FLESH & FAITH
975 Words
The bells of St. Peter’s Basilica tolled solemnly over Vatican City as dawn crept in, but there was no peace in the holy halls that morning. In the underground sanctum of the Jesuit Order, the air was thick with incense, whispers, and the stinging scent of war preparations.
Annes Diane stood in front of the Tomb of Saint Peter, her hands shaking slightly as she stared at the marble slab.
It was more than just a burial site—it was the anchor. A spiritual seal. The blood of the First Apostle, laid to rest here, was sacred. If desecrated, the veil protecting Christendom from full demonic invasion would shatter.
That’s what the Cospius Cult was after. They weren’t just seeking a blood feast. They were aiming to reverse holy dominion over earth.
Father Antoine joined her in the crypt, clad in full ceremonial garb, holding a dagger forged from the nails of the True Cross.
“They want to poison the bones,” he said. “Mix the blood of Saint Peter with vampire corruption. If Cospius drinks from that chalice…”
“He’ll be untouchable,” Annes finished. “Not even the Vatican’s relic weapons will harm him.”
Antoine turned. “Which is why your mission isn’t to kill him. Not yet. It’s to destroy the Chalice of Dismas before it ever reaches the tomb.”
That night, Annes rode with her team across Rome in a modified black van reinforced with relics: Sister Emiliana, Brother Marcus, and Initiate Tobiah—a prodigy monk raised by Jesuit monks after vampires murdered his family in Palestine.
Tobiah handed her a small weapon case.
Inside were two items:
1. The Spearhead of Aurelian – a silver tip from a Roman soldier’s lance, bathed in angelic oil.
2. The Oil of Lamentation – a black holy flame encased in a vial, f*******n for use except when facing entities above Class Omega.
Annes whispered, “Why give me these?”
“Because,” Tobiah said solemnly, “you’re not just a soldier. You’re the flame.”
They arrived at the ruins of the Basilica of San Clemente, a forgotten church buried beneath centuries of rubble and silence. Jesuit intelligence had traced the Cospius cult's movement through the city’s subterranean passages leading directly beneath the Vatican Necropolis.
As they descended the broken stairwell, Annes felt the air thicken. It was cold—but not naturally. A sacred cold. The kind that makes your soul bristle.
Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed from the darkness.
“RUN!”
A Jesuit scout burst out of the passage, covered in blood, eyes wild. Behind him—a horde of Thralls. These weren’t vampires. They were the half-turned. Failed feedings. Twisted. Soulless. Starving.
Marcus roared and lit his Psalms Grenade—a fragmentation bomb inscribed with verses from Leviticus.
The explosion sent holy fire through the tunnel, turning three thralls to ash—but more came.
Sister Emiliana began sniping with divine precision, each bullet sending shrieks through the black tunnels. But they kept coming—swarming like rats of the abyss.
“We can’t hold them!” Tobiah shouted.
Annes made a choice.
“Split. You three fall back. I’ll go alone.”
Marcus grabbed her arm. “That’s suicide!”
She gripped the Spearhead of Aurelian. “No. It’s faith.”
Annes moved deeper into the tomb alone.
Torchlight flickered along walls carved with old Latin warnings. She passed bones. Holy artifacts. Forgotten prayers. And then—chanting.
She peered around a corner.
There they were.
Priest-General Valkaran knelt before the Chalice of Dismas, now placed on a blood-stained altar of stolen relics. Surrounding him were seven vampire acolytes, their bodies wrapped in crimson shrouds.
And above them, floating like a dark saint, Cospius Dracula, newly reborn.
He was beautiful. Terrifying. Dressed in a robe stitched from centuries of conquest—Byzantine, Ottoman, Roman—his voice thundered like a hymn of nightmares.
“Let the blood of the old saint feed the world’s new god.”
Annes stepped out, blade raised.
“I carry no saint,” she declared. “Only the wrath of the righteous.”
They turned. Valkaran snarled. Cospius laughed.
“A child priestess. The lamb walks into the slaughter.”
She hurled the Spearhead. It flew through the air—piercing the hand of Valkaran as he lifted the chalice. The vampire screamed as holy oil ignited his flesh.
Acolytes lunged toward her. Annes ducked, rolled, and drew her secondary blade—The Thorn of Magdalene, serrated with relic bone. With ruthless grace, she dismembered two vampires in seconds, spinning into a crimson ballet of death.
One tackled her from behind—its breath sour with ancient rot. It bit down on her shoulder, but—
She reached for her last hope: The Oil of Lamentation.
She crushed the vial.
A black fire erupted around her, consuming everything within a ten-foot radius. Vampires screamed as they were burned not just to ash—but to non-existence. Their souls banished beyond any underworld.
The Chalice cracked.
Cospius vanished in a rush of wind and shadows, hissing a single word:
“You…”
Annes collapsed.
Her shoulder bled. Her soul shook. But the Chalice was destroyed.
Antoine and the others arrived just in time to pull her from the fire’s edge.
“You stopped the ritual,” Antoine whispered. “You saved the tomb.”
But Annes looked up, eyes distant.
“No. He didn’t need the chalice. That was a distraction.”
“What?” Marcus asked.
She turned to them, grim.
“He’s already in the Vatican.”
Far above, amid the golden halls of Saint Peter’s Cathedral, a priest gently whispered the final rites over an ailing cardinal.
He smiled kindly.
Then his eyes turned black.
His teeth elongated.
He leaned in.
And fed.
- Writer
