Without another word, the massive werewolf turned and strode back toward the church.
Father Claremore watched the others immediately begin following him.
Dammit.
Could this night get any worse?
With a weary shake of his head, he hurried after them.
They descended the stone steps into the cellar once more. The torches along the walls sputtered weakly.
Boaz approached the coffin, a glint of steel flashing as he drew a knife. Father Claremore blinked in confusion as Boaz raised the blade to his palm.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Manlius lunged forward and grabbed Boaz’s arm before the blade could cut his skin.
“Making sure he stays asleep,” Boaz said.
“By giving him your blood?”
“Yes.” Boaz let out a long breath. “If he’s fed, he won’t wake up.” His gaze drifted back toward the coffin. “Well… I hope he won’t wake up. At least not until we give him enough time to heal.”
“Are you sure about this?” Manlius asked worriedly.
“No,” Boaz admitted. “But I don’t think we have a choice. Unless we kill him.”
“Then let the human feed him,” Manlius said, nodding toward Father Claremore. Father Claremore stiffened. “You’re a mystical creature. You have no idea what your blood might do to him. It could make him stronger.”
“Father Claremore has agreed to keep him here,” Boaz countered. “The least we can do is help.”
Did I?
Father Claremore blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with the conversation unfolding around him. He didn’t remember agreeing to any of this. Not to shelter a vampire beneath his church. Not to feed it. And certainly not to stand in a cellar filled with shifters, witches, fairies, and creatures he had once believed existed only in stories whispered to frighten children.
Everything had happened so fast. One moment his quiet valley had been peaceful and ordinary, and the next it had been torn open by demons. Now supernatural beings crowded his church, arguing over the fate of a vampire king chained in his cellar.
The whole situation felt as though it were spiraling further and further out of control and he had no idea how he had been swept into the middle of it.
“Fuck,” Manlius growled, releasing Boaz’s arm at last. He began pacing across the cellar, his robes sweeping over the cold stone floor as agitation radiated from him. “I have a very bad feeling about this.”
“Me too,” Boaz admitted quietly.
Manlius stopped pacing and stared at him. “Yet you’re still willing to do it?”
“What other choice do we have?” Boaz replied, resigned.
Manlius dragged a frustrated hand through his pale hair. “Fuck… fuck… fuck…”
“No cursing in the church,” Father Claremore blurted before he could stop himself. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Manlius turned on him instantly, fixing him with a hard glare.
“Manlius,” Boaz warned.
The sorcerer exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Fuck, sorry,” he muttered, then immediately grimaced again. “Sorry, Father. I’m just… a little on edge.”
“We all are,” Boaz sighed. “The war didn’t go the way we imagined it would. But we survived.”
“I know,” Manlius said, staring at the chained coffin once more. “Fuck… I know. I really hope your plan works.”