrary, treasure the happy moments you had together. But don't cling to the fact that you couldn't prevent her death.' Freya gently stroke his cheek. 'Don't imprison her in your head, keep her in your heart.' Marcus leaned against her shoulder again, seeking the comfort she offered freely. He knew that she was right, but the hurt was still too deep to scar over. Time was the only thing that could heal him. Maria had meant everything to him, she had been his friend and his beloved. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her smiling face. She had been so vivid, so intense. And now she was dead, a pile of ashes.

'The church killed her. She hadn't done anything, but when one of their enemies bribed the bishop, they believed everything he told them. She was denounced of being a witch, and burned at the stake.' He wiped a tear away. 'I had to flee, or I would have burnt too, for we lived together and weren't married. Living in sin, they called it.' He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. 'Where's the sin in sharing everything with the woman you love but aren't connected to in a ritual?' Freya looked at him with concern.

'There is no sin, only people who think there is.' She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. Suddenly she got up and pulled him with her.

'What is it?' Marcus whispered.

'Seems that one of your fellow brethren is already up.'

'Damn.'

'Language, little saint! Don't forget that you're a monk.' Marcus smiled.

'I stopped being a monk the moment I saw you.' The words had passed his lips before he realized what he was saying. Freya raised her eyebrows in surprise.

'Are you sure?' This time Marcus knew what he said.

'You showed me that I'm wasting my life if I stay here. Since I don't want to waste it, it's only logical to leave.'

'If I were you, I'd consider this for a moment. After all, it's a drastic change.'

'But it's the only way left. Either that, or I die here at high age. I'm dying already. And I want to *live*!'

'Shh!' Freya hissed, but the other monk had already heard him and was opening the stable door. 'I have to leave.' Marcus took her hand.

'Will you come back?' Freya hesitated. She seemed to ponder something.

'Yes,' she answered finally. 'In the night of your next vigil.'

'But how will you know when-' She covered his mouth with her hand.

'Trust me. I'll know.' With these words, she disappeared into the back of the building. A moment later he heard the creaking of the back door.

The other monk came closer. 'Frater Marcus?' he asked. 'Estis te?' Marcus brushed the straw from his tunic, his mouth still burning from Freya's touch.

'Ita est,' he answered, hoping that his voice didn' sound too thin. The other stepped into the dim circle of light that radiated from the lantern, and Marcus recognized Frater Pacificus, one of the oldest members of the order. 'I heard a noise and thought I'd better check.' The lie came easily, and he couldn't help smiling. Obviously he had been right. Tonight he had stopped being a member of the church which had owned him for so long and taken that much. Perhaps Freya had been his own angel, come to lead him out of despair and helplessness.

'Very well, brother,' Pacificus said. 'But come, it's time to wake the others for the prayer. The sun will rise soon.'

They left the stable and went to the dormitory. And stumbling through the ankle-deep mud, Marcus realized that although he hadn't mentioned it, Freya had known Maria's name.

Freya rose early the next evening. The house she had chosen as her temporary lair was quiet. It's inhabitants had died months ago, some more among the countless victims of the plague.

The hunger was raging in her, she had to feed tonight. In the past hunting had been difficult due to the Black Death. On her wanderings she had crossed large areas where every single human soul had died. Here, in this village, the situation was slightly better. The people gathered at the monastery, so many that nobody would notice if some were missing. Last night she had wanted to feed there, but then she had encountered this strange young monk. Freya had to admit that she found him attractive, physically as well as mentally. A clever, handsome man. It really was a shame that he had to spend his life locked behing the thick stone walls of a religious prison.

She left the house and headed for the monastery. The evening mass was being celebrated, she could hear the singing quite well. The voices remembered her of her former companions, who had all loved to sing and dance. She still missed them, and hoped that she would meet them again sometimes. Maybe she would travel to Rome, where two of them were living in the coven. Freya had tried to stay with them, but the life they had didn't attract her. She loved her freedom and didn't want to give it up already.

Yes, she would definitely go to Rome. After all, she had promised that she would come sometimes, and promises had to be kept. But before she made this one good, she had to keep another.

She just couldn't get that monk out of her mind. But what could she do about him? If they met again, the danger increased that he wouldn'd survive the encounter. Usually, when mortals got involved with vampires, the result was either a corpse or a fledgling. And a fledgling was the last thing she needed at the moment. She wanted to enjoy her life, not take care of a young one. That duty she had fulfilled already, and nobody could force her to make another one. When Marcus was on vigil again, she would tell him that she had to leave, and then go to Rome.

'Requiescat in pace,' the abbot said, beckoned the grave-diggers to start their work and led the way back to the church where they spent their days and nights praying.

During the last month the plague had raged in the village, claiming more deads than ever before. In the hospital were so many sick that the auxiliaries sometimes didn't notice for hours that one of the patients had died. And a week ago the first monk had fallen victim. For the others his death marked the end of belief in their invulnerability and reminded them that they were mortal. He had been the first, and within a day nine more had died. The next day the number of deaths was thirteen. From the initial ninety-four monks only twelve were still alive. And among them the symptoms were already showing on two.

Marcus felt no sorrow for the deceased they had just burried. There had been so many that he had stopped counting. And it was only a matter of time until his body was rotting in a grave, though maybe he wouldn't even be buried anymore. Most of the surviving peasants had left the village, knowing only too well that they couldn't escape the Black Death. The monks had thought about going with them, but then they had stayed. If they had to die, it might as well be at their home where they would be buried in sacred earth.

Frater Remigius, who was walking in front of him, stumbled over a stone and would have fallen if Marcus hadn't caught his arm to steady him. He could feel the heat of the fever through the cloth of the habit. A glance at the other's face confirmed his suspicion. Remigius was so pale that he seemed translucent.

The next.

Marcus took his hand gently.

'Remigius, you have to come with me,' he said and led him away from the others, to the hospital. An auxiliary, who saw them come, helped Marcus to bring the sick inside. The air was sticky, and the smell of the sick and dead, mixed with burned incense, was suffocating. Silently the auxiliary showed him a bed whose occupant had died only some minutes ago. It was still warm. Marcus bedded Remigius and turned to leave.

'Marcus, please... don't leave,' Remigius whispered. 'I'm so afraid.' Marcus knew that he the risk of infection was nowhere else greater than here, but he sat down at the rim of the bed nevertheless. He would die anyway, so why should he not comfort this man whom he would follow soon into death?

'I'll stay with you,' he said and took Remigius' hand. He had never noticed how young the other was. This wasn't a servant of God who was lying on the dirty bed, it was a youth, a frightened child.

When Marcus woke up again, he couldn't remember where he was, but then his memory caught up. He had fallen asleep in the hospital, at the side of Remigius. Pushing himself into an upright position, he noticed that he was still holding the other's hand in his own. But it radiated no more heat. Marcus looked at Remigius' face. It had been so white when Marcus had brought him here. The colour had changed into a dark red, nearly black, as if the plague wanted to demonstrate that it earned its other name. He reached out and closed the eyes that seemed to be pleading to Death for mercy.

'Requiescas in pace, Remigie,' he said quietly. The words sounded hollow to him, a phrase that had lost its meaning long ago.

Two auxiliaries came and began to prepare Remigius for his funeral, ignoring Marcus completely.

'He will be one of the last who get a christian burial,' one of them said, combing the deceased's hair. The other grunted according, cleaning the face from spit and vomit. Marcus shuddered at the thought of Remigius' death that had left such traces. It had obviously been a violent, desperate fight, and the whole time he had been draped over Remigius' legs sleeping, noticing nothing.

The auxiliaries finished their work and carried the body outside. Marcus watched them with growing fear. Soon the body carried outside would be his, as sure as the Amen at the end of the prayer. The others would come together at his grave and watch the diggers covering the corpse with earth. And nobody would really care.

He couldn't breathe anymore, the air in the hospital seemed to cover his nose and mouth. He stumbled outside and began to run, without a destiny. He only wanted to get away from that horried place. Finally he entered the church and slumped down in his corner. Leaning against the cold stone wall, his arms hugging his knees, he lowered his head and cried.

The thirst raged in Freya, nearly driving her mad. It had been days since she had fed, and weeks since she had taken her last human victim. The village had been abandoned, and the peasants had taken the animals they hadn't slaughtered already with them. Freya hadn't tried to follow them, though it would have been so easy. Something was holding her back. She had lived upon the cats and even rabbits and rats, drinking their blood though the thought alone made her feel sick. Never before she had done such a thing. Vampires feeding upon animals had always seemed weak to her, creatures that couldn't get what they wanted. And now she was doing it herself, and she loathed it more every time she had to swallow the blood. She wouldn't be able to live this way much longer. But she had no choice really.

She couldn't take one of the monks without being discovered anymore. They stayed in the church now all the time and prayed to the Christian god to protect them. Their servants had run away or died. The monks were her only option, and she didn't dare to kill one of them. It was simply too dangerous, and it would be barely avoidable that they saw her.

'What shall we do now?' one of the hooded figures whispered. The words were carried away by the wind, but everybody knew what had been said. Yesterday the abbot had died, and with him the authority that had been so perfectly natural. The remaining four monks had to bury him themselves, since all the servants had either left or were dead.

'This is the final proof that there is no such thing as god,' another one said and slumped down at the grave. 'If there's anything at all, it's the Devil.'

'How can you say such a thing! We have to believe, stronger than before!' The seated one laughed. 'If you can still believe that there's a God somewhere, who sees all this suffering on earth and doesn't do anything to ease the pain, then do it.'

'His ways can't be questioned. The plague may be a test to find the faithful-'

'The faithful? Would you just tell me how he will recognize them, if they're dead and buried among the heretics? Oh, why, perhaps their bodies don't rot in these damn graves!'

'Frater, don't say such-'

'I'll tell you something, you and your fellow idiots! We're all going to die, do you hear me! God gives a damn shit wether we are monks or whores or whatever!' He jumped to his feet and clasped the rosary that was hanging down from his belt. Tearing it loose and throwing it into the other's face, he shouted, 'Behold the sign of the cross, for it means salvation! But has it saved any of these who are buried here? No! Because it couldn't! Because it's only a piece of shaped wood!' He faced the other two. 'I'm going to leave. Who wants to come with me?' They looked at him uncertainly. Then one shook his head.

'If it's my destiny to die here, I will not challenge fate.' Marcus stared at him for a moment and then turned to face the other.

'What about you, Severinus? Will you stay here with those two cowards or will you try to escape?' The fight that raged in Severinus' mind was clearly visible on his face. 'Well? I'm waiting.'

'I'll join you', he said, not daring to look at the others. 'But let's wait until tomorrow. It's nearly sunset already, and travelling in the night isn't save.' Marcus sneered.

'Who should mug us? There's not a single living soul within three days reach. But I did plan to leave tomorrow because we have to get the things necessary.' He noticed Severinus' puzzlement. 'You know, such as food and water. Come on, we should sleep now. *I* don't want to fall asleep while walking, and I'm rather sure that neither do you.' Putting his arm around Severinus' shoulder, he led him away from the other two who were staring at them in disbelief.

Freya knew that she was in desperate need of human blood. Her skin had shrunken to her bones, and she had lost a lot of her powers already. And with every day she waited she became weaker. Soon she would have to go to ground. The thought held comfort for her. The earth would be soft, and she would sleep, surrounded by silence... no. She wouldn't give up. If she had to feed, it could as well be now, even if she had to kill the whole order.

Instead of going to the dormitory, Marcus decided to spend the night in the stable. He couldn't predict what the others would do to keep him at the monastery and didn't want to wake up and find that they had decided to force him to stay. Out of the same reason he had taken a long breadknife from the kitchen and had it lying next to him in the straw, his hand at the handle. Severinus had curled up next to him and stared at the flame of the candle they had brought with them.

'Marcus?'

'Hum?'

'What will you do?'

'You mean, after we leave here? I don't know.'

'Don't you want to return to your family?'

The flames were growing higher, almost blinding, her screams for mercy were ringing in his ears...

'They're dead,' he said, pushing the memories back.

'I'm sorry.'

'There's no reason for you to be.' Marcus sighed. 'But we should sleep now, it's getting late.' He lay back in the straw and closed his eyes. After a while he heard Severinus snore, but he could not find rest. His thoughts were racing in his mind and kept him from falling asleep. How long had he dreamt of this opportunity! So many nights he had spent looking out of the window at the country that had presented itself so close yet unreachable. Now the door to freedom was no longer locked. Tomorrow would be the first day of his new life.

When Marcus woke up again, it was still dark outside. A glance at the candle he had let burning told him that he hadn't slept for more than an hour. Severinus was lying peacefully next to him, looking much younger than he was. Slightly annoyed that he had woken, Marcus sighed and closed his eyes again.

The next he could remember was Severinus' scream.

In an instant he was on his feet, ready to defend his life. Had the others finally come for them? He grabbed the knife and scanned the stable for the intruder, but found nothing. Severinus had simply disappeared, and Marcus couldn't hear anything. Slowly he turned around and put out the candle. In the dark he would be invisible for the attacker. Concentrating on making not the slightest noise, he made for the door. He had to leave now, no matter what time it was. Severinus was probably dead, or captured by the others, which meant the same.

He couldn't see anything, so he walked slowly, with extended arms. The door couldn't be far anymore. Any moment he would reach it, and then he would run. His outstretched fingers touched the wood. Suddenly something pulled him back, and he was thrown to the floor.

Marcus tried to scream, but the attacker's hand covered his mouth. It was impossible for him to move, the other had him pinned to the floor. That was definitely not one of the monks, none of them had such strenght. But why should anybody else try to get him? And who had a reason to make an attempt?

I'm sorry, little saint said a voice in his head. Freya! That damn woman he had trusted was now trying to kill him! He cursed himself for believing that she was harmless. Perhaps she was a servant of the inquisition, observing him and reporting everything he had said. Probably she had the order to kill him now, since the church couldn't start a trial against one of her members without losing authority in the eyes of the people. He had heard of those obedient tools of the pope and the cardinals, who had been given the choice between death and the life as servants of the mighty clergy. And nevertheless he had been foolish enough to tell a complete stranger not only his past, but his plans for the future too. He had even been ready to let her seduce him. Enough reasons for the church to let him disappear.

He felt something cut through the skin of his throat, a knife, he supposed. She would let him bleed to death, make it look like suicide. The others would think that he had slashed his own throat with the knife in his hand.

The knife.

Marcus concentrated on his right arm, on the wooden handle he felt in his hand. Slowly, he managed to move his hand to the level of where he supposed her throat was. The blood loss made him dazed, and it was getting worse with every second. Freya was still lying on top of him, but she had slid a little to the left, releasing his arm. He rose his hand and aimed at her throat. And then he plunged the blade into her flesh.

Freya screamed, so high that the tone made his ears ring, blood spreading everywhere. He tried to stab her again, but she caught his hand in mid-motion and slammed it to the ground. The blood was still running out of the wound at his throat, he could feel the flow getting weaker and weaker. Red dots danced before his eyes, and he realized that he was dying. His lips were terribly dry, and he moistened them with his tounge. He had the impression that he had licked liquid fire. It was burning his mouth, stimulating him. He felt as if it was life itself that he had tasted.

He ran his tounge over his lips again, frantically searching for more. One drop fell into his open mouth. Looking up, he saw that Freya was bending over him, blood still running from the slash in her throat. The smell was nauseating, and at the same moment the sweetest he had ever smelled. It was intoxicating, and before he knew what he was doing, he raised his head and licked the wound.

Freya tried to push him away, but he was already clinging to her, his mouth covering the fountain of life her throat presented. Greedily he swallowed her blood, feeling life return into his body with every draught, experiencing a thirst he had never known before. Freya struggled, trying to break free, her attempts only causing him to tighten his embrace.

Enough! he heard the voice in his head again. You're killing me! He was so surprised that he didn't pay attention for a moment, and when he recovered from it, Freya had already freed herself.

'Gods, why,' she whispered, staring at him. He could see her now, the moon was lightening the room up. She was a lot thinner than the last time he had seen her, obviously she had been starving like the peasants. But there was something unusual about her. Her hair seemed to shimmer in the dark, and her eyes were gleaming. A constant beat attracted his attention, and realization hit him that he was hearing her heartbeat.

'What's happening?' he asked her. 'What's happening? What does that all mean?' Now he was shouting. 'Tell me, please!' Freya shook her head sadly.

'I didn't mean it to happen,' she answered. 'You will be alright.'

'But I should be dead! You slashed my throat!' Marcus was close to panicking, her heartbeat was driving him mad. And there was nothing he wanted more than another taste of her blood. He was running his fingers through his hair as if he wanted to pull it out. 'What's happening to me?' Freya caught his hands and looked at him directly.

'You have to be calm now, listen to me. I will explain everything.'

Great. Just great. One careless moment, and now she was stuck with a fledgling. At least he was an attractive one, with his black hair and the dark eyes. She sighed and thought of what exactly she should tell him now.

'I'm a vampire, little saint,' she began, deciding that the truth was the fastest way to get this talk done. 'And when you drank my blood, you became one too. You're a child of the night now.' Nervously she waited for his reaction. If he panicked now, she would get a torch and burn him, since a newly made fledgling who lost his composure would go mad and die soon anyway, and it would save trouble in the long run. But he stayed as calm as possible in this situation, staring at her face as if he could read all answers there. When he noticed that she had stopped talking, he brushed his fingers gently over her cheek.

'So you're telling me that I'm dead.'

'Well, not really dead, more unliving. We're not part of nature's process. Your body is dying at the moment, but it won't rot as a normal corpse would. It will merely despose itself of all waste and then be like new.' Marcus flinched, the first cramps were shaking his body. 'Marcus, I-' He rose his hand and interrupted her.

'Don't call me by that name anymore! Marcus is dead now.'

'And what name do you prefer, little saint?' He gave a short laugh.

'As I see it, you're sort of my mother. It's up to you, I'll accept everything.' The pain was getting stronger now, she could see it in his handsome face. She remembered her own transformation, the aching of every part of her body, and felt pity for him. But it would be over soon, and he would be a newborn vampire, her youngest fledgling. And now she was to name him, as if he was really her child. Her little saint. She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture.

'I gave you a name already,' she said. 'Will you keep it, Santino, my Little Saint?'