Chapter Twelve

Same military buzz cut. Same holier than thou attitude.

Preacher hadn’t changed since the last time Mal had seen him, which was once, right after he’d moved into the old freighter. Preacher had tried to cleanse him. With a stake.

Not exactly the kind of behavior he’d expected from another vampire. But Preacher wasn’t exactly just another vampire.

As far as Mal knew, Preacher was the only vampire turned without ingesting the blood of his sire. For that matter, he was the only vampire who had technically turned himself. Either way, he was fringe – a lesser class of vampire descended from the betrayer Judas Iscariot. Noble vampires came from a much darker source, the Castus Sanguis. The ancient ones who’d fallen from heaven. They’d raped and warred and used Earth as their playground, begetting the nobility, the varcolai, and the fae.

But the End War was what brought about the rise of the fringe. They took advantage of the chaos, turning or trying to turn any human they could. Those who didn’t survive the turning, and there were many, blended into the casualties of war. Before that, fringe numbers had been a fraction of the nobility’s. Preacher was one of those turned during that great upheaval.

That’s where things went left of center. Story went that during a skirmish, Preacher’s World Corps unit took a direct hit under enemy fire, leaving Preacher and a few other survivors wounded but alive. When a pack of fringe vamps dressed as insurgents converged, looking for human spoils, Preacher was bitten, but emptied enough rounds into his attacker to incapacitate the creature. Being both a chaplain and a medic due to the need for double-duty troops, he knew his blood loss would kill him before help arrived. Instead of administering his own last rites, he helped himself to a field transfusion from his subdued attacker, not realizing what the result would be.

Of all the tales surrounding him, one truth was that Preacher lacked a few of the regular vampire characteristics. Like the one concerning sacred symbols. Which explained how he made his home in an abandoned Catholic church in the ruins of Little Havana.

Most bizarre was his ability to daywalk, something no other vampire could manage without some serious protection and abundant shade. So even though he could have come immediately to help Fi and Chrysabelle, he’d made them wait until after sundown. On purpose.

Mal hated waiting. ‘What’s taking so long?’

Preacher unhooked the stethoscope from his ears and rested Chrysabelle’s hand back on top of the sheet Mal had covered her with. He met Mal’s eyes with suspicion. ‘Beside the hypervolemia, she’s got a broken foot. Been playing with your food, Malkolm?’

‘She’s not my – screw you.’ Mal glared right back. ‘She kicked a door down.’

‘Trying to get away?’

‘Shouldn’t you be saving her life?’

‘I’m pretty sure I can save the comarré, but … ’ Preacher nodded to Fiona’s comatose form resting on the second cot parallel to Chrysabelle’s. ‘Can’t say for sure about the spirit. The only undead I know about are the fanged kind.’

Doc snarled. He was as close to shifting as he could be without going house pet. Eyes like slits, the bridge of his nose flattened, teeth needle-sharp with fangs like a tiger. ‘You find a way to help her or—’

Preacher snorted. ‘Or what, varcolai? You’ll use my couch as a scratching post?’

Mal stepped between them. ‘You’d better help both of them.’

Preacher’s nostrils flared. ‘I should have cleansed you when I had the chance.’

‘You had the chance. You failed. Fix them and I’ll give you another shot.’ Mal crossed his arms to keep from throttling Preacher until he begged for a stake.

‘Well then.’ Preacher rolled up his sleeves and went back to his work. ‘That’s a paycheck I look forward to cashing.’ He unpacked the rest of his bag, laying out tubing, needles, and a blood bag on a clean towel. ‘I’ll wrap her foot first. She should keep it elevated for a few days.’ Preacher went to work.

‘What’s your beef with him?’ Doc asked Preacher, tilting his head at Mal. ‘What’s he ever done to you?’

Preacher answered without turning and secured the bandages in place. ‘He’s a vampire.’

‘So are you, foolio,’ Doc said.

‘He’s unclean. And unrepentant.’ Preacher went back to his bag and added more tubing and alcohol swabs to the towel.

Doc raised his brows. ‘You better check yourself.’

He snapped the bag shut. ‘Unlike Malkolm, I dedicated my life to a higher purpose. I have not faltered from that mission.’

Doc scoffed. ‘You’re crazy as a crack whore.’

‘And you’re a house cat. We all have our crosses to bear.’ Preacher shot a look at Mal. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

Mal narrowed his eyes at the crucifix that swung with the dog tags around Preacher’s neck. ‘Or not.’

‘You have any more lights you could turn on?’

Mal shook his head. ‘You could have had all the light you wanted a few hours ago. You chose to show up this late.’

‘You’re lucky I showed up at all. I owe you nothing.’ Preacher scowled, reached into his bag, and pulled out a headlamp. He adjusted it over his buzz cut and flipped on the LED.

Mal uncrossed his arms, blinking in the sudden brightness. ‘Do it already. Before there’s no reason to. Because then I’ll be forced to cleanse you.’