"He ran," the unicorn said. "You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention." Her voice was gentle, and without pity. "Never run," she said. "Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly and she may not follow. Walk very slowly, magician."
So they fled across the night together, the tall man in black and the horned white beast. The magician crept as close to the unicorn's light as he dared, for beyond it moved hungry shadows, the shadows of the sounds that the harpy made as she destroyed the little there was to destroy of the Midnight Carnival. But another sound followed them long after these had faded, followed them into morning on a strange road- the tiny, dry sound of a spider weeping.
-'The Last Unicorn' by Peter S. Beagle
After Integra woke up he gave her the toy rabbit and horses that he'd found in the attic. He stayed in her bedroom, watching her play with them while she ate the sandwiches that he'd prepared for her. Sounds of talking and movement in the main room. The cleaning staff were, as always, swift and efficient. Upon finishing he thanked them politely, shutting the door behind them and sliding the security bolts shut. Integra followed him and sat herself down in the precise middle of the room.
"Warlter!" she sang. "Warlter! Warlter!"
He turned as she beamed and held the rabbit up so that he could see it.
"Look!" she said excitedly. "Look, look, look!"
"I'm looking, Integra. It's very nice."
She titled her head, trying to understand.
"Nice. It is nice."
She blinked, and then nodded vigorously. "Nice!" she said.
Walter sat on one of the lounge chairs and took a small penknife from his pocket and a handkerchief also, which he spread out onto his lap. He flicked out the smallest blade and began to run it under his fingernails, cleaning them thoroughly, checking to make sure that his nails weren't torn or rough or too long. He stayed there a while, leaning forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees and watched Integra play. She looked so happy. She cradled the toy rabbit in her arms and babbled a stream of nonsensical syllables at it and then suddenly and distinctly she said:
"Giggi."
He jerked bolt upright. She said it again.
"Giggi."
He'd not told her its name. She must have remembered it by herself. He smiled to himself and stood, and walked to the bathroom. Without so much as hesitating she abandoned her toys and came running after him. He switched the lights on and stepped inside.
"Bath?" she asked curiously, following him in.
He washed his hands in the disinfectant soap, rinsing them thoroughly before rubbing hand cream in until the skin was soft and supple. Integra stood next to him and leaned on his shoulder, watching him intently.
"Bath?" she said again. "Bath time?"
Walter dried his hands on the paper towel, and checked his nails once more. Integra swayed, singing quietly to herself as he knelt and turned on the taps for the bath. Standing, he put his arms around her and she cuddled in close, rubbing her forehead into his chest. She sighed happily. Walter swallowed. He dropped his hand down her side, feeling for the zip in her skirt and tugged at it, and she pulled away.
"Bath!" she said happily, and pushed the skirt down her legs. She fumbled with her t-shirt, pulling it up to show her bra. He helped her strip.
"You're getting chubby," he murmured, and poked one of her soft hips with his forefinger. "Too much food."
"Food?" she said hopefully, "now?"
He ignored her. The bath was full, and he turned off the taps and checked the water. He held her hand as she got in, and lathered up the washcloth and began to bathe her. First her scalp, then her back, and she snatched the cloth from him and scrubbed at her face as he rubbed thick cream into her hair.
"It's getting longer," he told her. "Another few months and it'll be down to your shoulders." He took an empty plastic container from its place beside the tub and scooped up some water. "Close your eyes," and he poured it over her head. She shook herself like a dog, covering both Walter and the walls with soap suds and water. "I really wish you wouldn't do that."
She giggled.
He washed her toes next, then her calves, behind her knees, her thighs. He pushed the cloth between her legs and washed her sex thoroughly; his hand slipped; his finger entered her, and he had the brief impression of the heat of her body and the resistance that was her hymen before she leant forward and bit him hard on the ear. Hot liquid began to slide down his neck and he fell backwards as she lunged at him a second time. Integra snarled, her teeth stained red.
"Basss…tard,"she hissed.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," said Walter, squeezing his earlobe to stop the bleeding. "It was an accident."
She spat at him. Bloody spittle sprayed across his chest. He blinked at her mildly.
"You're in a fine mood tonight, aren't you?"
In the darkness before dawn, a shadow came a-creeping through the silent corridors of the mansion. Fleet and still and deadly it slipped between the dark and the light. It ducked between watchmen and insomniacs and if you'd chanced to see it, you'd have doubted the evidence of your own eyes if you hadn't heard the soft, infrequent scuff of its foot against the timber floor.
Security in this place could have certainly used some tightening, but try telling Sir Hellsing that.
Walter made his way gradually and indirectly towards the records room, moving slowly, every step taken with exaggerated care. The hours of physical therapy had lessened the permanent spasm in his foot but it still wasn't responding the way it should. He was irritated with the delay caused by his own body, but speed would only result in him getting caught and asked uncomfortable questions. The days where he could go anywhere in the Organisation Headquarters without so much as raising an eyebrow were gone with Integra's wits.
He arrived at the door of the records room and pressed a quick sequence of numbers into the keypad. Strictly speaking it wasn't the access code so much as it was the master code and only three people had ever known of its existence. One could barely remember her own name any more, one was of course Walter himself, and the other was the man who had designed and programmed the system in the first place. A most excellent fellow and quite a genius in his own specialised field whose only fault, as far as Walter had been able to ascertain, was singing like a canary bird whenever his member was between the lips of his favourite prostitute of the week. Walter had truly regretted the man's death but then, some things were necessary, however unpleasant.
The door opened with the soft hiss of sealed air escaping. He shut it behind him, and made certain to lock it again.
The records room was in fact several different chambers. All three were climate controlled and kept immaculately clean. There was the main computer terminal that always ran, no matter what hour of the day of night, and several smaller slave terminals that could be used to access the data but not input it. There was the second room with three different airlocks that contained valuable and fragile historical documents, and a much, much larger room beside that. It held nothing but rows of filing cabinets containing the masses of paper that all government organisations, no matter how secret, always seemed to generate. Walter headed straight for the master computer and, with a few efficient clicks of the keyboard, took control of the security cameras and fixed several loops in the system, a simple time sequence of the empty room before he came in. His master code would be useless after this and he fully intended to use it while he could.
He stepped quickly into the cabinet room. Walter knew exactly what he was looking for and where to find it. Moving along the rows of filing cabinets, he reached a peculiarly old-fashioned and worn looking specimen. He pulled open a drawer, then another, and another, until he found the file he was looking for, misfiled and stuffed impossibly thick with yellowing paper. He flicked through it rapidly with his gloved fingers; he remembered the file well enough to know what he needed but not so well that he could do without it. He plucked out a handful of sheafs and folded them up into a wad. This he slipped into his shoe and then he set the cabinet to rights and moved rapidly back to the computers, sitting back down in front of the master terminal.
Current Hellsing personnel records: Pickman, Christopher Michael.
Born in Dover. Twenty-seven years old. Unmarried, no listed relatives, joined the army-in-ordinary at nineteen. Based in Northern Ireland (and obviously tougher than Walter had given him credit for) until he joined the SAS at age twenty-two. Then given further training in Whitstable, Kent.
Walter frowned. Whitstable? Surely that couldn't right. He clicked on Pickman's medical records and, as he read, the frown slowly gave way to a particularly nasty smile.
There was the sound of the door opening. "Do you know," he said without taking his eyes from the screen, "that Chris Pickman has six lumbar vertebrae in his spinal column, and thirteen thoracic vertebrae? Two in his sacrum aren't fused, and what's more, there's evidence of an intervertebral disc between them."
"And just how many vertebrae in your spine do you have?" asked Sir Hellsing wearily.
"Fourteen thoracic vertebrae and eight cervical vertebrae," answered Walter cheerfully, looking up.
Sir Hellsing made a little mocking bow in reply. He looked ridiculous in pyjamas, dressing gown and fluffy koala slippers, but his deranged and highly dangerous pet lurking behind his shoulder showed that he deadly serious.
"You had Alucard watching me all along," and Alucard gave Walter a little shrug that could have meant anything from, 'I'm sorry,' to 'so what?'
"I've studied your records so much I can just about quote the whole lot from memory." Sir Hellsing sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It didn't, of course, tell me near what I wanted to know but it's given me a general idea." He stepped aside. "Walter, get the hell away from my computer. Alucard, escort this man up to my office and make sure he stays there."
"Yes, Master," growled the vampire, moving forward. Walter went willingly enough. He'd found what he wanted.
In Sir Hellsing's office, Walter opened the heavy drapes. Outside everything was painted in shades of the blackest purple, and on the horizon was the faintest smudge of dawn light. His one regret about living on the Hellsing estate was that he couldn't see the stars so close to the lights of London, but over the years he'd learned to make do with the moon. Early as it was, the mansion was already waking up; there was movement in the courtyard. Bakers and cleaners, soldiers and secretaries. Beside Walter, Alucard fidgeted. Sunrise made him simultaneously restive and sleepy. When the vampire yawned he displayed dentition that would make a crocodile weep with envy.
"Do you know," said Walter absently, "that I often wonder what would have happened to me if I hadn't joined Hellsing?"
"Nameless and dead in some foreign country," said Alucard, and he abruptly turned and nuzzled into Walter's neck. "Or else mad."
"Geroff, will you?" The old man clamped his hand over Alucard's mouth and pushed him away. "What was thatin aid of?"
"I'm sorry. I'm hungry."
"You've not eaten?"
"No one will feed me."
Walter rubbed at his temples, at the headache that was threatening to form. Alucard reached out and gently brushed the old man's cheek with his fingertips. Walter shuddered and felt his hair stand on end.
"You should have taken my offer when you had the chance," the vampire told him sadly, and moved away just as the door opened and a soft click filled the room with harsh, artificial light.
"You can go now," Sir Hellsing told Alucard, even as Walter turned and folded into a bow that was a precise inch-and-a-half too shallow. The vampire slipped into his shadows and Sir Hellsing slipped behind the desk that had belonged to his past three predecessors. As Walter stepped into his old place in front of that huge mahogany monstrosity- one of thirteen identical pieces presented by King George to each of his Round Table Knights- he noted that the younger man had changed out of his nightclothes and into a slightly rumpled suit with the shirt open at the throat. He hadn't dressed his hair either, and without gel or oil the cowlick in the exact centre of his forehead stood up violently, just like Integra's. The old butler felt the faintest touch of nostalgia that grew stronger as Sir Hellsing set his fingers in a steeple against his mouth and subjected Walter to an intense stare that made him resemble the former director even more.
"Your medical records make for some fascinating reading, do you know that? One doctor describes you as 'bizarre' no less than seventeen times on the one piece of paper. All of those extra organs and vertebrae and nerve endings and muscle fibres..." The corner of his mouth quirked humourlessly. "One might argue that you hardly classify as a human."
"Sir, I resent that-"
"You can resent all you like!" thundered Sir Hellsing. He took a couple of deep breaths, making a visible effort to calm himself. "The place where you were born, the place where you were raised and trained and where they made your rings, was turned into dust and ashes during the Blitz. You are the only thing and the only person that remains of the entire project. Tell me, Mr Dornez," he drawled, narrowing his eyes, "are you a made creature or a born creature? Were you artificially engineered or are you simply a freak of nature?"
Walter didn't so as much as bat an eyelash. "That is classified information," he said.
"Of course," Sir Hellsing sighed and rubbed his mouth. "Do you know that the military has been trying to get you back for the past fifty-two years? All of the other directors have begged, refused and in some cases blackmailed and outright lied to prevent it. The military have even taken legal action to get hold of your corpse in the event of your eventual demise. Integra responded with legal action of her own, you'll no doubt be delighted to know; although, from what I gather from her notes on the matter, her refusal to comply was more a combination of bloody-mindedness and her peculiar sense of humour than from any other moral objections." He laid his hands flat on the desk top and leaned forward intently. "Why are you fighting me, Walter?"
"Sir?"
"Don't blink and 'sir' me," he hissed. "Tell me why you are resisting me. Tell me why you broke into my records room. Just what the hell is your problem?"
"With all due respect," said Walter finally, "you are not the rightful Head of Hellsing."
There was a terrible, terrible silence.
"You are not the rightful Director. You are just filling in. You could be any one of a dozen faceless, nameless cousins, interchangeable, indistinguishable…no life. No personality. No soul. When the time comes you will be replaced and no one will care."
"Your rings," said Sir Hellsing, his eyes glittering coldly. "Take them off. Take them off now."
Walter hesitated, involuntarily squeezing his hands, feeling the bands he had worn so long that he barely even noticed them anymore.
"Do it."
He fumbled with his left thumb first, twisting the ring so that it slid over the smooth, soft leather of his gloves, forcing it over his swollen knuckle. It fell into the palm of his hand and he placed it, with a soft click, on the desk between them. They both stared it. It seemed harmless, lying there. Just a ring.
"And the others."
Nine more times he did this. Nine more rings on the polished mahogany. Sir Hellsing drew in a tight, shuddering breath. "Walter Dornez," he said, "I hereby restrict you to your quarters and those of Integral Hellsing. From now on she is your only duty and your only care at the Hellsing Organisation."
"Is he my replacement?" asked Walter bitterly. "That agile pup with the extra bones in his spine? Are you going to give him my rings as well as my Integra?"
"Get out, Dornez. Get out of my office, get out of my life. Just leave."
With his face the perfect mask of stony obedience, the old butler bowed and left, shutting the door behind him with exaggerated care.
He stalked blindly down the corridor. His mind was a disordered mess of rage and mourning and he wrung his hands over and over until they sweated and ached inside their gloves. There was a red haze hanging in front of his eyes and all he wanted to do was kill, find something and hear it scream as he ripped it into wet, quivering little pieces. The headache that had started in the office was rapidly intensifying, each heartbeat thudding like heavy artillery inside his head. Abruptly, his foot went numb and he stumbled. There was a sickening crack as he fell to his knees. The world blurred and then twisted violently so that he was looking at the ceiling. He blinked once.
Oh,he thought dreamily. I'm having a stroke…
The ceiling shrank away into the distance as he dropped into the floor, tenderly cradled by the chilling shadows that wrapped themselves around him, covering his face and eyes in darkness.