Jordan Fox

“The church had always made him uneasy. It rose around him in shadowed arches and cold stone, the air carrying that familiar mix of incense, old wood, and candle wax. Every surface crowded with gilded suffering.

Beauty, yes, but the kind that pressed down on the ribs, the kind that watched. Hardly surprising, he supposed, given his relationship with death.

Most vampires preferred to keep their humans alive, drinking from a dedicated pack or carefully curated group called Succor. They stayed within the laws of the prince of vampires, content to avoid the kind of endings this place glorified.

Lucian, however, had finer tastes. He liked to sample broadly. He still swore he’d tasted an angel once, though no one believed him. He’d spent years hunting for that being again and found nothing. The absence tormented him. It was one of the quiet engines behind his true ambitions.

Now he sat alone in the pews, staring up at the Catholic rendition of agony and sacrifice and at the supposed virgin who’d been railed by the Holy Spirit.

Footsteps echoed up the aisle, bouncing off stained glass saints and martyrs. A moment later, a priest slipped into the pew beside him.

“Father Murphy. Took you long enough.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Montague. I’ve been meeting with several of the local bishops on your behalf, and one of them was… reluctant.” He adjusted his glasses.”
― Jordan Fox, Infernal Hunger