Roland grimaced as he swallowed another mouthful of the distasteful tonic he carried in his hipflask, and then strapped it back into its pouch. At least this time there was no one around to stare and wonder why a holy man was apparently breaking one of his vows by drinking from a flask of spirits. Getting the townsfolk to leave him alone and not follow him had not been easy. In fact, he'd only succeeded in the first half of that, for there were still a few individuals following and watching at a distance, probably ready to summon half the town to war at the first sign of a vampire.

He could wholly understand that practically innate desire in people to want to defend their homes--even against something as far out of their league as a nightwalker--but that didn't mean it made his job any easier.

He had arrived at Sparrow's Point around midmorning, and it had been approaching noon by the time he'd left the church. Another pair of hours had passed at the tavern, changing out of his armor and taking his meal. Then he'd had to prepare for the hunt, choosing to don his lighter set of leather armor, lay blessings across his sword and cross, and offer prayers of guidance to Sontael, and Osraheir as well. Now dusk already loomed, as night came early to this part of the world, which was no doubt part of why the hamlet's vampire had chosen to roost here.

Roland was back at the church. The men behind him would not be happy when they realized why.

"Let me be welcome in your House," he murmured as he pulled open one of the front doors and stepped inside. The stained glass windows shone no less brightly as the sun dipped towards the northern horizon, and the air inside the nave was alive with dancing dust motes, tinged in all colors as they danced before the glass tapestries.

Father Byron was seated in one of the pews closest to the altar, and looked back at the sound of Roland's boots upon the wood floor. Recognizing his visitor, the priest got immediately to his feet and hurried back to meet the paladin.

"Cousin de Torre, be welcome again."

Roland nodded. "Cousin Byron, forgive me, but I need you to leave."

The priest blinked in surprise. "Leave?"

"Leave. And do what you can to keep everyone else outside, as well."

Confusion sat openly on Father Byron's features. Roland sighed, closing his eyes. "I must do battle here, and I don't want anyone to get caught between us."

"Battle?" Father Byron blinked again, but then his eyes went wide. "You mean it's...."

"Yes, Cousin."

"The Brothers preserve us," breathed the priest, but he wasted no more time in hurrying towards the door and exiting the church.

Roland walked slowly down the aisle of the nave, his eyes exploring the left-hand wall until he found what he was looking for--a door directly opposite the one that led to the little room where Hal's body had been kept. When he opened it, Roland was not disappointed. Beyond the door was a little staircase that spiraled upwards, which Roland climbed.

Another door at the top of the stairs opened, as he'd expected, on the belfry: the level of the church where the bell was hung. It was the centerpiece of the belfry, perched in a tower that thrust upward from the middle of the roof, with only a freestanding ladder and a pull-rope stretching from it to the floor. On all sides, arched windows started at the floor and reached up to a height just above Roland's head, devoid of the multicolor mosaics that decorated the windows below. To the south, east, and west, nothing could be seen but the rolling hills and stands of deciduous forests. To the north sat the rest of the town, with the sun a crimson fireball resting upon the distant horizon.

Roland went to the pull-rope and took it tightly in his gloved hands, and rang the farewell bell as the sun sank out of sight. The tones echoed brightly in the belfry, but as they faded, Roland heard what he expected to hear: a hiss and the scuffing of feet in the rafters. He drew his sword as he peered up into the shadowed vaults of the arched roof, and saw a pair of eyes flash in the dark just before the vampire leapt down to meet him.

She landed on all fours, spreading her weight like a cat before arcing back to her feet, a willow unbending after the passing of a strong wind. Her face was flushed and alive from her generous diet upon the poor town, and she was barely more than a girl. Auburn curls fell in a tangle around her face, and she was clad in a dress--probably stolen from some woman's wash-line--that was whole and clean. Except for the fangs that gleamed in her wicked smile, she looked like nothing more than a young woman approaching perhaps her seventeenth birthday.

"Greetings, Cousin," she giggled childishly, though her eyes shone with age beyond the years of her body.

Roland held his sword out before him, tip pointing towards the floor so that it posed as a giant cross. "Exorcizo te," he answered, speaking the words said to be the language of the Ten Gods, "omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Sontael."

The girl stepped back with a hiss, a scowl tingeing her smile only briefly. "I'm amazed you can even speak those words, Cousin. Do they burn your tongue?"

With his other hand, Roland pulled his golden cross from a pocket and held it out as well. "Tu autem effugare, diabole; appropinquabit enim judicium dei."

She released a shriek and lunged at him, but Roland fearlessly held his ground, and she was forced to retreat. "Why don't you take off your glove before waving that at me? I'm sure it would love to burn you as much as me."

"A cruce salus," Roland intoned, taking several long steps towards her, forcing her back against a wall.

Hatred flashed in her eyes, and her smile curved fiendishly. "Wouldn't you like to know what I did with your son, first?"

Roland froze, and the vampire's glee deepened.

"Oh, yes," she purred. "I couldn't believe it at first. I saw you leave him there when the watchmen interrupted your snack...and your rite. Tell me, which were you first? Paladin...or daywalker? Do you suffer the cross so you can slay your own offspring, or did your sire have a delightfully twisted sense of humor?"

With a flick of the wrist, Roland turned his sword from cross to weapon and swung the blade at her, but she leapt back up into the rafters with a squeal of girlish laughter.

"It was so easy to get him off that bier after the priest went away!" she cackled, dancing across a wooden beam. "New daywalkers come along so rarely, I just couldn't help myself when I saw him lying there!"

A heavy weight thudded to the floor behind him and Roland spun about to face the newly fledged vampire. Hal was a large man, shorter than Roland but far broader across the shoulders, and he grinned at the paladin's expression of shame and dismay.

"Hello Father," he smiled. "Thanks so much for helping me along, but I really must be going now. There's no good hunting in a town that knows me. I'll be sure to do a better job of things than you do!"

Roland gave a shout and charged the daywalker, but Hal only laughed and ran towards the northern window, throwing his mighty shoulder into the glass. Roland heard shouts rise up from below as the window shattered and Hal fell out into the twilight, only to rise again on the mighty wings of a brown owl. Roland ran to the window, but had only a moment to watch Hal soar away before the nightwalker girl screeched behind him. He turned to meet her just she before she hit him with the strength born of her unholy nature, lending her weight her tiny body alone would not have had, and they both tumbled out into the air.

The impact they made with the ground, rolling along the shards of broken glass, would have killed a normal man. But Roland had not been a man for years.

His sword and cross flew from his hands, and she clawed and tore at him as they grappled on the street, she snarling at him through her fangs and he calling the words of the Ten Gods. Vaguely Roland was aware of more shouts coming from around them, but otherwise the little nightwalker had his full attention. She kicked and thrashed like a hellcat, and it took every ounce of Roland's own strength to roll her beneath him and pin her to the ground.

With sword and cross well out of reach, Roland seized her by the jaw with one hand, and with the other, grabbed a shard off glass of the ground. While the nightwalker screeched through her teeth, Roland tore her forehead open with the sign of the cross. "Auxilio ab alto!"

The holy sign burst into golden flame, and the nightwalker screamed in pain. Roland leapt off of her as she thrashed on the ground, slapping ineffectually at the blessed mark etched in her own flesh and howling sounds no human throat could make. Frantically he looked about until he found his sword, and hurried to pick it up. He then ran back to the writhing nightwalker, and raised his holy weapon high above his head.

"Deus misereatur!" he shouted, and plunged the blade into her chest.

Dark blood, heart's blood, gushed around the blade, and her shriek tore the air to shreds. She bucked and thrashed, kicking and lashing at him, but Roland leaned all his weight on his weapon, pinning the nightwalker to the ground.

When at long last she finally lay still, his arms ached all the way up to his shoulders. With a deep, heart-tired sigh, he pulled his sword from her body, and bent to close her eyes. "Sontael usher you to your final rest," he murmured, and stepped away from her body, which had now taken on the pallor of the grave. She would not rise again.

He let his sword fall to the ground and fought his flask from its pouch with fingers gone tired and clumsy. The nightwalker's nails, though blunt and rounded, had still scored him deeply with unholy ease. His armor hung in tatters about his form, and his own blood seeped sluggishly from his wounds. He could feel his eyeteeth stretching into fangs, craving new blood to replenish that which he was losing.

"Cousin de Torre?"

Startled, Roland lost hold of his flask. It tumbled from his hands and bounced along the ground, splattering dark fluid before coming to rest in the puddle spreading around the nightwalker's abandoned body, as Roland lifted his head.

The priest and at least three dozen other men, carrying torches and spears and bows, stared at him in horror, and Roland staggered back from them, his mouth working wordlessly. Their eyes stared at his flask, at how the liquid within it matched the puddle it oozed into, then lifted to stare at him. The illumination of twilight was still bright enough that the look of shock and betrayal was clear in their eyes.

"Cousin...you're one of them?" whispered Father Byron.

"Please..." Roland's tongue felt fat and clumsy, unable to speak around his own horrible fangs. "I helped you...."

The mutters that swept through the crowd--the mob--were like a rising thunderstorm, and Roland knew he was doomed even before they began to move towards him.

"You probably made them!" someone howled, and the others picked up the shout.

Roland couldn't--wouldn't--fight back against them, and had no choice but to flee. He shed his man-form and pulled on his owl-form instead, silver-white feathers replacing tattered leather as he flung himself towards the sky with a mournful owl-cry. Already facing north, towards the rest of the town, he flapped his tired arms-turned-wings as fast as he could, but then heard the twang of bowstrings and knew his effort was in vain.

Arrows hissed through the air around him and then one found its mark, biting deeply into the flesh of one wing. With a shriek of pain and sadness, he tumbled from the sky and towards the nearest rooftop...

...and saw a man leap from the shadow cast by a chimney.

"I've got you!"

Roland fell into outstretched arms and had no strength to fight against them. The man started running along the tiled rooftop, then leapt from it to the next, and the next, and the next.

The cursed paladin had no idea if he'd been rescued or captured, but as the pain lanced up his wing and his mind blacked out to escape it, he was sent beyond caring either way.