Wolves against the World

Prologue

The priest held the host out in front of him. A new song began playing behind him, notes that echoed between the walls of the small chapel, amplified beyond their worldly force. The air was almost suffocating in the scents of herbs and smoke. The priest's dark eyes wandered over the gathering. Heads lowered in prayer, pew by pew, old and young. Barely anyone missed the mass these days. Just like he wanted it.

"Oh, God's lamb that-"

Something flashed up between those bowed heads. The priest hesitated, unsure if he might have imagined it. Seconds passed. No, he hadn't. Two blue dots, like electric fire, just there in the second row on the left. He let out a low growl.

The first churchgoer moved. Someone whispered. They knew that something was wrong.

The organ shrieked like all demons from hell had decided to flood into the tiny church. The gathering flinched like a single man, many clapping their hands over their ears. Nobody paid attention to the priest, or the man in the second row.
The priest bared his teeth and growled sharply. The host splintered in his fingers.

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

"Sorry," came a meek voice behind the tall wooden statues that lined the altar. "The keys got stuck."

"It's alright, son," the priest said calmly. He picked up another host and watched his community. The glowing eyes were gone.

"God's lamb that you vanquish the world's sins, have mercy on us, give us peace and your blessing."

"Give us peace and your blessing," the church repeated.

The priest smiled. "I'm sorry we cannot physically share our Lord Christ's blood today. But seeing the current wave of illnesses this winter I cannot condone willingly endangering anyone. But God loves us and will understand our care." He lifted the chalice. It was heavy with the red fluid inside. "Christ's blood, spilled for you."

"Amen", the gathering muttered.

He drank. It was cold and tasted faint, but nonetheless he had to fight the desire to empty the chalice in one big gulp. The wolf deep inside of him howled in outrage when the priest set down the chalice again. He licked the red fluid from the corners of his mouth, reveling in the faint remnants of taste.

"My friends, come forth."

So they came, one by one. Young Sabrina with her two children, who had lost their father in a tragic accident, old Lady Andersson, the mayor, and all other villagers. Their organist, a slim lad of maybe 20 years, and the church's caretaker and guardian, a tall man with long fiery hair and an unusually handsome face. All received a host, a smile, and a warm-hearted blessing.
The last churchgoer was different. He was in his fifties, lean and fit with brown skin and striking blue eyes. His long hair was tamed in a loose ponytail, accented with a single white strand at the front. Nobody would have called him ugly, certainly, had it not been for the scars streaking the left side of his face.
He stared into the priest's eyes with a gaze so piercing it seemed to penetrate his very brain, eyebrows drawn tightly together.

"The Lord blesses you, my friend.," the priest said in a quiet, warning voice.

The man kept staring at him, not yet ready to give up. The priest licked his lips and bared his teeth, just for a second. The man hesitated. He knew when he was going too far.

The priest lifted an eyebrow.

The man looked away and lowered his head. "Amen," he muttered. He ate his host fast and returned to his seat, quietly seething.