The Hallowed Ones

Chapter Eighteen

I did not know that the human body could hold so much blood. I suppose that I must have had some concept of it. I helped on those weekends when pigs and cows were butchered in the spring and fall, watched as the blood drained from them into buckets. But that was outdoors, not in a confined space. And we only butchered one or two at a time.

Not a whole family.

Lurid red blood smeared the walls and the overturned table and chairs. A body lay just over the threshold. I knew it was female, judging by the nightdress and the long blond hair. The Hexenmeister prodded the corpse with his cane, turned it over.

It was Ruth. Her face was blank, rubbery, the eyes staring into nothingness. Her nightdress had been ripped open from neck to hem, and she was soaked in blood.

I jammed my fist in my mouth. Some small part of me, in the deepest, darkest part of my mind, had wanted her gone. Maybe even dead. But not like this.

“That one,” the Hexenmeister said, “that one let the Darkness into the house.”

I thought back to the seductive call I’d heard in the moonlight. I shivered.

Herr Stoltz stumped forward. The second body, the father, and the third, the oldest brother, were sprawled on the kitchen floor. Their heads were merely bloody pulp. A hunting rifle lay in the grip of the father. The Hexenmeister leaned on his cane. “I expect these two heard the commotion, came running . . .” His gaze slid upstairs, to the bedrooms.

My eyes widened. Ruth had a mother and four sisters.

The Hexenmeister sighed, trod heavily toward the steps. I followed him upstairs, clutching the oak railing. I could see on the wall that there were faint streaks of blood, as if someone had let their fingers trail along the wall. I shuddered, imagining the pale vampires slipping up the steps in the dark, knowing that their terrified victims were trapped on the second floor with nowhere to run. Cornered.

The Hexenmeister turned to the first bedroom. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open with his cane.

This was the parents’ bedroom. Ruth’s mother was impaled on the nearest bedpost of the four-poster bed. She seemed to be suspended in space, her back turned at an impossible angle and her chest torn out. I could see the white fingers of her ribs reaching toward the ceiling. Blood had poured down the bedpost, making a puddle on the floor. Where her arms were splayed out, I could see chew marks on her wrists.

I covered my mouth with my hand.

Herr Stoltz crossed the hall, to the girls’ room. I crept behind in his shadow, terrified to look. But I knew that he would not shield me from the sight of violence. The door was open, and I glanced over his shoulder.

The ceiling was red. Red and dripping and turning brown.

I gasped and turned away, shaking.

The Hexenmeister heard that hitch in my voice. He turned to me, gripping my shoulder with the ironlike claw of his hand.

“Katie,” he hissed. “You must be strong. There is hard work to do.”

I blinked at him stupidly.

“Katie. We must stop the spread of the Darkness, keep this family from rising as Dark.”

“How?”

“In my grandfather’s days, they would have stuffed the mouths of the dead with garlic, cut off their heads, staked their hearts.”

I recoiled in horror, but that brutality seemed tame in light of what I’d just seen.

The old man’s gaze scraped the red ceiling in the room beyond. “But, in this case, fire might be best.”

“Fire?” I echoed.

“Get some of the men hanging around outside. Tell them to bring me kerosene and matches.” He peered into the red room, made a noise. “Lots of kerosene.”

I was only too grateful to have the opportunity to flee. I rushed down the stairs to the front door, lurched into fresh air. I was surrounded by dark skirts and legs as I heaved what remained of my breakfast into the grass.

“Kerosene,” I panted. “And matches. Herr Stoltz needs kerosene.”

But no one moved away to gather them. The throng parted, murmuring, as the Elders flew through the yard. In spite of myself, I shrank back from them.

“There will be no kerosene,” the Bishop said, loud enough for all to hear. “There will be no fire.”

The Hexenmeister stood in the doorway. His milky eyes seethed. “The Darkness is here. It must not spread. We must burn the bodies.”

The Elders climbed the porch, sidestepping my vomit.

“You spread the hysteria of the Outside world. You know better,” the Bishop growled at him.

The Hexenmeister stepped back, waved his arm to usher him into the house. “Then come see for yourself.” He looked out over the crowd. “All of you. Come see.”

No one in the crowd moved. The Bishop’s eyes narrowed, and he marched past the old man. The other Elders flocked after him. I saw one cross the threshold, then stop. He did not progress farther.

“They are here. Vampires,” the Hexenmeister announced.

The throng chattered among themselves.

“But we are protected!” someone shouted.

The Hexenmeister shook his head. “Not any longer. We must protect ourselves.”

The Bishop stalked out of the house. I noticed that he was pale, very pale. But he and the other Elders did a better job of controlling their breakfast than I did. One still remained on the threshold, frozen, with his back turned to the crowd. The Bishop pushed past him.

“This is a terrible loss,” the Bishop shouted at the simmering crowd. “But it is a result of human evil. Human violence. Not vampires or some ephemeral Darkness . . .”

“You must burn them,” the Hexenmeister insisted, jabbing a bony finger at him. “They are contaminated, and it will spread. You and your pious sensibilities are damning us to death.”

“No,” the Bishop thundered. Spittle flecked his trembling lip. “They will be granted a decent burial, not burned like . . . like cattle. We are not animals. We have been chosen by God to survive. And we will not disintegrate into savages and fall into the fantasies of the Outside.”

The Bishop glowered at the Hexenmeister. “There will be a funeral. Tomorrow, at noon.”

He turned his glare on the crowd. “And you shall do as the Lord has instructed you to do for funerals. The men here shall wash and prepare the men, and the women shall attend to the women.”

The throng visibly shrank back. Some of the Elders looked pale and doubtful, but they nodded in support.

“Remember Gelassenheit. Remember the will and the love of God. Be strong in your faith, even in the face of tragedy. Obey and be saved.”

The Hexenmeister spat. “Faith is one thing. Survival is another.”

The Bishop whirled on him. His voice was low, but I could hear it: “One more word from you, old man, and I will have you shunned, cast out into your own darkness.”

The Hexenmeister watched with a level gaze as the Elders moved down the porch steps toward the gate. One Elder remained behind, still facing the interior of the house.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Why can’t they see—?”

The Hexenmeister interrupted me. “They won’t see. They are a prideful lot, whether or not they choose to admit it. And the Bishop loves power. He’ll love it to the very end.”

Heads lowered, the men and women in the yard moved toward the house to accomplish the grim task of preparing the dead. The Hexenmeister gripped my wrist. “Find some garlic and stuff it into the mouths of the