Blood Sins by Kay Hooper

The money that had seemed a fortune didn't last very long, even though he was careful, but he was able to pick up a day's work here or there by skillfully convincing this shopkeeper or that farmer that his mother was sick, the baby needed diapers, and his father had disappeared on them.
    He developed a sure eye and ear for the more gullible or, some would say, more compassionate souls he encountered. And he managed to get what he needed, what was necessary for life--even if that life was hardscrabble and lonely.
    He wandered. He managed, somehow, to mostly stay out of trouble so that the law was never interested in him. It was a matter of self-preservation; he knew records existed of petty thievery charges incurred while he was still with his mother, and despite the lack of convictions (because they'd always skipped town), he knew those charges would surface if he were to be picked up.
    So he was careful. Very careful. Not that he never committed an illegal act, but he took pains to make sure to not get caught.
    Samuel shifted uneasily in his chair, disturbed as always by the unpleasant memories. Because there had been times, when decent work was impossible to come by and thievery untenable, that he had resorted to using the only commodity he knew he could sell. His body.
    Soul-shriveling, those times.
    And maybe that was why he had so often paused during his wanderings at this or that church. Sometimes they offered a meal and a cot, but even if they didn't, they were at least warm and dry inside. He would find a dim corner and settle there, sometimes dozing and sometimes listening if there was an especially passionate preacher delivering an interesting sermon.
    Somewhere along the way, he was given a Bible, and though his first inclination was to sell it, he tucked it inside the increasingly worn duffel bag instead. He had taught himself to read, and eventually he began to read the Bible.
    There was a lot he thought was good.
    There was a lot he didn't understand.
    But, somehow, it spoke to him, that book. He read it and reread it. He spent hours and hours thinking about it. And he began to spend more time in churches of all denominations, listening to sermons. Watching how the congregation did--or did not--respond. Making mental note of what obviously worked and what failed to move people.
    Within a few years, he was preaching himself, in small churches and on street corners and in bus stations.
    He found God.
    Or, more accurately, God found him. On a scorching hot July day when he was thirteen years old, God reached down and touched him.
    And his whole life changed.
    H e was very good at eluding electronic security. Any kind of security, really, but especially the electronic kind. He called it his own personal stealth technology, and as far as he knew it was unique to him.
    Part of what made him special.
    Getting past the fence and into the Compound would be easy. They did not, after all, want to look like they were an armed camp bristling with weaponry or technology. They did not want to appear threatening or even especially unwelcoming. The surface had to be peaceful and calm.
    Simple folk, that's what they were supposed to be.
    What most of them were, probably.
    At any rate, they didn't electrify the pretty wrought-iron and brick fence, they merely set up an electronic detection zone just inside it, so they knew who was coming into the Compound. Usually.
    He made certain he was far enough away from the gatehouse that no guard with infrared binoculars might be able to pick up what the security cameras would never see, but otherwise he didn't worry about being detected. It was late, and he was reasonably sure that most of them were tucked safe and sound in their beds.
    It helped that there were no longer any dogs acting as alert and faithful guards in the night. He wondered if they had thought of that. If they might have regretted that. If they had even guessed it might happen.
    Ah, well. Hardly his fault if they were