Battle was joined with a slew of insults from Judith who reared back, taking another quarrel to the arm. Her sword arm, for their misfortune, had not been hit. She threw it with such force that the man who’d shot the fateful bolt was cast from atop the barricade, a red trail following in his wake. His fellow, who’d been passing a replacement crossbow upward, leapt into his spot and fired another round. Judith was already gone, having slipped out of the fragile pool of light their torch afforded them.

She allowed them to languish in fear for a few moments as she repositioned. Their instincts were good as they dropped their crossbows, retrieving their swords from the barricade. Drawing a weapon took fatal time against them. Their caution was well rewarded as Judith leapt from the bushes. Her clawed fingers scraped across a man’s armour while his blade came up to meet her. It sheared along her mail, sliding between her torso and arm. It was there she trapped it, snapping forth her hand in an instant to jam her clawed thumb into the unfortunate man’s eye. He wailed for but a moment before the swift assassin did her work well, shearing his throat with her fangs.

“Disgusting, but serviceable. Tastes like the oil,” Judith growled, spitting a gob of blood from her lips as she pilfered the man’s sword for her own use. It became obvious to whom she spoke as Sybil completed her end of the assault. The luckiest of the three sat with his standards shorn, used to gag and blindfold him. His hands had been bound with the belt his scabbard hung from. “It would be more efficient simply to kill them. Kinder too, given Myfanwy,” the warlike woman commented as Sybil removed the man’s sword and quarrels. She loaded a crossbow expertly, aiming down its sights with a practiced air. Confirming her preference, she drew another crossbow over her shoulder.

“Then his life will be on her conscience, not mine,” Sybil replied tartly, watching the perplexed man at arm’s jittering as he attempted to struggle against his bonds. The blonde gave him a playful kick in the ribs. Though the way he groaned brought concern to her face.

Judith rolled her eyes, looking toward each direction of the intersection. Randolf lacked the men to waste. She doubted he would have covered both routes. With a defeated sigh, she pointed her earnest arbalist toward the path lit by candelabras. She could smell them down the hall. Reeking of sweat, armour and fear. Sybil cocked her head, barely perceiving their heartbeats in the eerie silence of the hall before them. A straight firing line they’d be fools to walk into. So naturally, her lover did precisely that. Using the statues and alcoves as ephemeral cover, she began the slow and arduous task of advancing on the barricade visible at the far end of the dormitory wing. Wisely perhaps her father her congregated the nuns into one room. It was liable to be a tight arena.

A quarrel sailed past Judith. It came from behind her, attracting a furiously questioning stare. Sybil indicated from her cover toward the fallen candelabra before the barricade, its candles extinguished. Unslinging her second crossbow, she flung the first and its quiver to her dark-haired knightess before loosing another quarrel. Her preternatural eyes, steady hands and windless conditions made each bolt bounce with a clang like a blacksmith’s hammer off each light source. Desperately, the soldiers of the barricade returned fire thinking themselves the targets. In their exchange, all but the lights behind their fortification fell to darkness. At least, darkness for humans. As Judith pelted the last light available to them, she flung the crossbow back with a licentious grin. But the soldiers were not fools and recognized the signs of tactics. Rather than play their antagonists’ games, the doors to the dormitories opened and they scuttled within.

With twelve men, armed and armoured along with whatever frantic nonsense the nuns were considering, Judith disliked her odds. All it would take was one wayward blow or the attrition of a hundred to lay her low. And after that Sybil would fall. She considered her options for a moment only to curse her luck as her lover began walking toward the doors with a determined stare.

Sybil was sure of it now. Without any excuse, she would have her father’s answer. Whether he valued her or the almighty. Her sins or his edicts. Only one would survive the night. There was no cause to drag it out until dawn’s rise or Myfanwy’s fury. Whichever arrived first. Judith attempted to do the sane tactical decision. To retreat or find some manner of hewing down their numbers without putting their own at risk. Sybil had already considered such notions. A fire would place too great a risk to her father. Granted, a mound of smouldering skeletons appeased the horned woman’s ends. Perhaps it would work as sufficient leverage, she thought.

Rapid footsteps sounded behind them, drawing them both from the argument they’d been whispering in the dark. Both pairs of eyes turned with hunger and curiosity toward the heavily panting nun that rounded the corner. She leant against the wall, hands on her knees as she attempted to speak. Under the moonlight, both creatures of the night saw the unmistakable freckles and frizz of their human friend.

“Myfanwy bade I bear a message,” Rebecca panted, straightening up after a few moments. She kept a respectable distance, for all the difference it would make. Judith had seen Sybil clear such distances in moments the last night at the cottage.  “She asks that Sybil set aside her humanity for one bloody night. She grows restless,” the woman pointlessly relayed, attracting a smug grin from Judith who teased her lover for her bleeding heart. Sybil however appeared lost in thought, eyes fixed upon the white underside of Rebecca’s habit. She beckoned to the other woman, unaware that she was inviting her from the moonlight into the darkness only they could see by.

The freckled woman demurred, eyes flicking to Judith for reassurance. Comfort that never came as the dark-haired woman wracked her brain for memories of where the windows sat in the dormitories. Sybil had always wrangled so earnestly for her private rooms, dragging her lover along with her. She glowed with satisfaction as she recounted yet another instance of Margaret’s hypocrisy. Bereft of that insincerity, she imagined the whole convent would collapse under its weight alone.

“Come to me, Rebecca,” Sybil ordered with such authority that Judith had to refocus her attentions. She hadn’t imagined her little nun capable of that tone. It retained the playfulness with which she always spoke yet carried a coldness to it. Coldness that sent an involuntary shiver through her. “I could have done you harm in the cell, why would I do so now?” the blonde appended, causing the freckled woman to inch her way toward the outstretched hand. Once she was within range, Sybil nodded approvingly and moved to undo all belts that their vanquished enemies held. Quite convinced their soft-hearted sister had gone insane, the two watched as she made rope by buckling the belts together. She looped the final one about its fellow and held the ends open, removing Rebecca’s habit with sure hands. Only when the buckle slid into place around her neck did the woman realise what she had made herself party to.

It was only a few minutes later that Rebecca was compelled to wave her habit through a crack in the door as an impromptu flag of truce. She called to the occupants, ensuring that if she were to die it would be as a woman of the cloth. A death the abbess would find harder to smooth over. And the pair of them would find no shortage of sharp implements to open a vein over her mouth with. Judith leant upon the door with an irritated expression, done with this farce. Sybil crouched with her hand on the unusual rope, ready to pull the bound nun toward them should she become a hedgehog.

“Your men didn’t wish to discuss terms. Two are now dead, the third taken captive,” Rebecca began once the hail of bolts never came. As she spoke, she held out her thumb to confirm the presence of Sybil’s father. Then, one by one, her other fingers confirmed the abbess, Lora and Sheriff Gustav. The blonde woman thought herself quite clever as their signals could not be seen behind Rebecca’s back. “Sybil and Judith would like to ensure that this is your stance across the board. I need make no case as to their unearthly prowess or the terror they will bring upon you. You have seen it. They ask that this abbey be abandoned, left to rot. They ask clemency for Judith. They ask freedom to leave this place and never return. Grant these things and they shall let all who draw breath here, including me, go free,” the freckled woman reported in an even voice despite her fear. A talent that had been hers her whole life. A life spent looking over her shoulder. She abided while the offer was discussed amongst the triumvirate, the voices of the abbess and sheriff carrying far due to their raised tenor. Sybil paid close attention, watching as Judith arrayed her swords across her hips. She supposed in her hands the blades were liable to break far more easily. Once a longsword sat braced in her hand, she seemed at peace with the slaughter to come. The abbess and sheriff, for their own reasons, refused to surrender the abbey. The sheriff wished to see Judith punished, that the shire’s faith in him be restored. The abbess worried after relocation, the impact it would have on keeping food in the bellies of the faithful. Sybil doubted that to be her primary concern. Her father though remained curiously silent while his fellows rejected the terms. There was a thud as his sword hit wood, likely the bench he sat on. So, he was to deliver the bad news Sybil thought with a stab of melancholy. As her grandfather had said, first the man takes the cloth then the cloth takes the man. It would corrupt them all in the end.

“My daughter has committed her sins. As ever, I must bear their consequences,” Randolf lamented in his sonorous voice. Judith hissed with ire, leather gloves creaking on the hilt of her sword. “Though the faithful need not die to achieve her desires. I would ask that they depart ‘ere the unpleasantness begins,” he requested, sword rasping free of its scabbard. An heirloom, her ancestor had named the great blade Bearpaw. It was as tall as her brother when he was a man grown.

Rebecca looked back to Sybil, who raised an eyebrow to Judith. The dark-haired woman looked sorely tempted to visit her fury upon each and every one of the faithful that had wronged her. Yet as she prepared her answer, she noticed a change come over her love. The coldness that she’d spied after savaging Elizabeth had returned. Sighing, she fought against her desires. Though she allowed herself a moment to ponder how long she would be fighting for the soul of her beloved. With a word from Sybil, Rebecca allowed the convent its freedom. She left them to ruminate on their decision, returning to her mistresses. Sybil removed the collar with a disinterested expression, directing her to tell Myfanwy their goal had been achieved. But for sixteen rebellious souls.

Over the following hour, all the nuns of the abbey made their way from their hiding places and fortifications. The lovers languished in their tower, awaiting the moment when they might conclude this sordid tale. Their antagonists could attempt escape if they wished. But they knew as well as the creatures they hunted that the grim harvest Judith had reaped would only grow in number if they did so. They sat upon Sybil’s bed with the blonde woman embraced by her lover. Not even Rebecca had dared to be present for what was to come.

“It seems we are now orphans. Fear not, I shall dispatch them. You merely have to close those beautiful eyes and imagine our chambers in Francia,” Judith soothed, running her fingers through her star’s tresses. She hadn’t said anything in that elongated respite, locked within her own thoughts. Her fingers snaked up to clutch Judith’s, laying a kiss on the back of her hand. “If your heart still weighs heavy with what must be done, remind yourself that this is their doing. That we are not safe so long as they draw breath,” she encouraged, hoping to draw that guilt she knew Sybil felt as poison from a wound. Rather than show some sign that she was bolstered, the devout woman began to change into her day clothes. It wasn’t until the habit was in place that Judith deigned to ask what had caused such strange antics.

“When those who deserve to die do so, they will see themselves as we have,” Sybil spoke dispassionately, bringing a trickle of fear to her beloved’s breast. “But there can be no justice without mercy. You will still spare my father,” the noblewoman ordered over her shoulder, investing her voice with all the authority of her station. The daughter of an alderman was no trifling hedge lord. Judith, ever rebellious in the face of authority, began to utter her objections only for Sybil to round on her with the controlled fury of a lioness. She could see why her father held that monicker. “Lean not on your own understanding but once, Judith and trust that your Polaris will guide you. I know what must be done,” the blue-eyed woman purred, fingers dancing along her knightess’ chin. The moonlight struck her almost perfectly, illuminating her beauty and fanged smile both. Her paramour was almost rendered mute by the sight as maiden and murderess occupied that singular space. Her Sybil with the furies standing behind her. She smiled up at this vision of loveliness like a lovestruck schoolgirl, rearing up to kiss her with a gentle satisfaction.

The two of them resumed their embrace, Sybil with her head on Judith’s chest. She could hear the heartbeat of a well-fed monster. Her monster. The one who’d saved her and stayed her fury for her benefit. For nothing more than her reservations. And protected her, even now. Sybil would be her protector just this once. She would be as savage and cruel as necessary. She would rampage and hew the world for her. But she needn’t burn herself on the pyre to do so.

At the appointed hour, appropriately enough midnight, the bells that normally called the faithful to prayer called the bloodthirsty to battle. Sybil walked toward the refectory with her hand in Judith’s, a sword prepared for its deadly task. No doubt her father had conferred with his men, arrayed them to protect those civilians that yet remained. The abbess and Lora had refused their clemency, the former insisting that she see them fall. Lora, frail as she was, knew her duty well and would do it unto death it seemed. As the doors opened before them, the two women prepared for the worst.

The refectory, once a place of carefree chatter and laughter, had fallen to eerie silence. Its tables had been pushed aside, creating a grand arena in which their contest was to be had. The moon offered mankind some mercy that night as its light shone intensely enough that even they could see by it. The saints in the stained glass were cast into eerie pallid versions of themselves, all colour siphoned from them. Their quarry sat at the high table, while their underlings formed an advanced guard before it. Randolf sat with his sword before him, its weight creating it as a hammer for lesser men. But Sybil’s father was a strong man even at his age, able to wield it as if it were just another iron bar. The sheriff had also drawn his sword and, as they entered, began his long saunter to reinforce the alderman’s men. The abbess had affixed the blood drinkers with such hate and fury that her stare threatened to become sunlight to them.

Lora, for her part, looked dejected. A look of such utter defeat had overcome the old woman that she could do naught but clutch her crucifix and pray. Though for whose salvation, none in that room knew.

“Although I regret it has come to this, I do not regret my duty to my Queen and Christendom,” Randolf began, standing as he drew his mighty blade from the table and onto his shoulder. Even Judith took a moment to reconsider her options as he approached, casting a shadow long enough to fall over the pair. “For the sake of my daughter’s fragile heart and preventing further bloodshed, I challenge you, Judith Bourdais,” the great beast of a man growled, taking a glove from his belt and casting it before the Francian.

At once, Gustav and the abbess rebelled at this very notion. They had the numbers whilst the creatures had their unnatural power. A fruitless display of honour that yielded nothing even in victory. Judith looked to Sybil with conflicted eyes, hand stretched forth imploringly. The nun drew her veil from her face solely so Judith could see. She was smiling. And that was enough.

“Well, I shan’t have it said that I am a craven,” the knightess laughed cruelly, taking up the glove and slipping it through her belt. She drew a second sword into her free hand, knowing well that trying to block a blade such as his would only shatter her arm. As well as quite a few things besides. “What shall it be then? To the death?” she teased, advancing upon the hulking man. Sybil nibbled at her fingers, praying that her gambit would reap dividends. Because if any man were capable of felling her love, it would be her father.

“To the death,” Randolf agreed to the flashing of steel behind him. Gustav gave a yell, scurrying from her father’s men as they drew their swords. Several did not respond, fleeing from their fellows toward Lora who even now prayed with instinctive fervour. Judith’s smile broadened to vicious as she directed the burly man to protect his daughter. One of the reticent household guards found his arm spurting blood suddenly, a quarrel emerging from it.

“You have made your decision, now perish for it!” Sybil shouted, working the crow’s foot and loading another bolt. Realising that sides were to be taken, the household guard split into three factions then and there. Four remained loyal, chasing the sheriff as he desperately defended the abbess from their advances. Four screeched heretics, treachery and ran toward her father and Judith. The remaining four, perhaps the wisest, rammed their swords into the table and held their hands aloft. If Sybil wished to shoot them, they would not die as traitors. The woman herself sent another quarrel toward the sheriff, who had taken cover in the kitchens. The guard would have to keep him there, she thought as she redirected her aim toward the traitors.

Recognizing a vulnerability in the forces of the dark, one brave man charged Sybil. He took a quarrel with a grunt yet continued his charge with zealotry in his eyes. With a dismayed whimper, the nun cast her crossbow aside and met his blade with her own. His confident smirk spoke to his arrogance as he hammered against her, convinced his strength would win the day. He remained convinced until Sybil locked his blade and jammed her clawed fingers into his throat. With a spurt of blood and the crack of cartilage, his remains fell gargling to the ground. Sybil looked to her shaking hand, drawing a shuddering breath to compose herself.

Judith was impressed by her beloved’s father. The man had a terrifying aptness for violence which he demonstrated with gusto. One man thought to end it with an overly ambitious thrust to his throat. Wrapping his hand about his sword blade, Randolf redirected the sword to his hilt before carrying the momentum. The blade’s tip embedded itself in the man’s eye, used as a grim lever to toss him into the waiting blades of Judith. She wasted no time in shearing open his torso with two savage strokes from her swords. Her father nodded approvingly as the betrayers felt their mortality for perhaps the first time.

Randolf did not give them the option of regret as he brought his sword clanging to bear against the larger of the two men. The household guard was forced to half-sword his own blade to bear the weight, slowing Bearpaw enough to not lose his fingers. Rather than lock blades dramatically, Sybil’s father gave the man a mighty kick between his legs. Admirably he stayed on his feet, squinting with the agony he was in. The momentary distraction was fatal. Without missing a moment, the bearded bear broke the other man’s jaw with a punch. His sword went clattering to the ground before the mighty blade of his enemy hewed head from neck.

His comrade had less luck, facing a creature both stronger and faster than any man. He held his own, leveraging experience to disarm Judith, sending one of her blades across the floor. Her other became occupied staving off his assault, fangs bared in frustration. It wasn’t until the man dared to give a victorious grin that the woman before him snapped, raking her sparking claws across his helmet. His lips came away bloodied, a hand coming to his face. Judith spied an opening, jamming her claws into his neck. Rather than go quietly to the grave, as such an injury would eventually take him, he coughed blood in Judith’s face defiantly before punching her in the gut.

She retched, finding a sword jutting from the torn rings of her mail. With a death rattle, one final exertion, the soldier collapsed.

“Come away from her!” Sybil bellowed to her father who’d raced over to aid the ailing woman. His eyes widened before jumping clear of the snapping jaws that almost found his throat. “Drink from the dying!” she directed her impaled lover, whose momentary savagery seemed to fade as she struggled to remove the sword in her breast. Sybil raced over, worry building in her eyes as she dragged the gurgling body of Judith’s freshest kill to her lips. Then, with a truly sickened look on her features, she braced her boot against the feeding form of her lover.

A screech of pain tearing itself from her lips, Judith felt the sword tip dislodged from her ribcage. The blood that emerged as a stream set Sybil’s worry to sonorous new heights as she howled in frustration. She demanded that the abbess drown just as Judith was, scurrying to retrieve more blood for her partner. The wound was too great, it had to be. In her foolish gambit she’d lost her love.

“Attend to those that remain. I shall help her endure,” Lora’s voice commanded from behind her. Sybil turned her stricken eyes upon a resolute prioress. There was a steel in her voice that she’d never heard before. Her perplexed expression received no answer as the elderly woman hauled her to her feet, pointing to the kitchens. “Quickly now!”

The blonde woman sank once more to her knees, parting her lover’s hair with a gentle hand.

“I beg you to wage some small measure of control. Do not hurt them. If you need blood, drain the cowards,” the blonde woman shot over her shoulder toward those who’d surrendered. Her father looked toward them with executioner’s eyes. Sybil would advocate for them. If Judith lived. Then she was gone, leaping from the ground toward the kitchens. Her father moved to give chase, only to receive bared fangs and reddened eyes in return. He nodded, understanding all too well in that moment what drove his daughter.

As Sybil came upon the kitchens she saw the household guard bleeding, dying or worse. One man clutched a protruding fracture. He had a soldier’s heart however and pointed with shaking fingers to the porter’s entrance. How ironic, Sybil thought, that the cow hearts came in and the cow-hearted left. She nodded toward the man, calling for her father. He could tend the morsels. She wanted the meal.