The Dark Gambit: Book Two of The Dark Matter Series

By John P Wallman

THE DARK HAS MADE ITS FIRST MOVES; LIGHT HAS COUNTERED.

Now, the Dark will play a gambit, setting in motion a chain of events that will put Angelique Carlson on a path to her destiny. 

Light will need to protect its champion, John Wilkins, long enough for him to embrace his fate to become the Chosen.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: John Wallman
• Release date: Apr 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990025936

John P Wallman

John currently lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with the brilliant English wife Deb. He enjoys traveling to England, playing pickleball, but most importantly, visiting his grandchildren when he can. When not working his day job, his energies are focused in the universes of The Dark Matter Series, writing about reluctant heroes and angels and demons and other dangers.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

O Rose thou art sick.

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night

In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed 

Of crimson joy …

- William Blake, The Sick Rose

Hello, friend . . . 

William Blake is one of my favorite poets. You’re going to see Blake pop up a few times in the book you’re about to read. You’ll even see this poem. The great thing about Blake’s poetry, most if not all poetry, is it functions on many levels. Roses and worms and storms and crimson beds—scholars have debated his imagery and meaning for over 200 years. And given the themes and topics of The Dark Matter Series, you can make some conclusions as to how the images apply in the narrative.

I’d like to guide you in a couple directions for a few minutes. They’re both metaphorical.

Let’s talk about the worm. It’s invisible. It flies in the night storm. It’s a devourer. It finds the center and consumes from the inside out. The insidious worm is the one that covers its entrance. You don’t know it’s already inside. I remember the first time I bit into a worm when eating chestnuts in the woods. I had looked the chestnut over before popping it into my mouth. But it was in there, already at work destroying the center; it got the added bonus of making me vomit. There was also the time I had taken a bite from an apple taken right off a tree. I happened to look at what was remaining in my hand—you guessed it, a worm wiggling about. 

In a way, the human heart is the rose, and the storm worm infects it to feed on the Light, leaving only the Dark. What is the consequence? We see it all around us these days . . . 

Once humility 

generosity 

love

patience 

temperance 

charity

and diligence

are consumed, there are only

pride

greed 

lust 

anger 

gluttony 

envy 

and sloth

that remain.

Do you see the binaries there, the Light and the Dark? As I discussed in The Dark Stirs, these are not opposites, per se, but two sides of the same coins. This is what makes us human. 

As long as there is an equilibrium between the sides, humanity can function and evolve. We are binary creatures. It’s why Adam and Eve (a binary) were allowed to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. It’s in the conflict of our hearts where we decide on the action of our lives. Conflict means choice, and because we are creatures of Light, we generally choose the Light side of the binary conflict. Generally.

But there is something making our hearts sick lately, my friends. You feel it, don’t you? The Dark side of those binaries have become much more prevalent lately. There is something eating the crimson joy in our hearts. Without the guiding Light of the Word to help us make decisions, what’s left? We begin to worship things to replace the Light—ego, money, sex, power—and they become new gods to us.

The Dark has been playing a long game, working on the hearts and souls of humanity, and those of us still in the Light are realizing, much to our sadness, the Light in some of our brothers and sisters is beginning to fade. Whatever tenuous equilibrium there had been has begun to shift to the Dark. Those of us still in the Light hope and pray something kindles the Light in the dimming populace and guides the world back toward equilibrium. Unfortunately, each day becomes slightly dimmer.

Yet, the Light is always there. It’s eternal. Even if some of our hearts dim, there is still the Light ahead. We need to keep moving toward it. As long as we face the Light, there is the possibility our hearts can become bright.

For if we turn from the Light, there is only shadow.

The Dark has awakened. Shadow is spreading across the world. It’s time to make its move.

~ John P. Wallman, January 2024

PS:

I suggest you reread the last few chapters of The Dark Stirs before you jump into this one. It begins the next day.



PART ONE

THAT DARKNESS PEERING

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing

- Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven

She said,

Don’t forget, I grew up with you.

She looked at him in and out. Then

She said,

"I saw your dark eyes and

Your dark smile.

I know."

- Edgar Tappestry, Sister, Oracles

1

March 2008

Despite her getting the best night’s sleep in weeks, Angelique Carlson had to go home—had to be home. She couldn’t stay away another day.

It was almost like what was in the basement of her home was calling to her, though she knew that wasn’t true. It was the knowledge of what was there that called to her.

Chained to a table in a makeshift lab in her basement lay a vampire. Not just any vampire. It was the one that had almost killed her nearly five and a half years ago. Anders Saffenssen believed he could play another game of cat and mouse with her, but like most people in her life, he underestimated her. She had caught him, and now she could do with him whatever she wanted.

And she planned to do a lot.

Like her boyfriend Everett Preston, she had initially thought of Anders as a thing, a creature. Yes, Anders had the general features of a human, but the fact that it had been dead and now undead—not to forget the strange ball living in its stomach cavity—took it out of the human category. Its ability to regenerate and the blood drinking were definitely non-human traits. It was an entirely different creature, perhaps a different species.

Angelique and Everett were going to find out.

However, lately, Angelique had begun to think of Anders as a he—not a person, per se, but not really a creature either.

Anders was a monster, without a doubt. He would kill her and Everett if given the chance.

But Angelique’s brilliant scientist boyfriend had thought of everything to ensure their safety and security—

Everything except the pervasive depressive feeling Anders exuded . . . and the incessant twisted mind games he played.

It was why they had left their house last night, why they had stayed in this hotel. They needed to get away.

Ander’s latest mindfuck had been too much.

When Everett had cut open the vampire to expose the black ball within, Anders had announced they had meddled with Dark forces they didn’t—couldn’t—understand. In doing so, Everett and Angelique had summoned the vampire’s creator, an even more powerful creature.

Angelique had to get back home to prepare to receive another guest.

Angelique sat up. She felt lighter. Her mind seemed clearer. She hadn’t really thought about the lack of quality sleep until this moment.

The hotel room was like any hotel room: a queen bed flanked by nightstands, a desk and chair, a chest of drawers with a large TV on top, a loveseat and coffee table, and a fridge. A clock on the desk read 5:17 a.m.

The toilet in the bathroom flushed.

Everett came out and stopped when he saw Angelique. "Babe—

No, she cut him off. No running.

It’s one thing, he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, "to have that creature in the lab at home. We were prepared for it. It took me months to get all that ready. It’s quite another to have its father—whatever that means—coming to find out what we’ve done. There’s no way we can get the lab ready for another creature."

Angelique wanted to let him have his say.

When she didn’t say anything, he continued, I have my inheritance. We can go far away. Disappear.

Angelique smiled, put a hand on Everett’s cheek, and replied, My love, we’re going home.

Everett knew when Angelique made up her mind, there was no changing it.

When they got home, they went straight to their bedroom. Everett booted up his laptop and checked emails.

Angelique pulled off her clothes and went straight to the shower. The white noise of the water and its heat filled her. Her mind went blank. She had expected the fog of the vampire’s influence to hit her with the first step in the door. There was only an expectation of it, like the moments before a storm begins, the looming darkness, the heaviness of the clouds. The cocoon of hot water that enveloped her gave her a false sense of security. Once the water turned off, once she stepped out of the shower, the reality of what was in the basement would fall on her. She wanted to stay in the shower a little while longer.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Ev’s attention was still fixed on the screen.

Without looking up, he said, I have to get to work. He tapped the trackpad then closed the laptop. We have major revisions to a WHO report— He looked up to find a naked Angelique wrapping a towel around her head. He smiled.

She smiled at his smile.

A faint Tinkerbellll . . . drifted up from the basement. It implied a desire to come and play.

Both their smiles fell. In the instant their eyes met, they decided to ignore it.

She pulled on a green robe. She considered slippers but didn’t want to look for them. I’m going to make some tea, she said. Want any?

Another Tinkerbellll . . . wafted like smoke between them.

Everett replied, Can you start some coffee? He stood and removed his shirt.

She embraced him, and he wrapped his arms around her. They kissed. Neither wanted to let go, but things had to be done. He tossed the shirt at the clothes hamper and went into the bathroom.

Angelique went down to the kitchen to start the drinks. She turned on the stove.

Tinkerbellll . . .

She filled the kettle with water and dropped a little bag of Earl Grey in a cup. She checked the coffee maker; it was already prepped. She switched it on.

I knooooow you can hear me . . .

Angelique got out a cup for Ev. The coffee maker began to gurgle.

She could hear the vampire smiling.

Fucking asshole.

Shortly, the kettle began to whistle, and she picked it up. She poured the water into her cup. She turned off the stove—

C’mon, Tink. Come down and play.

She gritted her teeth.

The coffee carafe was half full. She took it and poured Ev’s cup and replaced it to continue filling.

Angelique took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She took the cups upstairs—

Tinkerbelllll . . .

As she entered the bedroom, she saw Everett’s face in the bathroom mirror. It hung in despair. She knew he was glad to be leaving soon. She needed these last minutes before he left to be quiet and meaningful.

Tinkerbelllll . . .

Angelique put her cup of tea on the nightstand. As she turned to go back downstairs, Ev popped out of the bathroom. He grabbed her hand and squeezed. It said, Be careful.

She gave him a half-smile.

She marched down the stairs, stomped through the kitchen, and pulled open the door to the basement lab. Three steps down . . . 

Ah, Tinkerbell. Just the person—

Shut up! Angelique stopped halfway down to where she could see his bald head. His naked body lay spread out on the X-shaped table. Shut. Up.

Anders tried to shift his body and crane his neck to see her. The chains rattled.

No! she said before he could open his mouth.

He pouted.

She needed him to be cooperative. Give me an hour. She added, Promise.

Fair enough. A wide smile moved across the vampire’s face. See you soon.

Angelique wanted to say, Fuck you, but she went back up the stairs.

Ev was in the kitchen pouring coffee into a to-go mug. He put the top on it, turned to her, and nodded toward the hall. She followed him. He set the mug on a table near the door and hugged her tightly. They kissed. Holding her at arms’ length, his eyes said he had heard everything. He pulled her close and whispered, Information for blood, and record everything.

A little disappointed, Angelique had hoped he would have said something more. She wanted to have a little more time with him this morning. She acknowledged with a smile.

Ev pulled his car out of the driveway and drove off.

Just me and my little vampire.

Angelique hurried upstairs to get her cup of Earl Grey. She spent a little time brushing out her long dark hair then pulled on an unbranded blue sweatsuit. She pushed her feet into her slippers. Facing herself in the bathroom mirror, she saw a tired woman. She hunted some foundation and applied it. She knew she was pretty; those besotted with her called her beautiful. She knew how to use her dark eyes to enchant. She took care of her body and knew just the right poses to seduce. But none of this mattered with the vampire in her basement. He was as much a predator as she.

Speaking of which, time to fulfill her promise.

Anders waited until she reached the bottom of the stairs then said, Good morning, Tinkerbell. His chains rattled as he moved to see her.

She kept her mind blank. She said nothing as she turned on equipment and computers, sipping her tea as if there was no vampire chained to the table behind her. It was more difficult than she had believed, ignoring the creature. Was he trying to get into her mind? Perhaps he was probing to find a gap in the armor she had built around it. Perhaps he was already in. She really didn’t care. This was the little game they were going to play right now.

You’re absolutely radiant this morning. With no response from the woman, the vampire continued, I’ve been meaning to ask if you intend to crucify me on this table.

Angelique halted a moment. She kept her back to the vampire, took another sip of tea, and checked the camera. The little green light was on. Crucify. She hit the record button. Interesting.

That was easy, Anders stated. I expected a stronger defense.

She turned to face the vampire. Crucify?

Like good ol’ Andrew.

Then she saw it: the X-shaped table upon which the vampire was chained. Some of the rust on her years of Sunday school and youth Bible study flaked off. Andrew the Apostle. Saint Andrew’s Cross. Andrew had been sentenced to be crucified, but the apostle felt himself unworthy to die the same way as the Lord Christ. His persecutors had bound him to an X-shaped cross.

Angelique sipped her tea. Are you saying you’re an apostle, my little vampire? She looked at the metal retractor in the creature’s belly, how it held open the flesh and muscle walls of the vampire’s stomach. The black ball within the cavity looked like a massive marble, yet it reflected no light.

What is it? she wondered. Was it alive? She recalled several novels she had read floating the theory vampire were some kind of alien creature living within a dead human. She smiled. All they wanted was to silence the apostle. I, on the other hand, want you to tell me all your secrets.

You are a tragedy waiting to become a comedy, Tinkerbell. Think upon your life, child. When has there ever been a happy ending?

Her cup halfway to her mouth, Angelique stopped. What the fuck are you talking about?

Anders chuckled. You have no concept of what you have exposed.

Angelique tried to remain calm. She took a sip. Then enlighten me, my little vampire.

His gray shoulders shrugged, and the chains rattled. It would be like explaining God to a monkey—or a human, for that matter.

Angelique moved around him, past his feet, and around to the vampire’s left side. His skin was beginning to darken from dead white to gray. He had to be hungry. She opened the fridge door. Two dark-red bags of blood lay on different shelves. She knew the top bag had a large X on the label, indicating it was filled with malaria-tainted blood. Given their talk about Saint Andrew and his cross, she smiled.

She considered Anders’s comment about tragedies and comedies. What if this all is a play? She and Anders, protagonist and antagonist. She didn’t consider her life a tragedy—she had a vampire captive in her basement lab. For certain, there had been tragic scenes in the acts of her life so far. Anders, however, implied her entire life had been a tragedy.

Who or what, then, is the audience? This vampire-father? He supposedly had been summoned. Is he another player? And why this drama metaphor? Tragedies and comedies. Was this an insight into Anders?

The vampire had refused to talk about himself and his past so far—as if he didn’t matter at all. Yet, he had been in her tragedy all her life.

Angelique’s eyes met Anders’s.

A small smile curled in the right corner of his mouth. The world is more than a stage, Tinkerbell. It’s a great chessboard. The smile complete, he added, If you’re lucky, you may become a pawn and get to play.

Was her little vampire suggesting he was playing pieces on this chessboard of life?

Angelique reached into the fridge. So, you’re some kind of omniscient chess master, like a god?

Anders chuckled. "I am no god, he said, emphasizing the I, hinting others might be. But to assume you know enough about me, or my kind, to feel you are in some kind of position to—"

Anders, she interrupted, and she turned with the bag of blood, that’s why you’re here.

The vampire looked at the blood but tore his eyes away to look at Angelique. "No, Tink, it’s why you are here."

The doorbell rang.

Angelique nodded up. "You expecting a deus ex machina?"

He only smiled.

His smile wiped hers away. She looked up when the bell rang again. It was daytime. She was safe.

Are you certain? Anders asked, as if reading her mind.

Fuck you, she growled, holding the blood bag to his face then taking it with her upstairs.

She slammed the basement door shut.

The doorbell rang a third time.

Turning to the kitchen fridge, she opened it and put the bag on the shelf above another bag. As the door shut, she took a deep breath then walked down the hall to the front door.

Something obscured the view from the door’s peephole. Then she saw it was a hat, an odd hat, somehow old and new. A flat disk with a tall, round top. The person looked down, as if examining the floor of the porch.

A salesman? Who did that anymore?

She looked at her watch: 9:04. Couldn’t be a salesman. This early would make it an automatic NO with anyone. Someone in trouble? Police?

Shit, she hissed and turned the lock.

As she opened the door, sunlight streamed in, making her blink. She didn’t see the gloved hand reach up to take the edge of the strange hat. The man removed it politely and looked up.

2

John Wilkins stood straight and looked at himself in the mirror.

Who are you?

He looked at the stranger looking at him. That man was tired, his blue eyes a little less blue, a little dark underneath. His brows were knotted as if he were in pain. His brown hair was unkempt, matted flat on the right side. And the beard, mottled and uneven. He looked dirty. John saw the man’s lips were pursed as if he were about to scream something foul. Was he grinding his teeth?

And his clothes. Hadn’t they been worn to a wedding?

Elliot, dead on the floor.

A beautiful blonde woman and her swarthy accomplice—assassins—dead in the trunk of a sedan.

John had been holding his breath, and he gasped—

The jet shook violently, and John caught his hands on the walls to steady himself.

That’s right. That man in the mirror was flying across the Atlantic. Destination: Rome, the Vatican.

He was in a jet filled with a paramilitary team of agents and some priests.

And angels.

The group had told John they were remnants of the Knights Templar.

John remembered learning about the various orders of knighthood back in high school. The Knights Templar had been the most influential.

He had even played the part of a Templar during a school-wide Renaissance festival. He had liked what they stood for: pure of heart and fierce in battle. At least, that had been the romantic view of them.

When his English class had read Ivanhoe, he had been disappointed the Templars had been portrayed as arrogant, bigoted, and selfish. Still, his teacher painted a picture of Templars as powerful knights who had only one goal: protect the Holy Land.

All the other stuff about eventually being branded as witches and heretics, he had chosen to ignore.

So, when Father Napton had asked him about the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, John knew a little.

That was when he had excused himself to the bathroom. He did his business and flushed.

He looked at the stranger in the mirror once more.

See ya around.

He pulled the little knob on the door to open it.

The angel Carrie waited for him. The angel put a brown hand on his brow. That familiar warmth spread into his head, down his neck, through his body.

Why she chose to appear as a woman in her forties, why she chose to appear so mundane when she was a Host of Heaven, John couldn’t fathom. She wore a green tracksuit (hadn’t she had on a green business suit?), and her straight hair was pulled back in a ponytail (hadn’t it been curly a while ago? Was it longer?). Her brown face looked concerned.

John endured the check like a child would a worried parent.

Carrie removed her hand. Folded clothes and an opaque plastic bag appeared beneath his chin. You smell, she stated.

What with assassins and murders and rescues and a flight across the world, I haven’t been able to fit in a shower. John thumbed back toward the toilet. Still can’t.

Carrie pushed the clothes into his chest. A cat’s lick and a change of clothes will help.

John took the clothes.

And try to do something with your hair.

John smiled. Yes, Mom.

Navigating a jet’s bathroom to clean and change oneself wasn’t an easy task. John managed it and even folded his old clothes. He looked in the mirror. The tired stranger looked down at his chest. Both of them smiled as they read the reverse image of the words Ignore me. She’s the smart one. An arrow pointed to his left.

John almost rolled his eyes.

He opened the door.

Carrie was still there.

Are you going to be standing at my left from now on?

No reply.

I know you’re smiling on the inside. John wondered if angels had insides.

She took the old clothes from him and waved him back to the briefing.

He passed by several agents or soldiers—or whatever they were—in black shirts and gray pants, making eye contact with the redhead sitting in an aisle seat. The man’s light-blue eyes looked him up and down as John passed. A thin scar ran from his left earlobe for about three inches along his jawline.

Probably finds me wanting. John smiled. I find myself wanting—to wake up from this crazy nightmare.

The priest named Richard Napton saw John approaching. I see you’re feeling better. He stood, smiling.

The jet shuddered and shook.

Father Napton kept his balance, but the smile disappeared. He clearly didn’t like flying.

The priest stood as tall as John, perhaps twice as old, but was in much better shape than the younger man. The only thing belying his age was the graying on the sides of his otherwise dark hair. He wore the typical black pants and shirt with the white collarino. The only thing out of place were his black sneakers.

On the couch or bench across the aisle from the chairs sat the angel known as Aaron. He was still in his usual blue suit, and he stood as John approached. He looked like a banker, short black hair, white skin, blue eyes. Had Carrie not been African American, John would’ve thought Aaron and Carrie might have been relatives.

It struck John that these angels might be presenting themselves as facades to the world, that in Heaven they may look something different.

Perhaps all angels were related in some way, cut from the same cloth, so to speak. Or at least these angels. John remembered Uriel and Aurora had looked completely different from these two—taller, whiter, brighter . . . warmer. But they looked alike.

John couldn’t remember what Napton had called Aaron and Carrie. Something in the back of his mind told him there were different types of angels. He modified his working hypothesis: each class of angel was cut from its own cloth. He wondered how many classes there were.

He had too many questions.

Father Napton waved John to his seat.

Still in place across from where John sat, the other clergyman—a bishop, given the red sash across his belly—gave John a half-smile as he took a sip of water. John couldn’t remember his name. This man looked older than Napton, heavier, softer, with close-cropped gray hair receding to mid-scalp, and dark eyes. The bishop hadn’t smiled much thus far; perhaps he didn’t smile at all.

Napton sat next to John and handed the younger man his briefing envelope.

The priest looked around at the two humans and the two angels. Yes, he began, well, John, if you’re anything like me, you’ve probably forgotten all our names. I’m Father Richard Napton, across from you is Bishop Stephen Angsterson, and you already know our holy guests, Karael and Araquiel.

Napton spoke of them like they were acquaintances, friends—like angels had been a part of his life for a long time. Then again, angels had been a part of most religions around the world. What had the priest said earlier? The angels had been a part of their group since the beginning . . . 

Of the Knights Templar?

So, I had mentioned the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, and, John, you had said you knew of them. Napton turned a few pages of the introductory material in his packet. Page one, the priest began, waiting for the others to get there. This story begins with the end of the First Crusade in 1119. A handful of knights banded together to form a heavily armed squad of warriors whose purpose was to protect merchants and pilgrims around the region of Jerusalem. They made their headquarters in a mosque atop the Mount. In the caves within the Mount, those knights believed they would find the ancient Temple of Solomon.

John looked up from his packet. You’re not going to tell me they actually found it.

The entire world, Napton answered, believes they either found some religious archaeological relics, or they found a prodigious treasure they had to keep secret.

But, John interrupted.

Father Napton smiled. Bishop Angsterson was stone.

Page seven, Napton replied, and packet pages turned simultaneously. There is often a ‘but,’ as you so aptly put it. Often, a truth is masked or kept secret for the benefit of the simple men and women who cannot fathom it.

The next chapter of our little story concentrates on the Vatican sanction of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon at the Council of Troyes in 1129. There were two parts of the sanction. The first was written by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, establishing the Rule of the Order and placing it under the authority of the Holy Father. This papal authority enabled the Order to raise funds and accept donations in the name of His Holiness. And donations and Brothers came like a total wave, especially given that all sins would be wiped away upon confirmation to the Brotherhood. What is not so well known is one of the Templars, an Andre de Montbard, had traveled from the Holy Land to attend the Council and ask for its wisdom. That was the beginning of the Vatican Commission of Special Projects. Father Napton let that hang a moment.

They had a vampire. It breathed out of John, barely a whisper. He could see it upon a dais or altar, held down by invisible bonds, a group of knights surrounding it, all frightened and simultaneously excited by the existence of it. They thanked God for it, prayed over it like it was some kind of holy relic. It was confirmation of their faith.

Napton and Angsterson exchanged glances; so, too, did the angels. Carrie and Aaron held hands.

Angsterson spoke. Its name is Ana-balatu-la-Manazi. I only found out about it a few weeks ago. I had been in Special Projects eight years and knew nothing about any of this.

"Is? John looked back and forth between the two priests. You mean you have one of these things alive?"

Napton said, I wish we had a picture of it for you, John.

Angsterson sat forward and looked John in the eye. "It’s not alive."

Let me guess, John interrupted, you’ve had it for a thousand years, and you don’t know anything about it.

The holy men exchanged another glance, and Angsterson said, Eight hundred eighty-two years, actually.

But who’s counting? John shook his head.

Napton tapped the packet in John’s lap. We’re not allowed any photographs or any physical evidence of it outside of secured Special Projects sites.

John’s eyes met Carrie’s. I’m supposed to believe all this? he said to her. Magic, holographic visions from angels? Templar stories? Undead creatures roaming the world? A small smile curved on the angel’s lips. John added, Faith. His mind wanted to continue down this dark path it had started. He felt—he knew—there was much more they weren’t telling him.

It must have shown on his face. The bishop sat back in his chair and said, "This is one of the deepest secrets of the Vatican, hidden so adeptly, nearly no one knows of its existence. The second sanction of the Order, the special part of Special Projects, was to organize the Templars into investigators to track these creatures down and destroy them. Today, we are known as the Venatores Vaticani, the Vatican Hunters, and like the Templars of ages ago, the organization operates under its own volition and answers to a small oversight committee, who, in turn, answers to the Pope. It is buried so deep under thousands of other special projects that I had stumbled upon it by mere chance. He hesitated and added, Or providence."

Napton pushed a button on his chair to summon a server then made a circle with his finger to indicate drinks for the group. It took the Templars nearly sixty years to get the lyl to Rome. After the Holy Father saw it, he gave the Order vast powers that allowed it to organize Orders around the world, to set up a network of Hunters to eradicate these creatures.

Hunting vampires? Lyls? Whatever these things were? John’s head swam. "But I thought the Templars had been branded heretics and burned