"We are a religious organization dedicated to the preservation and salvation of the human race," says Orry Dawson, and what he means is, "Yes. We hate vampires and have built a religion on it." But what Jason hears is, "Love which contains everything can include hate, but we hate only the sin, not the blighted sinner." And well, that's fine, because it quiets the demons buzzing in his ear, telling his heart that the sun is like anything else: beautiful and terrible, destructive and wonderful, depending on what story you're telling yourself. "Oh, good. Because I thought you just hated vampires. And I used to, but then I got to know one? And he was a pretty decent guy. Until I got him killed."

Orry sighs, almost sadly: "See, that's where you're wrong. What you did, it was a service to your race and to Jesus. And you should be proud of that." Orry weeps for the poor benighted fellow, but understands how Jason can love him and still have killed him. He can see it in Jason's eyes: that guilt, that love. But after all, that's what the Fellowship is about. Love or hate or fear or lust, the sun comes around like clockwork. Jason rolls his eyes at him, but Orry presses the advantage; defines predator for him once again: "Last year there were over 800 reported vampire-related attacks, in Louisiana alone." Murders are -- follow me -- committed by murderers. Whatever else the fangbanger strangler is doing, he's definitely committing vampire-related attacks.

Murderers have something wrong inside them, something that takes them out of the running for redemption. And sometimes when a murderer confesses, the whole world rises up, to tempt him away from the truth and the bravery of his confession, to bring him down out of the light and into darkness once again. Jason knows what a predator is, because he is one, now; Jason knows how horrible it is, when their evil deeds go unpunished, especially by the good-hearted and well-intentioned, by the little sisters and the fangbangers of the world, who can't be expected to understand right and wrong any more than a beast that runs in the night. Hard to find a girl who ain't been bit these days. Once there was a little boy.