The Strain: Another Season
Episode 9

Author's note: Another Season is completely canon compliant up to the end of season 1, thereafter back stories diverge.

Creatures of the Twilight
Chapter One

The fortified city of Caffa (Modern day Feodosia, Crimea) – 1357

Quinlan, wearing the doublet and hose of a wealthy medieval gentleman, sits at a desk, quill in hand. His face is the same as that of the Roman gladiator, Quintus, except for a couple more scars. The room is quite dark but he seems to need no additional light - in contrast to Hostia, who now enters hesitantly, holding a candle. She is wearing a medieval silk dress and the flame trembles in her hand. She appears to be in her mid-teens –younger, certainly, than in de la Reynie's library, the Duke of Hamilton's mausoleum or the auctioneer's office in Marseilles.

Quinlan stands chivalrously and takes the candle from her. When he feels her quivering fingers, he says, 'If you are cold, Sexta, you should put on your mantle.' It's not said sternly, nor as an admonishment - his tone is merely flat and calm. Before she can reply, he takes her hands in his, warming her chillier, more human flesh with his higher body temperature and demonstrating that there is no ill will. Indeed, although his distant demeanour towards Hostia may seem cold and inhuman to Mediterranean or American eyes, it's only the paternal aloofness of a certain class of British men.

'I'm not cold, Quintus,' she says. 'I want to ask you a question and I'm nervous.'

'There's no need for embarrassment between us, child,' he says. There's no smile, no warmth but there is a degree of welcome in his manner as he bids her, 'Come, sit,' and guides her by the hand to a seat opposite.

'It's a personal matter,' blurts the young Hostia/Sexta.

He withdraws his hand and leans back, his lips compressing almost imperceptibly.

'You don't feed like me, do you?' she pushes on regardless.

He relaxes slightly. 'I drink blood just like you,' he explains, 'but I don't require the direct contact with the donor's skin that you do.'

Hostia relaxes in turn and asks with a child-like candour, 'But then how do you pierce the flesh?'

He sighs and ponders the distance out of the window for a while.

Hostia waits patiently for her answer. Eventually, Quinlan focusses on her again and says, 'I have this.'

He extends his stinger, slowly so as not to alarm her. It's not as big as a fullblood strigoi's but it still makes young Hostia's jaw drop. She reaches out and tentatively touches a terminal fang.

'Like the Ancients,' she whispers in awe.

'Not exactly,' explains Quinlan when the stinger has been slurped back inside his mouth. 'I am a half-breed.'

'I thought I was a half-breed,' argues Hostia. 'Why don't I have one of those?'

Quinlan sighs again but this time it's more indulgent. 'Because you, child, are unique among all the creatures that walk upon this earth.'

'You mean, there are others like you?' she breathes, eyes wide with wonder. 'Tell me about them… Please.'

Northern Russia – 19 August 1697 BC

The worm-like streaks of silver blood leach out through the blackened, defiled soil. They seek life and they avoid sunlight. Eventually, after an immeasurable time, they experience a fleeting night in the middle of a day. A total solar eclipse. An occultation.

The blood worms seem to sense this unusual darkness and take it as a sign. They redouble their efforts to seek the red blood that flows through the veins of earthly creatures. Suddenly they turn as one, detecting the throbbing life-force of a young woman nearby, aware of a beating heart. No, wait. Two beating hearts. Two hearts in one creature!

The pregnant girl is sleeping in a cave while her mate is fishing. Her time is near and she tires easily. The worms swarm her, invading through every orifice. She wakes screaming, scratching at her face and body but it is too late - the girl is the first Ancient's first host.

The worms multiply and break up to release the virus into her bloodstream. These first forty eight hours after infection, the period of the actual "turning" process, is the only time when viable virus is present in the blood - the only time a host is viraemic. Only for this brief interval does the blood itself, and certain other bodily fluids, present a risk of contagion. The virus particles are pumped around the girl's body, along with the worms, until they reach the gravid uterus. The worms try, and fail, to cross the placenta but the virus passes successfully to the near-term baby.

When the man returns, the girl's lover is the first strigoi victim, his blood nourishing the girl and their unborn son.

The first Born.

Primus.

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – Present

Sandra is far too close and far too eager as the television displays the view from Eichhorst's living room computer.

The room is empty and Sandra tuts impatiently, but there is soon a knock at the door and Eichhorst passes the viewpoint from behind, to courteously invite a handsome young blond man inside. As the man passes him, Eichhorst clearly takes a sniff and seems slightly disappointed.

Sandra recognises him. 'That's the guy from the dance band. The cheeky one on first trumpet who played the intro to the wrong song when Eichhorst entered. Dammit, I told Eldritch not to give him to Eichhorst.'

Everyone looks at her and Eph pointedly remarks, 'Maybe you should have asked him, rather than tell one of the most powerful men in the world what to do.'

Sandra doesn't catch the sarcasm and only acknowledges the wisdom. 'Oh yes,' she says without rancour. 'I forget how "please" can be a magic word to men like them. I'm so used to being in command myself, these days.'

'The odd please wouldn't go amiss there either, once in a while,' comes a heartfelt rumble from the back, but Sandra is too absorbed in the television drama to notice Reggie.

'Thank you for coming,' Eichhorst says suavely.

The musician is nervous. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm. The truth is – I'm a huge, huge fan and I wanted you to notice me, Mr…?' He fishes for a name.

'You will call me "sir",' says Eichhorst as he turns away, pouring a glass of wine from a decanter.

'Yes, sir,' says the trumpeter, a little too readily.

'Well, there's my mixture,' says Eph, pointing tiredly at the bottle on Eichhorst's desk in the foreground and letting his arm flap down to his side in resignation. 'I'll just have to make some more up. Good job I keep research notes, huh?'

No one else shares in his concerns, they are all riveted to the TV screen. Because Eichhorst has just told the young man to take off his clothes. And he's obeying with alacrity.

Gus and Angel glance at each other with raised eyebrows and a bit of a snigger. Dutch is disgusted and horrified, watching between her fingers, whereas Nora wants to call the cops and stop it. Setrakian points out the futility of that exercise.

'Well, I'm not going to stand by and do nothing,' she says defiantly, 'like some dreadful voyeuse.' She glances at Sandra, who is transfixed.

'Have a seat,' invites Eichhorst. Or is it a command? He pulls a chair forward.

'What's he gonna do to him?' whispers Angel, chewing the popcorn dish in horrified fascination.

'What are going to do to me?' asks the musician.

'If I told you that,' Eichhorst says smoothly, 'it would spoil the surprise.'

'I'm gonna be sick!' exclaims Dutch, as they watch Eichhorst gently blindfold his guest/victim with the bow tie he so enthusiastically ripped off.

Eichhorst drops a tiny quantity of Eph's solution into the glass of wine and puts it into his guest's unresisting hand, supporting it as the young man lifts it to his lips.

'Good, yes,' murmurs Eichhorst eagerly. 'Drink it all.'

Once again, the musician obeys like a good submissive.

'He's going to try to inoculate himself,' whispers Nora. 'Against the silver.'

'Against my silver,' corrects Sandra with unseemly satisfaction.

'Would that work?' Fet asks Nora.

She shrugs.

'It'll hurt though, right?' Sandra asks eagerly, without taking her eyes off the screen.

'Well, the test subject didn't like it much,' says Eph from the top of the stairs. He'd started to head back down to the lab but the prospect of seeing his serum self-tested by a mature Chosen seems to intrigue.

'What's he doing now?' cries Fet, appalled as Eichhorst takes position between the young man's thighs.

'He's going to try to taste an orgasm in his blood,' Sandra explains, with absolute certainty. Then, oblivious to all eyes swivelling her way, she adds quietly to herself, 'I wonder if it'll work this way.'

'Oh, no,' groans a grey-faced Gus, turning away. 'I told him once he could suck my dick.'

'¿Él es gay?' Angel whispers.

'He did seem to bring a lot of men down to that basement,' says Reggie's deep, chocolatey voice.

Eichhorst's tux sleeve brushes against the man's knees making him twitch in anticipation.

'Sir? That wine tasted funny,' the musician says nervously.

The vampire doesn't reply or reassure, he only lowers himself slowly to his knees.

Setrakian pushes forward and growls dismissively, 'He's only going to drink from the femoral artery. It's the favoured site for the most powerful strigoi. They are NOT SEXUAL BEINGS.'

Dutch is unconvinced and yelling, 'Bugger this!' she runs downstairs to break the connection.

Sandra screams with frustration when the screen goes blank but everyone else hisses a sigh of relief.

After an uncomfortable pause, Gus asks Sandra, with a hint of admiration, 'How long did you say you survived with him?'

'Several months,' says Sandra as she canters down the stairs to wrestle with Dutch.

Gus follows her. 'How?' he asks suspiciously.

'My blood is to die for and I was always a little less trouble than I was worth,' she says wresting the laptop from her daughter's grip. 'Although I'm proud to say I ran it close sometimes. Now, how do you get this thing back on…?'

Northern Russia – 1684 BC

Primus is not the name the first Born is known by. He is revered throughout the land as Лысый бог(Lysyy bog) or Bald god. He has grown rapidly and at the age of thirteen is as muscular and sexually mature as a man twice his age and, yes, the Born are indeed sexual creatures. Although not as tall as Quintus, the fifth Born, will be after him, he is preternaturally fast and strong with similar sculpted good looks.

Like many teenagers throughout history, Primus experiences an intense feeling of separation from the rest of society – a sense of being alone, being different, of not belonging. Unlike all but a handful of others to come, Primus is right. He is a half breed, belonging neither among humanity nor with the growing population of full-blood strigoi that his progenitor (or Sire) has created to serve him. Primus is a tortured soul unable to come to terms with his duality and trying all the usual distractions. Unsurprisingly, with his looks and abilities, he has no difficulty finding enthusiastic companions of any gender. He lounges now against furs and colourful drapery in a kind of yurt, surrounded by beautiful worshippers and drinking from a gold vessel. Sex, alcohol, wealth and power deliver no solace and, unlike Quintus, he has yet to find any approximation of the kind of love that brought meaning to the fifth Born's existence.