Betrayal's Kiss

Betrayal's Kiss

The stench of old blood and desperation clung to Bishop Dark like a second skin. It was a familiar perfume, one that usually settled his nerves, sharpened his focus. Tonight, however, it felt cloying, suffocating. He’d been lured to the derelict tannery on the outskirts of Oakhaven by a tip—a whisper of a rogue vampire coven holed up in the abandoned vats, their fangs dripping with the lifeblood of the townsfolk. A clean job, Abbott Kale had called it. Quick, efficient, and most importantly, profitable. Bishop Dark had a weakness for profitable, especially when it meant a few extra coins to grease Sarai’s palm, or a decent bottle of rotgut to drown out the gnawing emptiness that Oakhaven’s damp air seemed to amplify.

He’d dismissed the novice, Sister Petra, with a gruff “Stay put, girl. And try not to get yourself exsanguinated. It’s a bitch to clean up.” She’d given him that wide-eyed, worried look, the one that always made him feel like a dog about to chew on a very delicate porcelain doll. He’d seen that look before, in the eyes of men facing the guillotine, in the eyes of women who knew their last lover had been a one-way ticket to oblivion. He’d almost told her to run, to forget she’d ever seen his scarred face, but the words had caught in his throat, snagged on something he didn’t want to examine too closely.