The Hellsing Organization – actually Royal Order of the Protestant Knights – actually Her Royal England Legions of Legitimate and Supernatural Night Guard – operated on the fringes of the supernatural world.

It was officially – though not publicly – recognized as Great Britain's primary anti-supernatural force by the Royal Crown, which – considering the HQ of the White fricking Council was on the same isle – was a ballsy move to make. Most non-magical people didn't think much of the things that defied logical explanation. Strange sightings were attributed to post-crack hallucinations, unexplained abductions were people OD'ing in some ditch out of sight, bodies that did not match human skeletons were called "deformed by the fire". I'm still angry about the fact that Butters had to land in a loony bin for three months just because he made an honest diagnosis.

But back to the topic: put short, Hellsing was Great Britain's counter-terrorist supernatural strike force. They primarily dealt with the various brands of vampires and vampire-esque creatures, but apparently had a hand in removing other, more esoteric traits. Guess what was their primary means of dispatching a threat of choice.

It was siccing a fucking Dracula at it.

"You mean to tell me that you… have Dracula, one of the greatest Black Court vampires to have ever lived… on a speed dial." I said, my head buzzing with the sheer scope of implications at this piece of knowledge. The fact that White Council hadn't yet scoured Hellsing from existence implied they either couldn't or that they wouldn't, satisfied in having an equivalent of a coked-up German Shepherd do the dirty work for them.

I wasn't sure which of these options terrified me more. The German Shepherd comparison, amusingly, was ever accurate, because Vlad Tepes' last great opponent were the Nazis. Nazi vampires, specifically. Science Nazi vampires.

I know this is rich coming from a guy who once revived a T-Rex to charge in the middle of a necromantic ritual – but science vampires? Science Nazi vampires?! "We had. Alucard has been missing for nearly twenty years now." Sir Hellsing explained, utterly undaunted by my sheer disbelief. "...until last week." Oh. Oh no. I didn't like where this was going. "Our allies in America notified us that Millennium remnants – wherever the hell they came from, anyway" Her composure briefly faltered as she rubbed the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "have been spotted in this region of the country. Supposedly, they have acquired a part or multiple parts of Alucard's body. Even if this confirms that he's dead and gone for good, even his remains may prove to be too dangerous to be left in irresponsible hands."

"And that's where I come in?"

"This is your city, Mr. Dresden, and I've heard that you do not share White Council's sentiment of obstructive stuffiness that would keep you from helping us. The Hellsing is hunters, not investigators, so a gentler touch is required."

"You must have also heard that I don't do gentle." I shook my head with a sigh. Obviously I wouldn't be leaving this be. Normal Nazis are bad enough, and I've had enough supernatural forces running in Chicago already – I didn't need another one.

"I'm not asking you to handle the matter personally. Seras can do that. All I need is the information that you can gather."

"Right. I presume you want this done yesterday?" Sir Hellsing's lips quirked mirthlessly.

"That would be beneficial not just for us, but for the good of the city. Your White Council friends are already asking me very pointed questions, and my patience can only grow so thin." Her patience, not Merlin's. These were the words of someone way over their head or someone with absolute confidence. So far Sir Hellsing seemed to skew towards the confident end of the scale. "They've already had the gall to visit fresh after London. Where were they during the attack?"

Some years ago, just at the turn of the century, the City of London was… depopulated. In what the media decried not just the most violent and fatal terrorist attack of all time – the bodycount made WTC look like a sandpit dispute – it was called the vilest, the most appalling act of malice to ever have been done. I knew just enough to know that "terrorist attack" was just an excuse for the non-magical world – and yet, the magical world was strangely disinterested in the event.

Over three million people, dead, and no clear culprit was ever found. And now it turned out it was a bunch of self-disposing Nazi "vampires". Still, that explained White Council's – or anyone's, really – indifference to the thing; most happenings there were done with mortal tools, with only a tinge of the supernatural thrown into the mix. And if Dracula himself perished at the site, then all was good, right?

I closed my eyes and mentally counted to five. "Alright. I'm gonna need some cliff notes on what to watch out for."

"Consider it done. Seras will have them delivered in an hour. Your address, then." I hesitated for a moment before deciding to wisely throw the caution to the wind. It couldn't get much worse right now.


My first idea upon returning back home was to consult Bob.

Bob is a spirit of intellect that had forgot more than archwizards had learned all their lives. I figured that, given the strangeness of this investigation's query – I mean, come on, science Nazi vampires – it would be wise to just ask him straight away if he knew anything on the matter. Back in a day he used to serve a real nasty piece of work by the name of Kemmler, who just so happened to be active around WW2. Most of his knowledge from that time period was forgotten – on my request, to keep Bob away from the darker times he was once mired in – but perhaps simple memories might still have been around.

Bob, much to my worry, whistled in that typically cliched "you dun goofed" way you sometimes heard on TV (so I've heard, being the magical savage). "Harry, how do you end up getting in the worst kind of shit every other Tuesday?"

"Must be karma for being named after a book wizard." Bob rolled his nonexistent eyes, the skull he was into chattering slightly.

"Well, the good news is that most Millennium 'vampires'" I could feel the quote marks in his voice. "are well-below your punching weight. You've fought actual vampires before, sahib. Millenniums are basically ghouls on crack." Ghouls were tougher to kill than cockroaches, so that was cold comfort at best.

"I can't help but notice that you said 'most'."

"That's the bad news. Whoever survived must either be their toughest or most cunning bunch. Don't know any of them by name, since He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named didn't care much for mundane ways of the Reich." Bob hummed thoughtfully. "And there's a chance they could have made more if they have Drac's sack. Plus, you know, working tech and all the money in the world."

"Alright. Riddle me this now: how do you make anything "wizardproof" and where can I get some?"

"Don't look so surprised. Back in a day wizards merely changed the color of candles nearby." That was true, not that it made me feel any better. "My guess is some kind of faith magic."

"That's rich coming from a group employing Dracula." I stopped that thought, pondering about something. "...hey, Bob. How obvious is "Alucard" as an alias?" Bob merely stared at me for a moment before exploding into raucous laughter. Yeah, that probably settled it.


Seras arrived in exactly an hour.

She stepped out of an incredibly British car painted dark red – you know an incredibly British car when you see it, trust me – having switched her pink hoodie for a plain blue button-up and a pair of cargo pants. Now that she wasn't wearing a baggy top, the neanderthal part of my brain reawakened with the fury of the heavens. Stars and stones, she made the White Court succubi look like slices of a white bread. Something told me she wasn't even trying to, whistling Black Sabbath's Iron Man under her breath as she regarded the building I lived in with the curiosity of a European tourist.

The reason I saw her from the outside was that I've just finished walking my evil-detecting dog. Mouse, bless his canine soul, bared teeth in a warning growl, the kind that made earth quake. "Ah, Mr. Dresden-oh my gosh, your dog is adorable!" In a startling difference from what I expected their first meeting to be – most supernatural beings regarded my dog with understandable caution – Seras beelined to Mouse, making the kind of cutesy noises that people do when "talking" to toddlers or puppies.

Mouse's warning growl gave way to a vaguely amused snort as he let himself be petted. "I always wanted a big dog back when I was a kid." Seras hummed wistfully, her cheery demeanor faltering for a moment before she straightened up and looked (sharply) up at me. "Anyway, I got you the info you wanted. Can we come inside?"

If someone told me that I would willingly invite a vampire into my apartment, let alone a Blampire, I'd probably just slug them in the face (Thomas notwithstanding). Yet, here we were. Then again – science Nazi vampires (who weren't vampires). Perhaps my entire understanding of the world was going to be changed beyond belief. I gave Mouse one more questioning look, but his opinion seemed unchanged even as he let himself be petted and talked to like a little puppy in the meantime.

Dollars to donuts, he had a much better chance of telling if a vile supernatural bloodsucker pretending to be nice was actually nice than me.

"After you." I said, opening the door before her. Judging from the slight, hastily masked look of disappointment, Seras expected my apartment to be some kind of mystical wonderland, a lair of a wizened mage, the kind that didn't have a half-finished box of pepperoni pizza balanced haphazardly on the chair. Still, she made no comment about it, merely taking in the surroundings. Mouse strolled in second, watching her closely, but not too intently.

Like I said, being a wizard doesn't pay the bills.

"So, what do you have for me? Oh yeah, tea?" I reflected on that question. "Oh, uh, so—"

"Tea would be great." Oh. Well, roll with it. If she could drink it, all worked out well. Once I returned with some, there was already a black notebook adorned with Hellsing's logo as Seras busied herself with giving Mouse the most elaborate tummy rubs. "Anything relevant is in the notebook." She pointed out, finally leaving my dog to take the tea from me.

"Right. Let's see what we're dealing with." One somewhat distressing motto on the front page later ("We are on a mission from God"), it was smooth sailing into the cliff notes; a brief recount of the Battle of London (did the Nazis seriously fly dick-first into the city on top of a giant zeppelin booming out "War" by Edwin Starr?) I was introduced to the profiles of relevant Hellsing members – Sir Hellsing, Seras (I guess if there was one way to gain my trust it was to detail everything about the local Blampire's abilities), and Alucard himself.

...I had to blink a few times once I got to our dear Count. These powers did not make a lick of sense. Neither did Seras's, for that matter, but considering that she was sired by Dracula himself… "Something wrong?" She asked me with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm tempted to say "everything", but that won't help us any." Seras rolled her eyes slightly and shuffled closer.

"Hopefully we won't be going against anything similar to what Master could field. We wouldn't survive." Talk about a vote of confidence for a dead-for-twenty-years vampire. "If I'm being honest, I'm not sure who we'll be going against to begin with. All of Millennium's remaining members explicitly died in London."

"Could they have regenerated or something?"

"Nope. Artificial vampires don't get that kind of stuff, or at least not to my degree."

"What about reviving them?"

"Most of the officers's bodies were immolated. Self-destruction chip." Right. Technology, that mysterious waif from another country.

"I don't like that "most", Seras." The Friendly Neighborhood Blampire shook her head.

"Well, there's at least… two? At least two that Master ate." She took the booklet from me and leafed through the pages. "There's Luke Valentine and Rip van Winkle."

"Like Washington Irving's Rip van Winkle?" Seras gave me a look of a Brit annoyed with the notion that us Yankees could have a literature of our own. "I'm just asking to cover bases."

"Anyway, they shouldn't be a problem either. During the Battle of London, Master spent all of his souls, including theirs."

"Yeah, about that..." It was one thing that "Alucard" was basically a walking soul reservoir, adding more and more with each kill and not showing any signs of bloating – but the fact that the Nazis somehow procured a perfect counter to the unkillable Lovecraftian monstrosity, and it was a Hitlerjugend catboy literally named Schrodinger…

I've seen some weird stuff in my day. This might have been up there in the top ten.

Further deliberation was interrupted by the phone call. "Right, one sec." I muttered, shuffling over to take it. "Dresden. Hey, Murph. What is it?" It seemed that Chicago's Special Investigations department was on the case again, and my humble services were required. Murphy couldn't tell me much over the phone other than it was a murder, with capital M. "Right. Be there in a bit." Guess there was no rest for the wicked after all.

"Duty calls?" Seras asked curiously.

"More like bills in desperate need of paying. Anyway, I'll do some scouting with the info you got me. Will try to get it done in a day or two. Hope Sir Hellsing isn't in too much a rush."

"We should be fine. If that gangster doesn't show his face at the hotel, so should he." Yeah, I could tell she and Marcone didn't really hit it off at all. Must have been my incredible deductive skills. "Take care, Mr. Dresden. Take care, furry friend." Here she bent down to give Mouse a hug.


The first thing at the murder site was a beat cop vomiting into the open sewer grate.

The second one, much more distressing, was a giant swastika sprayed all over the old tenement house standing by its lonesome among other, similarly old and disrepaired buildings. To my knowledge, this was one of the worst parts of Avondale that somehow resisted the gentrification of the area.

"Took your sweet time, Dresden." Murphy – all five feet nothing of her – greeted me with a sour grumble. "First someone mulches Marcone's men, now this…"

"So what are we looking at? Nazi wizards?" I asked, gesturing to the giant broken cross.

"Not according to the Organized Crime guy on site." Murphy shook her head. "And I'd be willing to believe him if there wasn't a magic circle right at ground zero."

Well then. Nothing like a Nazi warlock showing up in the middle of a Polish district. At least that could easily be tied to Millennium's movements in America. Normally these cases would not become so blindingly connected with each other until I could gather much more info on the matter. Not much for subtlety.

And if it was a warlock – a circle at the site of a murder did not one make yet – then it was up to me to show him the business end of my Warden sword.

"Is that the magic man you called for, Murphy?" The magic man scoffed at the silly name, looking over at the plainclothes detective approaching us from inside the building. About six feet tall and change of height, it was a surprise he even made it through the door considering he was built like a linebacker with ogre heritage, a fact not at all obscured by the Columbo-styled trenchcoat on the man. Bald and with a five o'clock shadow all over his face, he seemed to wear it as a personal choice.

As a not-so-proud owner of a stress-induced stubble, I couldn't help but be annoyed. "Orville Crossbell, Chicago Organized Crime." He introduced himself. Only now I noticed a still-smouldering cig behind his ear. Guess that was one way of dealing with stress.

"Harry Dresden, wizard." Crossbell shook his head incredulously.

"So you're the guy who busted up Larry Fowler's show, huh?" Oh come on. How many people today were going to bring this up? "Anyway, Murphy thinks there's some higher power in play."

"I didn't say that..."

"We have the perp in custody, and he's enough of a nutcase to let me believe this was all just a freaky ritual killing. Neo-Nazis." He shrugged as if that explained everything. With the blessing of context, I could only nod-wait.

"...you have the guy who did it?"

"He's locked up in the basement." Crossbell nodded. Well, that… was an extraordinarily easy job so far. Of course, things would become a little bit more difficult if I confirmed the guy to be a warlock and therefore someone who I might have needed to take off the police's hands. Murphy didn't need any more trouble because of me, so… "He's been singing war songs the entire time, the fucking nutter."

"Sounds like a charming fellow. Probably an upstanding member of the community." Crossbell didn't appreciate my sarcasm, if the big linebacker hand suddenly gripping my shirt to bring me down to eye level – points for me for being quick enough on the uptake to not get into a Soulgaze with the guy – with a snarl.

"Alright, wise guy. I'll let you divine just how many dead people are on-site if you still think this is funny." He let go after a moment, looking almost ashamed of his outburst. "Make sure he doesn't make off with body parts, Murphy." Crossbell thus left us to our own devices, going over to see to the beat cop at the sewer grate.

Real charmer with a stinky breath, that Crossbell. "You need to learn how not to put a boot in your mouth sometimes." Murphy chided me with a weary sigh.

"But then I'll stop being my good ol' Harry Dresden self."

"Right, that's enough jokes. Crossbell wasn't kidding – it's a bloodbath inside." She said, gesturing for me to follow. A few other cops gave me odd looks, but that long since became an industry standard for yours truly. "Seven people, three generations. The entire family."

Well. I might have indeed needed to learn how not to put a boot in my mouth.


The murder site looked more like a scene from a Saw movie than anything else.

I'd seen some grisly murder sites before, like people whose hearts exploded out of their chests mid-coitus or those ripped apart by a very angry werewolf. They had one thing in common however: you could usually still identify the victim without the need for dental records.

No such luck here; blood and guts were strewn all over the place. What must have been once an austere living room had been demolished and desecrated twice over. I could have sworn the air itself was a little red. Destroyed furnishings, upturned sofas, the old grandfather clock lying on the side with its arrows bent out of shape…

All of this, of course, paled in comparison to the magic circle and what was inside of it.

Breathing through my mouth to fight off the nauseating smell, and trying not to set something on fire in a bout of growing anger, I saw chunks of bodies, cut into neat geometric shapes and arranged into a swastika. Because of course it would be. They really were committed to the aesthetic. It was hard to tell which chunk belonged to who, so I kept Murphy's info in mind. Seven people, carved up like a chocolate block and arranged in the kind of art design that would make good ol' Adolf blush.

And the circle was made of two small intestines put together, to make things more interesting.

"...well that's a circle, alright." Murphy offered a dismissive eyeroll in response. The entire art composition felt vile and appalling, almost insultingly obvious in its connection to Dark Arts. And yet…

The basic purpose of a magic circle was protection. It could have been protection from outside harm, like a bunch of Grey Men trying to melt your face off. It could have been protection from an inside threat, like a demon banging uselessly against the immaterial barrier and swearing at you in ancient Sanskrit.

I could see some logic behind safeguarding someone's remains like that. Magic could have been used to ensure they remain untouched by time – even if that brushed against the Sixth Law just a tiny bit – or that they fulfill some kind of purpose. That did not exactly gel with what we knew about the crime scene and the alleged perp.

This was a hate crime, plain and simple. I had to assume the victims were Polish or Jewish or had that kind of ancestry. The murderer was established to be a fucking nutter, as Crossbell put it. If he had any understanding of magic at all, why would he put the remains of people he butchered in a protective circle? On the other hand, no length of knife I was familiar with could cut people into such mincemeat.

...was it my lucky – and I was using this word with extreme hesitation – day and this really was just a violent killing with no magic involved?

"So who's the perp?" I asked once I was satisfied with my examination.

"Vincent Quigley, twenty-eight. Nazi Lowriders from a local branch." Murphy explained. A Nazi biker, huh? This was only getting better and better. "His last record was assault and battery on an elderly Afro-American couple."

"Real charmer."

"Crossbell did say it's strange, since Quigley never actually killed anyone during his tenure in Lowriders." Murphy sighed. "Let alone in such a graphic manner. Then again, he also pointed out they all snort methamphetamine like it's going out of style."

"You think Quigley's just a convenient fall guy?"

"If he is, I don't know what the real killer gains from this though. It'd be easier to just leave us wondering what the hell happened."

"...so… is this a bad time to bring up the fact that we might have Nazi vampires skulking in Chicago?" Murphy gave me a long, long look; the patented "I am so through with your shit, Dresden" look. It softened a little after a moment. "Long story short, I've been tasked with finding Dracula's body parts that may or may not be around here."

"The Dracula?"

"Yeah. He's a… uh, he's a bit of an outlier from what I've been told." Awkward pause. "...I'll tell you the whole thing someplace safer. Think we can have a look at the perp?"


Vincent Quigley looked like a Nazi's Nazi.

The two cops guarding him looked like they'd rather be anywhere else but there, even with the guy chained to an old radiator and in no conceivable ability to do anything to them.

Other than pop their eardrums with bad singing. Fuck, the guy was loud. Murphy's mouth thinned into a single fine line.

The guy was also covered head to toe in various monochrome tattoos, chiefly the typical nasty stuff; swastikas, SS lightning bolts, Celtic crosses… the NLR's were, I was told, the abbreviation of his gang's full name. Then there were some Nordic runes here and there, leading my eyes to the numerous cuts on his arms, then up to his triangular face with beady eyes and a ridiculous handlebar of a mustache.

Upon seeing me, Quigley's mouth split into an uncomfortably wide grin. If that wasn't a bad sign, I didn't know what was. "Harry Dresden…" He intoned like he was about to break into another song dedicated to yours truly.

"It's Mr. Dresden to you, pal." I scoffed on instinct, which had the opposite effect to intended; the bastard only grinned wider.

"Oh? Perhaps I should call you Mr. Dresden the Hellsing's lackey then?"

Well then.

On one hand, I could appreciate things being cut and dry. Like I said earlier, all of these big situations were a number of seemingly unrelated cases running by each other that often took days – and way too many close calls – to figure out. Here? Boom, everything was clear as day.

On the other hand, being called a lackey by some Nazi pissant struck a wrong chord within. "So…" Once I mentally counted to five, I refocused back on a prospective warlock in front of me. He certainly was more informed than I would have liked, but that didn't rule anything out yet. "Classy work up there."

"My magnum opus, if I dare say so myself. It's liberating, finally being able to cross the thin red line and take a life. I'm sure you would agree."

Deciding that I really didn't like the direction of this conversation – neither did Murphy, judging by the shift in her posture – I opted to change the topic. "Any particular reason why you saw fit to peddle your art macabre here, with this particular family?" Quigley looked thoughtful for a bit, as if he was waging what kind of bullshit to feed me.

"Not quite… ah, no, actually…" His smile widened again. A little more, and the corners of his lips would be touching the ones in his eyes. "You must have noticed that Avondale has been gentrifying for the last few years. Noble effort to scour the undermen's plague from this land."

"Your point being?"

"This building stood stubbornly in resistance of that effort, and now we've decided to take matters into our own hands. We just needed to make sure we went about it in the right manner." Quigley leaned back against the radiator with a look of someone deeply fulfilled. "And now, Mr. Dresden, officers… a song."

Warlock or no warlock, Crossbell was spot-on: the guy was fucking crazy.

"Avondale is falling down, falling down, falling~down..." Stars and stones, he was butchering that song, even without taking into account the ominous lyrics.

...and that was when Avondale literally fell down on our heads.


Well, this is a relic I'm digging back out.

As it turns out, "write by seat of pants" writing style does not lend itself well to investigative fiction like Dresden Files are. Some other things came up, and as a result I ended up letting this languish for almost a year with no updates. But, here we are: it's a second chapter.

I cannot in good faith determine when or even if there will be a third one - I have some ideas I want to try out, but we'll see if I'll have enough creative juice for it. Now, as a few commenters pointed out, I've been playing a little fast and a little loose with Hellsing canon (is Seras seriously 5'10?), so please just assume that Millennium never actually got to do their thing in the US. There are some other troublesome things that I have misrepresented or miswrote, but hopefully they aren't too much of a problem to sap your enjoyment of reading this story.

So... here we are. Hope you like this one. :)