Together, Ursula and I roamed the bedchambers of the castle, which I had never glimpsed 
or even imagined, and she showed me those rooms in which the members of the Court had 
gathered for dice or chess or to listen to small ensembles of music. Here and there we 
saw evidence of something stolen - a coverlet ripped from a bed and a pillow fallen to 
the floor.
  But obviously the townspeople were more afraid than greedy. They took little from the 
castle.
  And as we continued to prey upon them, artfully defeating them, they began to desert 
Santa Maddalana. Shops lay open when we came into the empty streets at midnight; windows 
were unbolted, cradles empty. The Dominican church had been deconsecrated and abandoned, 
its altar stone removed. The cowardly priests, whom I had not granted the mercy of a 
quick death, had abandoned their flock.
  The game became ever more invigorating to me. For now, those who remained were 
quarrelsome and avaricious and refusing to give up without a fight. It was simple to sort 
the innocent, who believed in the faith of the vigil light or the saints to protect them, 
from those who had played with the Devil and now kept an uneasy watch in the dark with 
sword in hand.
  I liked to talk to them, spar with them verbally, as I killed them. "Did you think your 
game would go on forever? Did you think the thing you fed would never feed on you?"
  As for my Ursula, she had no stomach for such sport. She could not endure the spectacle 
of suffering. The old Communion of Blood in the castle had for her been tolerable only 
because of the music, the incense and the supreme authority of Florian and Godric, who 
had led her in it with every step.
  Night after night, as the town was slowly emptied, as the farms were deserted, as Santa 
Maddalana, my school town, became ever more ruined, Ursula took to playing with orphaned 
children. She sat sometimes on the church steps cradling a human infant and cooing to it, 
and telling it stories in French.
  She sang old songs in Latin from the courts of her time, which had been two hundred 
years ago, she told me, and she talked of battles in France and in Germany whose names 
meant nothing to me.
  "Don't play with the children," I said. "They'll remember it. They'll remember us."
  A fortnight went by before the community was irreparably destroyed. Only the orphans 
remained and a few of the very old, and the Franciscan father, and his father, the elfin 
little man who sat in his lighted room at night, playing a game of cards with himself, as 
if he did not even now guess what was going on.
  On the fifteenth night, it must have been, when we arrived in the town, we knew at once 
that only two persons were left. We could hear the little old man singing to himself in 
the empty Inn with the doors open. He was very drunk, and his wet pink head gleamed in 
the light of the candle. He slapped the cards down on the table in a circle, playing a 
game of solitaire called "clock." The Franciscan priest sat beside him. He looked up at 
us, fearlessly and calmly, as we came into the Inn.
  I was overcome with hunger, ravening hunger, for the blood in them both. "I never told 
you my name, did I?" he asked me. "No, you never did, Father," I said.
  "Joshua," he said. "That's my name, Fra Joshua. All the rest of the community has gone 
back to Assisi, and they took with them the last of the children. It's a long journey 
south."
  "I know, Father," I said. "I've been to Assisi, I've prayed at the shrine of St. 
Francis. Tell me, Father, when you look at me, do you see angels around me?"
  "Why would I see angels?" he asked quietly. He looked from me to Ursula. "I see beauty, 
I see youth fixed in polished ivory. But I don't see angels. I never have."
  "I saw them once," I said. "May I sit down?"
  "Do as you like," he said to me. He watched us, drawing himself up in his hard simple 
wooden chair, as I seated myself opposite him, much as I had been on that day in the 
village, only now we were not in the fragrant arbor under the sun but inside, in the Inn 
itself, where the candlelight gave more volume and more warmth.
  Ursula looked at me in confusion. She didn't know what was in my mind. I had never 
witnessed her speaking to any human being except for me myself and for the children with 
whom she'd played - in other words, only with those for whom her heart had quickened and 
whom she did not mean to destroy.
  What she thought of the little man and his son, the Franciscan priest, I couldn't guess.
  The old man was winning the card game. "There, you see, I told you. Our luck!" he said. 
He gathered up his greasy loose cards to shuffle them and to play again.
  The priest looked at him with glazed eyes, as though he could not gather his own wits 
even to fool or reassure his old father, and then he looked at me.
  "I saw these angels in Florence," I said, "and I disappointed them, broke my vow to 
them, lost my soul." He turned from his father to me sharply.
  "Why do you prolong this?" he asked.
  "I will not hurt you. Neither will my companion," I said. I sighed. It would have been 
that moment in a conversation when I would have reached for the cup or the tankard and 
taken a drink. My hunger hurt me. I wondered if the thirst hurt Ursula. I stared at the 
priest's wine, which was nothing to me now, nothing, and I looked at his face, sweating 
in the light of the candle, and I went on:
  "I want you to know that I saw them, that I talked to them, these angels. They tried to 
help me to destroy those monsters who held sway over this town, and over the souls of 
those here. I want you to know, Father."
  "Why, son, why tell me?"
  "Because they were beautiful, and they were as real as we are, and you have seen us. 
You have seen hellish things; you have seen sloth and treachery, cowardice and deceit. 
You see devils now, vampires. Well, I want you to know that with my own eyes I saw 
angels, true angels, magnificent angels, and that they were more glorious than I can ever 
tell you in words."
  He regarded me thoughtfully for a long time, and then he looked at Ursula, who sat 
troubled and looking up at me, rather afraid that I would unduly suffer, and then he said:
  "Why did you fail them? Why did they come with you in the first place, and if you had 
the aid of angels, why did you fail?"
  I shrugged my shoulders. I smiled. "For love." He didn't answer.
  Ursula leaned her head against my arm. I felt her free hair brushing my back as she let 
me feel her weight.
  "For love!" the priest repeated.
  "Yes, and for honor as well."
  "Honor."
  "No one will ever understand it. God will not accept it, but it's true, and now, what 
is there, Father, that divides us, you and I, and the woman who sits with me? What is 
between us - the two parties - the honest priest and the two demons?"
  The little man chuckled suddenly. He had slapped down a marvelous run of cards. "Look 
at that!" he said. He looked up at me with his clever little eyes. "Oh, your question, 
forgive me. I know the answer."
  "You do?" asked the priest, turning to the little old man. "You know the answer?"
  "Of course, I do," said his father. He dealt out another card. "What separates them now 
from a good Confession is weakness and the fear of Hell if they must give up their