17th November 1102

She lay before him, her face soft and peaceful as in sleep. She looked newly dead, the last vestiges of life draining from her pallid skin. He knew better.

The faint blush of colour that swam beneath her translucent skin was the blood of her victims, her lips turgid with the viscous substance. Beneath those full lips were the teeth of a predator, her canines razor sharp. He knew those teeth, had felt the pressure of their sharp points against the flesh of his neck, the giving way as they slid through muscle and tissue puncturing his veins. He had felt the ecstasy of pain and pleasure as she hungrily sucked the life from him.

But as he gazed down at her sleeping form he felt his resolve crumbling. Surely the figure lying before him could not be the monster they sought.

“Do it Harndall,” Lochan hissed, startling him from his reverie, “before she wakes.”

With trembling hands and a muttered prayer he raised the stake high in the air and with a groan drove it deep into the flesh of her breast.

A great gout of blood spurted from the wound, splattering hot on his face.

The creature gave a strangled moan and began to rise from the coffin. Regurgitated blood was drooling from her lips, her red eyes fluttering open. Harndall could scarcely breathe as he clutched the stake, the room growing murky with the dense, metallic scent of blood.

Suddenly she vaulted from the coffin, snarling gutturally as she spun this way and that looking for an escape. She shrieked in rage as she found herself surrounded by men with swords, advancing on her.

“Harndall,” she spat, “what have you done to me?”

She reached out a trembling blood spattered hand towards him.

“You were supposed to take care of me. Why would you do this?”

Harndall had always imagined that if he ever managed to coax Sister Mella into speech again her voice would be soft and melodious, like the ringing of church bells heard from a distance. The voice that snarled and hissed forth from this creature’s mouth could never have been hers.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I failed you. But I will not fail you now Mella.”

With as much force as he could muster he plunged the stake deep into her pallid breast again, this time leaving it there, piercing her heart like a butterfly on a pin.

She screamed as the stake went in, an animal howl of pain as her body convulsed and writhed in agony.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” Harndall muttered as he backed away, his soul aching at the sound of her cries.

Mella’s body was folding up, crumpling around the stake, descending to the floor in a twitching heap. Blood gushed from the wound as though her dead heart was desperately pumping it out, pooling around her fallen body.

He fell to his knees, the hem of his robe soaked red with her blood.

“Oh God, oh God. What have I done. God help me,” he babbled, all thoughts chased away by the smell of her blood, the feeling of the stake snagging on her ribs.

Lochan knelt beside the squirming body, laying a tentative hand on her face.

“She seems to be immobilised… now we have to finish it.”

“Oh God, God help me,” Harndall groaned through his chattering teeth closing his eyes tightly as the Duke rose to his feet reaching for his sword.

He pressed his bloodied hands tightly together, fingers intertwined, he found the words and began to pray.

“O God, the King eternal, whose light divides the day from the night”

Tears poured down his cheeks hindered by the blood that was drying in ridges and welts as he prayed.

Lochan slowly raised the sword.

“and turns the shadow of death into morning”

He couldn’t remember the words, they were sticking in his throat, choking on the scent of her blood.

“and turns the shadow of death into morning,” he repeated trying to not to hear the faint jingle of chain mail as Lochan tensed the muscles in his arm in preparation.

“and turns the shadow of death into morning,” he was dying, drowning in her blood, drowning in her death, drowning in his guilt.

“and turns”

The sword made a faint whistling noise as it cut through the musty air of the room in a wide arc.

“the shadow of death”

It met its target with the sickening crunch of metal on bone.

“into morning… God… oh God.”

There was a rushing sound, the flames flickering and flaring and a foul stench.

“It is done,” Lochan choked, “the demon is gone. She is at peace now.”

Harndall opened his eyes, and retched on his knees as he saw the skewed limbs, the decapitated head. He scrambled away from the body, staggering to his feet.

Lochan carefully closed her staring eyes, once more their former green. With a grunt he pulled the stake from the crumpled body.

He slowly rose to his feet, “It’s not over yet Father.”

Harndall shrank away from his searching gaze. All he could think of was the horror, the mutilated body lying at his feet. He blinked his tear-filled eyes, shivering under the steely grey of Lochan’s scrutiny.

Harndall glanced down at the stake which the duke was cautiously running his fingers along, turning it over and over in his hands.

“You have done enough Father,” Lochan murmured, “I will take care of the other.”

Murchadh, Shildfrith, The Church