They have returned me evil for good to the ruining of my soul.

Psalm 35:12

Chapter One

But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion.

Luke 10:33

Silas felt the bullets rip through his skin and flesh, and the pain enraged him. He could actually see the red wash over his vision, as it had so many times before. His only instinct was to lash out and inflict damage before it was inflicted on him but this time, it was already too late. He was badly hurt.

Wildly, his eyes sought those of Bishop Aringarosa but the Bishop's eyes were already glazed in death as he lay on the cold cobbles. There would be no further help or guidance there. For a second, Silas felt at sea without his old mentor to direct him. He could hear the steps of more police arriving at a run.

He only had one option. He had to run too.

An odd guttural sound erupted from his mouth as he swung away from the scene. Even in his torment, he recognized the resonance of his own grief.

Silas didn't know where he was going. He was just trying to get away. The streets were narrow and dim, and wound torturously through old, multi-storied housing. The sound of his gasping breath seemed to echo off the walls as if to mock him. He could hear footsteps chasing him. They weren't far away. Occasionally a shot was fired but the winding streets made it impossible for the police to aim accurately.

Finally, Silas ducked into an open door and closed it behind him. He heard the footsteps run past. He knew he didn't have much time to double back before they realized they had missed him and returned the way they came. Dimly he realized he was in someone's downstairs laundry but he was out of the door quickly and running in the direction he had come only seconds before.

He could feel himself weakening. The bullet wounds were excruciating and he still had his cilice on which was digging further into the flesh of his leg the further he ran. He knew he had lost a lot of blood and could feel himself getting dangerously light-headed.

His feet pounded on the cobbles until he had run up and down enough cobbled streets to feel he was somewhat safe. He knew that once the police started making a concerted search however, it would not take long for them to find him. He needed a place to hide. He needed sanctuary.

As he staggered down a particularly narrow street, he rounded a curve and found himself close to a tiny grassed area with a grotto. He knew immediately that it had to be the back courtyard of a Catholic Church. They often had grottos dedicated to the Virgin.

If he could only get inside the church, he was sure they would shelter him. He was a monk after all. He only made it within a few steps of the grotto before everything went dark and the earth tilted away from his feet.

Sennett liked to go to the Cathedral to pray but rarely did so. Although the silence and peace was a good thing, sometimes it was almost too much. More often than not, she preferred to be busy. If she stayed quiet too long, she was prone to melancholy and Sennett didn't care much for it.

It was even rarer that she visited the grotto. She knew it was there but she had never been one who practiced a great deal of devotion to Mary. She knew Mary was Christ's mother and deserved respect, she believed that great Saints like Bernadette of Lourdes had seen and spoken to her but Sennett was never one for Marian devotion. She preferred to go direct to the source, to God Himself.

Still, the grotto was a peaceful spot in an over-crowded city. London was not a city that Sennett enjoyed. A native of the French countryside, she found it dirty and teeming with humanity. There was work for her in London that was not available in France, however.

When Sennett saw the brown bundle on the grass, she thought it was a heap of old clothes. On closer inspection, she decided it was a homeless person. That was before she saw the blood.

She knelt down on the cold grass and gingerly bent closer to check his pulse. It was obvious from the person's sheer bulk that it was a man, brown dress or not. As she put her fingers on his neck, she saw the cord around his waist that could only mean a monk. There was definitely a pulse but it was obvious he was badly wounded too. She was just about get up to call an ambulance when the monk regained consciousness.

She was immediately arrested by his eyes. They were so pale, they were almost colourless. It was uncanny and made her shiver. Then she noticed the white hair under the hood that was coming away from his head. Another look at the pale skin of his face confirmed it.

"An albino monk in a church grotto isn't at all likely," she muttered to herself, "Much less a bleeding one."

The monk immediately tried to sit up, his white skin stretching tight across his prominent cheekbones as the pain from his wounds made itself felt.

"You need an ambulance," Sennett said matter-of-factly, starting to get up.

An immensely strong hand gripped her arm tightly.

"No! No ambulance," a deep, hoarse voice said from the depths of his cowl.

"You can't stay here," Sennett said with concern, "You'll bleed to death."

"I'm not afraid of dying," the hoarse voice said with a strange inflection that sounded almost wistful.

"Well, you're not dying while I'm around," Sennett said with a calm sort of bossiness, "I have a doctor and nurse as neighbours - one of the benefits of living in a wealthy suburb like Kensington," she said wryly, "You had better come with me. Do you think you can get up?"

Sennett stood up and Silas gripped her arm, leaning heavily against her as he got to his feet.

"My flat is only a block from here. If you lean on me, we might be able to get you there," she said.

Sennett took hold of the monk's arm and gently led him and he shuffled along the cobbles, often swaying alarmingly and seeming about to over-balance. Fortunately for both of them, Sennett's flat was on ground level.

She helped him lie on the couch and then said, "I'm going to fetch the doctor - won't be a moment."

Silas lay on the couch, barely aware of where he was. All he knew was that he had thrown off the police for now and wasn't a patient in a hospital where he would be easy for the authorities to find.

How many men had he killed today? In the last 24 hours? His pale brows furrowed. He couldn't remember. There were too many. It would take many days of fasting and penance, and a good confession to atone for his many recent sins of murder. As he worried over this thought, he drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Diggory, would you and your wife be able to come and see to a man who has been shot? I found him bleeding and unconscious near the church grotto and managed to bring him back to my flat. He seems to be afraid of hospitals," Sennett explained.

"A common phobia," the middle-aged doctor said wryly. "I'll need your help, Sophie," he called to his wife who was a nurse as he picked up his doctor's bag that he kept near the door.

"Look after the others, Susie," Sophie called out to her eldest child who was in her mid-teens as they left.

Once inside Sennett's flat, the doctor frowned when he saw the blood and carefully cut away the monk's robes to show three bullet wounds. One went cleanly through the shoulder, one through the ribs just under the skin, and one through the skin and muscle of his left arm.

"He's lucky," the doctor said matter-of-factly. "The bullets all came out cleanly and none touched his major organs or bones. I'll sterilize these wounds and give him some antibiotics. In a few days, I can sew them up. As long as he rests and doesn't move around too much, he should be perfectly fine in a few weeks. However, he has lost a lot of blood."

Silas was staring blankly at the doctor out of his strange eyes as he worked, still only half conscious.

"Do you know your blood type?" the doctor asked him.

Silas frowned and then said, "A positive," in little more than a whisper, his voice gravelly.

"Good, you're a match for me. I can give you a couple of pints. That was my only real worry," the doctor said.

"I'm A positive too," Sennett said, "I give blood regularly."

"How long since your last donation?" the doctor asked, carefully swabbing Silas' shoulder wound.

"About four or five months," Sennett said, frowning as she ticked off the months.

"That's fine. You're okay to donate again. Sophie, can you take two pints from Sennett please while I finish this and then you can take another two from me," the doctor asked his wife.

Sophie was already taking the equipment from the doctor's bag. Soon Sennett was set up in the armchair with a needle in one arm.

Less than an hour later, the blood transfusions were going into Silas' arm and he began to look less bluey grey and more like his usual white.

The doctor gave Sennett a bottle of pain killers for Silas and said either he or Sophie would be back the next day to change the dressings. He had given Silas a powerful shot of morphine and the large monk was sleeping soundly.

"He'll be out until morning," the doctor assured Sennett on his way out. He gave Sennett an anxious look on the doorstep. "You don't know anything about him, so take care Sennett," he said. "Any problems, you know where we are."

"He's a monk, how dangerous can he be?" Sennett said with a shrug and a smile.

"Someone wanted him dead," the doctor said warningly, "Wanted him dead quite badly from the look of it. Why was that, do you think?" he added with a quizzical look.

Sennett was silent for a moment. "I don't know," she said finally, her voice subdued.

"Strange looking man," the doctor mused. "Real albinos are quite rare – and a monk into the bargain. It's not very likely, is it?" he added, echoing Sennett's own words.

"Not likely at all," Sennett agreed and with profuse thanks, said good-bye to her neighbours.