Vestments of the Unworthy
The bells did not cease.
They settled into the bones of the cathedral like a second pulse.
Petyr did not sleep.
He knelt on the stone floor of his chamber as the night stretched thin and tremulous around him. Hunger sharpened with every hour denied. The priests had commanded fasting, and obedience only made the ache more exquisite.
Hunger clarified.
Hunger illuminated.
It traced the outline of every vein beneath his skin until he felt as though he were made of trembling glass. When the final candle in his chamber guttered low, the thrumming of the bells shifted — deeper, slower.
A summons.
Petyr rose.
The ivory robe clung differently now. The satin felt heavier, more aware of him. The crimson lining brushed his thighs when he walked, a secret reminder hidden beneath sanctity.
He descended the spiral stair.
The cathedral doors stood open.
Heat met him first — not warmth of flame, but warmth of bodies gathered in devotion. The nave was transformed. Hundreds upon hundreds of candles climbed the columns in iron candelabra, their light flowing upward like liquid gold. Incense hung thick and sweet, threaded with the unmistakable metallic perfume of blood already drawn somewhere unseen.
The coven filled the pews and aisles.
They did not stand apart.
They stood close.
Silks slid against silk. Velvet brushed pale throats. Fingers traced the curves of shoulders with reverent slowness. The hush was not silence — it was breath shared between parted lips.
Petyr stepped inside.
Every gaze turned.
His golden hair caught the candlelight, casting a faint halo around his head. The effect was almost obscene in its purity. A murmur rippled outward.
“Still luminous,” someone whispered.
“Not for long,” another replied.
He walked the centre aisle alone.
The cathedral seemed narrower tonight. The air thicker. The pews were occupied in pairs and trios — bodies inclined toward one another in quiet anticipation. A hand rested possessively at the small of a back. Lips hovered near the sensitive curve beneath an ear. One pale wrist was cradled delicately in another’s grasp, thumb grazing pulse in slow, thoughtful circles.
Petyr did not look too long.
He could not.
Each small gesture struck him like a bell.
At the altar, the three elders waited.
Athanasius stood at its centre, hands folded within the sleeves of his dark vestments. His face was austere, almost ascetic — but his eyes, milky white, burned with restrained hunger.
Demidicus leaned against the altar stone, posture deceptively relaxed. The candlelight adored him. It softened nothing, yet it lingered on the curve of his mouth as though drawn there.
Kazimir stood slightly apart, shadowed. His gaze found Petyr instantly and did not waver, burning a deep desire into the recesses of Petyr’s brain.
Petyr knelt.
The stone was colder than he expected.
“Fledgling,” Athanasius intoned.
The word traveled the length of the nave.
“You have fasted.”
“Yes,” Petyr answered, his voice steadier than he felt.
“You have prepared.”
“Yes.”
Demidicus stepped forward.
He did not touch Petyr at first. He circled him slowly instead, the hem of his black garment whispering over stone.
“Do you feel it?” Demidicus asked softly.
Petyr swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Petyr hesitated.
“In my throat,” he admitted. “In my teeth.”
A pause.
“And lower,” Demidicus murmured.
Heat flared beneath Petyr’s skin.
The coven shifted in the pews. The sound was subtle — fabric adjusting, breath catching — but it carried through the cathedral like wind over embers.
Kazimir moved behind Petyr.
Petyr felt him before he saw him — a cool presence at his back. Fingers brushed lightly through his golden hair, not grasping, merely testing its softness.
“It still shines,” Kazimir observed.
Petyr’s breath hitched.
The touch lingered a fraction too long before withdrawing.
Athanasius raised one hand.
The murmurs ceased.
“We begin,” he said.
The vampire priests emerged from the apse in slow procession. Their vestments were black layered over crimson, embroidered with symbols that echoed cruciform shapes but twisted at their ends into thorns.
They carried silver basins and chalices.
The Offertory.
Pairs within the pews shifted closer now. Wrists were bared with deliberate grace. Sleeves slid back. Veins pulsed visibly in the candlelight.
One priest passed through the aisle, pausing beside a reclining figure. The priest’s hand enclosed the offered wrist — tenderly, almost lovingly — before a small incision was made with a nail too precise to be called crude.
A soft exhale followed.
Not pain.
Something else.
The scent bloomed through the air.
Petyr swayed.
Demidicus’s hand steadied him — firm at his waist.
“Breathe,” Demidicus murmured close to his ear.
Petyr did.
The cathedral filled with small sounds.
A sigh against skin.
The faint brush of lips along a forearm.
A whispered prayer dissolving into something unholy.
Bodies leaned into one another in slow, devotional contact. Nothing frantic. Nothing crude. Each gesture extended, unhurried, as though time itself had thickened beneath the Blood Moon’s ascent.
Athanasius approached Petyr.
“You will not partake yet,” he said.
The denial struck like a lash.
Petyr’s throat burned.
Instead, Athanasius extended his own wrist.
The cut was shallow, deliberate.
Dark blood welled, gleaming almost black in the candlelight.
“Look,” Athanasius commanded.
Petyr obeyed.
The scent was overwhelming — ancient, layered with centuries of memory and power.
“You are not unworthy because you hunger,” Athanasius said quietly. “You are worthy because you do.”
Demidicus’s hand slid higher along Petyr’s side — not possessive, not gentle — simply present.
Kazimir’s breath stirred the fine hairs at Petyr’s nape.
The coven’s movements intensified in quiet waves around them. A figure arched subtly into another’s embrace as blood was drawn. Fingers tightened along hips. Foreheads pressed together, eyes half-lidded in reverent abandon.
Petyr trembled.
Shame and desire braided together until he could not tell them apart.
“Say it,” Kazimir whispered behind him.
Petyr’s voice faltered.
“Thy will be done.”
Athanasius smiled faintly.
“Not yet,” he said.
And withdrew his wrist.
The refusal nearly undid him.
The priests’ chant rose — low, rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat amplified. The Blood Moon’s red light began to filter through the great rose window, staining the marble floor in shades of wine and ruin.
Petyr felt the first sharp pull at his scalp.
He gasped softly.
Demidicus tilted his chin upward, forcing his face toward the descending crimson light.
“Feel it,” Demidicus breathed.
The hunger no longer merely burned.
It bloomed.
And in the periphery of his vision, he saw strands of gold at his temples darkening — slowly, irrevocably — as the cathedral exhaled around him in one long, collective sigh.
The Mass had only begun.
And Petyr had not yet tasted.
