Confession

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

Even through the shadowed grate between us, I could hear the change in the priest’s breath. I always thought the attraction was based on pheromones, but there was no way he could be picking them up, at least not so soon.

He cleared his throat, and I could hear rustling as he adjusted his cassock.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

I had to think about that. For a very long time I was under the impression that I couldn’t even enter a church without bursting into flame, much less go to confession.

“I can’t remember father, it has been a very long time,” An understatement.

“Fear not my child, God is forgiving and welcomes lost sheep back into the flock with open arms.” His word choice was poetic on many levels. “No sin is so great that god cannot forgive, tell me what burdens you.”

I sighed.

“I have coveted and stolen and adultered. I have born a false witness and taken the Lord’s name in vain. I have not kept the sabbath, I’ve cheated and I’ve killed. I’ve violated every commandment since my last confession and I’m pretty sure I’ve done things that they didn’t think to prohibit when they wrote these rules up. I’ve been bad father, very bad.”

There was a moment of silence before the priest spoke, very clearly angry at me.

“Do you think this is a joke? The holy act of confession is no place to mock the Word of God. If you’re not going to be serious then you should go. There are others who could use this time for an earnest attempt and purifying their souls.”

“Do they father? Do they know of the sins you’ve committed? Who takes your confession? Tell me father, do you always have an erection when taking confession?”

He spluttered, caught off guard.

“What is this?”

“Why, it’s confession, father. I’ve told you of my sins, why not tell me yours? Why not share stories of the men and women who service you for absolution? Of the ‘donations’ made to your personal account in exchange for use of the church’s van? No one expect a church van to be hauling cocaine. It’s genius.”

“Get out!” I could hear him rising from the seat, though I’m not sure what he was going to do, it’s not like churches had security guards.

With a casual grace, I pressed my hand through the metal grate separating us, the wire frame parting like tissue, and snagged his cossack, pulling him back to seating.

“Now father, no need to get riled up. You wouldn’t want your waiting herd to get hurt would you?”

Even in the dim light I could see the sweat beading on his face, the sickly pale pallor that had overtaken his flesh.

“Who are you?”

“No father, not who. What! That’s the question to ask! I am the bearer of a blood curse, the undying night. I am the shadow that lingers, the cure to humanity. I am a child of Vlad Tepes and I have come to collect dues.”

“Tepes? But how can you… this is holy ground! No heir to Drakul’s curse can enter here!”

“Is it, father? Is it truly? Or have your actions worn away at the sanctity of this house? Chipped and sanded until now it is simply a shell of its former holiness? You have sinned grievously, father, and for that you must atone.”

I leaned forward, through the curled metal divider, and fed.

Deeply.