Darkness.
Then the smell of lavender.
No, not lavender. Bleach and something else. Soap? The scent lingered, clinging to the air like something uninvited.
The boy stood frozen, eyes wide, staring at the shattered ceramic figure on the cold stone floor. Its tiny porcelain head rolled a few inches, tapping against the base of the nearby cupboard. It had been a cherub once, wings spread mid-flight. Now, it was just a mess.
The air was thick with the scent of old wood and dusty hymnals. The chapel's stained glass windows cast colorful patterns on the floor, but Silas didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the shattered cherub, its broken wings a stark reminder of the trouble he was in.
"Who did this?" came the voice. Cold. Sharp. Like the slap that followed it.
The boy's head snapped sideways from the blow. A fresh line of red bloomed across his cheek. His lip trembled, but he didn't cry.
"I - I didn't do it," he said, voice hoarse. "It was Joshua. Not me. Please, Sister Mags, I swear it."
Another slap. This time with a wooden ruler. The sting was instant.
Sister Mags's face turned red with rage, her eyes flashing with anger. Silas took a step back, his heart racing with fear. He knew he was in trouble, and he didn't know how to get out of it.
"You dare lie in God's house?" she barked. Her black veil fluttered slightly as she leaned in. "Joshua isn't here. You are. And God sees everything, Silas."
The boy, Silas, stood trembling. The cracked floor under his feet might as well have been an abyss.
Behind her, other children sat in rows. Heads bowed. Not a word. Not a glance. Just silence and discipline.
"You'll pray for forgiveness tonight," Sister Mags said. "On your knees. No dinner."
"I didn't-"
Another strike.
The silence that followed was oppressive, weighing heavily on Silas's shoulders. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of expectations, with no lifeline in sight. The other children sat motionless, their eyes fixed on the floor, as if afraid to meet Silas's gaze.
Darkness returned.
****
A throb. Like a heartbeat, but louder. At the base of his skull.
Then, heat.
And nausea.
Silas groaned as he stirred, eyes fluttering open, only to wince at the dull yellow light above him. His surroundings spun slightly, as though the world had tilted just a few degrees too far to the right.
He squinted.
The fluorescent light above him flickered and buzzed, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Silas's head throbbed with pain, and his mouth felt dry and cottony. He tried to remember how he got there, but his memories were hazy and indistinct.
The ceiling tiles were mismatched, one of them water-stained and sagging. The flickering fluorescent bulb buzzed lazily overhead. The air smelled of mildew, and something metallic.
His neck. It burned. A low, pulsing throb, like something inside was still alive and wriggling beneath the skin. He tried to raise a hand, but his arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
'Where the hell-'
He blinked hard, trying to focus.
Molded plastic sink.
Towel rack barely holding on.
Cracked mirror.
A cheap-ass bathroom. Motel, probably. One of those budget joints with numbers for names.
He groaned again, struggling to sit up. Pain shot down his spine.
"Shit."
He slumped back into the tub, breathing heavily. His thoughts were a carousel of fog. The last thing he remembered was the bass drop, the synth shift the DJ made. Something about it had caught his attention.
Then nothing. He frowned.
Did he do coke? That'd be dumb. He never did coke.
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a dry cough. His lips felt cracked.
"Help…" he croaked.
No response.
He tried again. Louder.
"Somebody..."
A bang. The sound of rushed footsteps.
Then, a door slamming open.
Gianna nearly skidded into the room, her boots squeaking on the cheap tiles. She caught herself on the sink, barely avoiding a fall. Her raven-black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looked...off. Tense. Eyes sharp but lips pursed like she was rehearsing a speech.
She didn't speak right away.
Silas blinked at her. His gaze trailed from her face to her clenched fists. Pale knuckles. Tight jaw.
Then it clicked.
He raised a shaky hand to his neck, fingers fumbling for the source of the pain. Skin. Smooth. No puncture. Nothing.
"You…" His voice was barely a whisper. "You bit me."
Gianna flinched, then covered it with a tight smile.
He kept probing the area. Still nothing. No scars. No scabs. Just the ache.
"Hello, Silas," she said finally, voice softer than expected. "I need you to stay very calm."
He didn't respond.
"I know this is a lot," she continued, stepping closer. "You probably don't remember what happened. That's… typical, after a turning."
His eyes narrowed.
'Turning?' He wondered, but said nothing still.
"You passed out last night. You were bleeding badly. I didn't mean for any of it to happen." She ran a hand through her hair, then looked away. "Technically I wasn't even supposed to feed. Let alone… this."
She paced.
"Essentially—I'm a vampire," she said in a rush. Then quieter, almost to herself: "And I didn't even have permission to make a fledgling."
Silas lay there in stunned silence. The words floated around him like dust motes, none of them settling quite right.
He stared up at her, and the silence stretched.
She started again, tone more controlled. "You lost a lot of blood. I panicked. You were dying, and the bite wasn't clotting. I either let you die, or I turn you."
Her voice cracked. Just slightly.
"I chose to turn you."
Silas didn't say anything.
She filled the silence. "You might be feeling weak. That's normal. Most of your system is… rebooting. Your body's adjusting to the new condition. It'll take a few days, but-"
"Am I a vampire now?"
He finally spoke, his voice cutting through her rambling. Steady. Quiet.
Gianna stopped pacing.
She met his eyes. For a second, she looked genuinely unsure.
Then she nodded.
The silence between them returned.