Part 2 — The False Mass
The echo of Victor's words still lingered when a voice replied from the altar, deep and resonant — a voice that once could have led a choir.
"And the Lord said, 'This is my body.'"
The syllables carried through the nave, twisting into laughter before the final word.
From the shadows behind the altar rose a figure in a bishop's vestments — garments centuries out of fashion, their color long faded to a grayish maroon. The mitre tilted crookedly on a skull-pale head. A ring of old blood haloed his mouth like a relic of communion wine.
"Cardinal Noctis," Victor said quietly. "You've been excommunicated."
Noctis's grin widened, showing teeth too long, too fine. "Ah, Van Helsing. I was beginning to think the line had gone extinct. Tell me—" He gestured to the corpses in the pews. "Do they not make a faithful congregation? Silent. Devout. Eternal."
Victor's thumb brushed the hammer of his silver pistol. "They'd prefer rest."
"Rest?" Noctis stepped into the candlelight, hands raised as though delivering a sermon. "But I have given them purpose. The flesh is weak, yes, but devotion—devotion is immortal. Watch."
He spread his arms.
The still air broke with a sound like paper tearing. One by one, the corpses turned their heads toward Victor. Their eyes shone faintly red, the light flickering inside them like dying coals.
Noctis's voice became a low chant, half-Latin, half something older. The bodies stood, joints creaking.
Victor sighed, muttering, "Always the dramatics." He flicked the safety on both pistols and whispered a short benediction.
The first corpse lurched down the aisle, and Victor fired once. The shot echoed through the cathedral — bright silver light flared on impact, the body collapsing to ash before it hit the floor.
Another came. Two shots — two bursts of light — then three more. Each muzzle flash briefly illuminated the vaulted ceiling, revealing fleeting glimpses of clawed shadows above.
Between gunfire, Noctis's voice wove through the chaos:
"You pray with bullets now, priest?"
Victor reloaded smoothly. "Only when the sermon runs long."
He stepped forward, kicking aside a fallen hymnal. Holy symbols stitched into his coat caught the light. The twin guns sang again, their runes glowing brighter with each discharge.
Noctis laughed, a sound both human and not. "You've forgotten the taste of miracles, Victor. Your blood burns with two fires — one divine, one damned. Do you even know which side you serve?"
Victor's next shot shattered the candle by Noctis's feet. The flame went out. Darkness folded around them.
The vampire's voice slithered closer: "Serve me, and I'll show you peace. You could feed on sinners, purge the world in my image—"
Victor's answer was quiet, almost weary. "Peace is overrated."
He fired once more.
The blast tore through the dark, and when the light faded, the pews were empty — only drifting ash where the congregation had stood. The air was thick with incense and dust, smelling faintly of burnt wax.
Noctis's laughter moved higher, somewhere near the rafters again, echoing through the stone vaults.
"Still the hunter. Still afraid to kneel."
Victor holstered one gun and drew the sword at his hip — the silver blade of Excalibur's fragment. It caught the faint light from the shattered stained glass and shimmered faintly gold.
He looked up toward the darkness above and said, "Mass is over."
The echo of Victor's last words—Mass is over—hung in the air, answered only by the slow drip of rain through the roof. Then came the sound: cloth tearing, bones flexing, wings unfolding.
Noctis dropped from the rafters, robes billowing like torn banners. His body was stretched and wrong, a silhouette built of ribs and wings. The faint candlelight caught on veins that glowed the color of coals. The bishop's voice had changed too—still melodic, but edged with hunger.
"You brandish holy relics, priest, yet wear the stink of Hell."
Victor's grip tightened on the sword. "We all smell like what we kill."
Noctis hissed, a sound between laughter and rage, and lunged. Stone shattered beneath his steps. Victor pivoted aside, both pistols firing in a cross-pattern. Each shot carved a streak of radiant light across the darkness, searing the folds of Noctis's robes. The creature reeled, wings flaring to shield its face.
The nave filled with the acrid scent of sanctified gunpowder. Runic light crawled along Victor's arms, responding to his pulse. He fired again—left, right, left—driving Noctis back toward the altar.
"You think silver burns me?" The vampire's voice echoed through a grin too wide for a human face. "It only reminds me what Heaven tastes like."
Noctis slammed a clawed hand into the floor. The marble cracked; shadows bled from the fissures like smoke, twisting into shapes that screamed without mouths.
Victor steadied his aim, whispered a fragment of liturgy. "Fiat lux."
He fired downward. The runes on the black pistol flared white, the shot exploding in a burst of pure light that devoured the shadows. Noctis staggered, eyes burning with fury.
"A Van Helsing always hides behind borrowed holiness!"
The insult landed harder than the blows. Victor dropped the pistols, their barrels smoking, and drew his sword fully. The blade hummed—no sound, only vibration, as if the air itself recognized the weapon.
He advanced. Noctis raised a claw, catching the sword mid-swing, but the contact sent a shimmer through the room. Sparks of gold and crimson burst from the clash.
Victor twisted, forcing the blade downward. "This isn't borrowed," he said, voice steady. "It's earned."
The sword sliced through the creature's wing. Noctis screamed—a sound that shook dust from the beams overhead—and stumbled back toward the altar.
The fight narrowed to breath and motion: silver arcs, the stench of ozone, the echo of prayer half-snarled through clenched teeth. Victor's strikes were precise, methodical, but each swing left a faint black shimmer trailing the blade, as though shadow clung to its light.
Noctis fell to his knees before the altar, chest heaving. "Look at you," he whispered, voice trembling. "Your veins already darken. The demon sings in you, priest."
Victor hesitated only a heartbeat. "Then let it sing in key."
He thrust the sword through the vampire's chest. A shock of light burst from the impact—silver edged with faint crimson. Noctis's scream faded into a low chant before dissolving into silence.
When the glow died, only ash remained on the altar steps. Victor stood motionless, the sword tip resting against stone. For a moment, he thought he heard distant bells—but they were only the echoes of his own pulse.
He looked down at his hands. The veins beneath his skin pulsed faintly red.
"Not yet," he muttered.
He sheathed the sword and turned toward the rows of empty pews, each one smoldering faintly where firelight had touched it.
Behind him, the last candle went out.