I've been absent because my idiot housemate got our internet cut off early. Still, I'm back now. There's actually a prequel to this, which I will... actually, you know what, I'll put that up too.

Obviously I own none of the characters, settings or events that appear in the show.

It only took three days after the Sethius incident for Vlad to give up on watching Bertrand's every move. Bertrand suspected that might have more to do with his inability to stay awake any longer than with any kind of trust in him, but that didn't matter. The important thing was that he finally had the opportunity to sneak off unobserved, the rest of the household being busy with their own affairs.

He settled himself in the darkest corner of the IT lab and booted up a computer, immediately rendering it the brightest corner of the IT lab. That couldn't be helped. He logged on as soon as the machine was ready, and booted up his email account.

You have 2 unread message(s).

He clicked on the first one automatically, barely glancing at the sender's name.

Dear Bertrand,
I'm afraid Mr Grant has been taken ill and will not be back in school until Thursday at the very earliest. I am aware that this is short notice, but I wondered if you'd be amenable to taking over his classes until his return?
Sincerely,
Alex McCauley
Headteacher, Garside Grange

He scowled at that, but it would be good to get out of the Dracula quarters for a while. The atmosphere there was a little strained at present. He tapped out a reply in the affirmative and clicked 'next message'.

B,
Sounds like a party! I'll be there, just grabbing my cape now. Impressive if you can pull this off.
D

A shockwave ran through the vampire's body. He'd sent a quick message to a few trusted – or mostly trusted – associates of his before going after the book, but it seemed that he'd missed Don's reply. Sending a reply to every invitation – whether to a feast or a fight - was a habit that the other vampire had never shaken, and now this email seemed to be here just to taunt Bertrand in his low moments.

"Don! What are you doing here? You'll give us away!" The other vampire grinned at him out of the doorway.
"Well, I had to confirm for the big escape and the post's too slow. Yes, I'll be coming with you. Meeting at the docks tomorrow night, right?" Bertrand just glared at him.
"You couldn't have just turned up, like everyone else?" Don didn't get a chance to answer as a crowd rounded the corner, flaming torches held high above their heads. Bertrand shouted a warning into their hiding place, then pushed Don forward and broke into a run, every vampire for himself. When he finally stopped, he found his associate still hot on his heels.
"So... I guess the plans are moving forward a bit, then?"

Bertrand closed the email. Don wouldn't be replying to any more invitations; nor would Bertrand be sending them to him. Don was dust, had probably already been swept outside by that Transylvanian cleaner. He pulled up his contact list.

Are you sure you want to delete 'Don Huthwaite' from your address book?

He hesitated for a moment, then cursed himself for his sentimentality and clicked 'Yes'.

'Don Huthwaite' is no longer a contact.

He clicked on 'Inbox' and scrolled down.

B,
I heard the Chosen One was in England somewhere. You're usually the one to ask about Chosen One rumours; any leads? I'd love to meet him. Anyway, I'm in the UK myself so if you do find yourself heading this way, we should meet up for a drink. It's been too long.
F

That was typical of Francis; he was always the last to know everything. That message had come through approximately two weeks before Bertrand had turned traitor, and had been the first contact between the two in about five years. It had been a lucky chance, them meeting up then; if they hadn't, they never would have exchanged email addresses. Well, perhaps it hadn't been lucky for Francis. The first time they met, though – that had been fortunate for the other vampire.

"We're vampires, surely we can do what we like." Francis had been young, and foolish, and newly turned, standing in the middle of Alexanderplatz boasting about his supernatural status at the top of his voice in the middle of the night. Bertrand had been urging caution and it had backfired on him spectacularly; nothing brought the Nazi authorities out faster than a mention of the supernatural.

Bertrand had heard the same stories every other vampire in Europe had; vampires captured and taken off for secret testing. The army was trying to make a supersoldier, and they thought vampire biology might hold the key. The fools hadn't thought of simply trying to recruit them to their cause, although he wasn't sure how much success they'd have had with that strategy anyway. At any rate, that was the fate they faced now if they were taken.

"Act drunk," he hissed under his breath, "and leave the talking to me." Francis looked confused, but did a passable impression of an inebriate while Bertrand explained away his folly. When the soldiers had gone, he stared up at the slightly taller man.
"What was all that about?" Bertrand brought him up to speed as he dragged him away to safety.
"They're testing on us to try to win the war? You'd think people would know about that."

Bertrand right-clicked his name.

Are you sure you want to delete 'Francis von Lichtenstraus' from your address book?

This time, he didn't pause.

'Francis von Lichtenstraus' is no longer a contact.

He moved on, searching for another email.

Bertie!
I'm bored. Let me know if you've got anything fun I can do. Suggestions, invitations... I'll even take dares, at a push. Everything is most frightfully boring over here in the jolly old U.S of A, and I'm itching to get back to Blighty. Unfortunately, the chaps I've fallen in with here seem rather reluctant to let me leave without a good reason. Care to help a fellow out with some kind of excuse? A threat to the family fortune would work splendidly, especially if, for example, my dear cousin Frederick were to call me from England. My number is the string of digits at the end of this email.

It would be absolutely spiffing to hear from you, Bertie – Illinois is really quite dreadfully dull at this time of year.

Your old chum,
'Bully'
Percival Algernon Shakesheaf, Esq.

Bertrand couldn't help but roll his eyes. He'd never called to get Bully away from his gangster friends in Chicago, but the man had been only too happy to come and get involved in 'a bit of a bust-up'. Bully, despite his ridiculous Eton nickname, was a total wimpire, but he'd do almost anything to stay in with the cool kids – except, apparently, respect their requests to use only first initials in email communications. Bertrand had struggled to hold back his laughter when he'd turned up decked out in the most fashionable American leathers, trying to look like a gang member of some sort.

"So I thought, what ho, I'll join the bally cavalry of the skies, and we'll soon have them on the run." Bertrand stared at him for a moment, wondering if he could possibly be serious. Surely nobody was that stupid.
"You're joining the RFC?" Percival nodded enthusiastically.
"But you're a vampire."
"I say, old chap, jolly observant. And if you know about vampires, you must be one too."
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "So you're going to be a mechanic?"
"Oh, heavens, no. I'll be up in the sky, shooting down-"
"In the sky, above the clouds, where the sun is?"
"That's righ- oh."
Bertrand drained his corporal and stood. "Best to stay out of the war altogether, I think. I'm tired of breather wars."
He'd never quite managed to shake the idiot off, no matter how hard he tried.

Well, now he was rid of the upper-class clown, and it was going to be strange, not having to bail him out every other decade. In fact, Bertrand rather suspected he'd literally shaken him off, given the abnormal amount of dust that had been left on his leathers after Sethius' little show of power.

Are you sure you want to delete 'Bully Shakesheaf' from your address book?

He rolled his eyes and pressed enter.

'Bully Shakesheaf' is no longer a contact.

He continued to scroll through his emails. He was beginning to run out of contacts.

Wassup bruvs?
So I was like finkin how we never hang out no more an I was like what's up with that? So anyway me an the boys r doin a gig in Brixton on Toosdy at the Elephant pub. Can't miss it m8 its d 1 wiv d Elephant on the sign. Tix are cheep but mention my name an dey'll b even cheeper innit. Its gonna be well wikkid were really gd c u there!
Fo shizzle,
Bazza n d Homebois.

Bertrand winced as he reached the mass email from 'Bazza', whose real name he'd never learned. He wasn't really too upset about the teenager blowing in the breeze, to be honest.

Bertrand woke up after a particularly bad drinking session to find his ears still ringing with the terrible music of last night's rave. No, he realised as his brain began to function, this music was actually even worse than that. He hadn't thought it possible.

"Yo, you is awake innit?" Bertrand forced his eyelids open as the terrible wailing noise – he thought it might be an attempt at singing – stopped, and found himself staring up at a tall, pale faced Caucasian kid wearing a tracksuit and a baseball cap, the latter of which was on backwards and had a price tag dangling from it. "Awesome party, bit of a downer when you ate my mates – check it, I'm a poet - but I'm a vampire now which is, like, well radical. I'm not dressin' all goffik though."
Bertrand hadn't realised until long after he fled the scene that 'Bazza' had stolen his phone and exchanged their numbers, as well as stealing his email address from the SIM card. Bertrand had only wandered for a few more months before tracking down the Chosen One, but by the time he arrived at Garside he'd ignored countless texts and numerous mass emails advertising gigs, always with a new band. Bertrand suspected Bazza was eating them, although he'd completely understand if the breathers just got sick of his inane prattle and his complete mutilation of the English language.

Well, now he'd be silenced forever.

Are you sure you want to delete 'Bazza' from your address book?

He should have done this months ago.

'Bazza' is no longer a contact.

He only had one more address to find and remove.

B,
This Chosen One. Is he all he's cracked up to be, or what? Don't ask me who told me, but I heard he's a total wimpire. Pathetic, going to doom our race to dust. All that stuff.
Look, I know you reckon he's the real thing this time, and I know you like the kid 'cos I can tell, your emails make it sound like you guys hang out. But 400 years of waiting for a wimpire isn't you, B, and it's no good for our kind if you let someone who's not up for the job take over.
Still, it's your call. Just make sure he sorts out the slayer problem, if you're so worried about it, and I'm sure it'll all be fine. I know you won't shy away from the stake if that's what's needed.
If you need me, or just want to catch up, give me a call and you know I'll be there.
M

Bertrand read it twice. Then he read it again. He closed his eyes, thinking. Eliseo – who had always hated his first name, and refused to answer to it except in extremely intimate situations – had been right, as usual, and wrong, as usual. That was the story of their friendship – right and wrong, all at the same time and jumbled up together so they couldn't even make sense of which was which.

It had been tough, being an Italian in France as a child – even though his father and grandfather had both been born in the very town he grew up in, the people there had still seen him as an outsider, a little Italian boy with curly hair and piercing blue eyes, who knew far too much about fighting and saw far too much about politics. When he'd been turned, it had all happened again; he'd moved to a different province and found himself the outsider once more.

Then he'd met Eliseo Mondadori – "Just Mondadori," he'd insisted in his halting French, "or Mori to a friend." And Bertrand was a friend, had become a friend quickly. Within a century, despite Bertrand's quest to find the Chosen One, he and Eliseo had become lovers – in their own fashion – after running into each other in almost every country in Europe. Occasionally, when rumours of the Chosen One died down, they would spend a whole year as housemates, occasionally sharing a coffin when their passions ran high. These days, the arrangement would be known as 'friends with benefits'.

Their intimacy had never been officially called off, but Bertrand hadn't called on his friend for that kind of comfort since he'd arrived at Garside – even if he hadn't been busy, he didn't think he would have. But email had made it easier to stay in touch, far easier than when they'd had to pick a month and a city and fight tooth and nail to get there. They'd corresponded almost daily for a while, and even at his busiest Bertrand made sure to fire off one email a week. Mondadori had done the same.

Now, Bertrand's inbox was empty, and it was all his fault. No, that wasn't true – he'd followed his friend's advice, which had served him well in the past – and then he'd called on him for help, as he had done many times before. He forced his finger down on the mouse button.

Are you sure you want to delete 'Eliseo Mondadori' from your address book?

In four centuries of friendship, it had never ended like this before.

'Eliseo Mondadori' is no longer a contact.