Chapter 9: Family History

As far as he knew, Trevor couldn't remember the last time he'd actually shared a laugh with someone, even if it was at his own expense. In truth, he was rather startled by the alien sound that issued from his own throat and lungs and the way his vocal chords vibrated with the effort. It had been so long, he'd almost forgotten the feeling. Moments like this were few and far between in his reclusive lot, and he clamped his jaw shut again as though in apprehension.

He cleared his throat and pushed away from the bookshelf. "That is not going to be a thing, witch girl," he said, trying (and failing) to revert back to his habitual stoic tone.

"Whatever you say, Trefy," Sypha answered, and he could sense the annoyingly triumphant smile across her face. She had the sort of voice that betrayed emotion quicker than a battle-shy destrier. "And I'm not a witch. You're a Belmont, you should know this."

He did know this. True witches drew their power from demon familiars in exchange for carrying out said demon's bidding. Magicians found theirs in manipulating the elements. Even children in his family had known the difference. As he made his way down the stacks, Trevor heard the sound of Sypha's sandals padding against the stone floor and he glanced back to find the young woman following after him. Christ, now what?

"So…" she said. "I'm guessing 'Trefor' is a name that repeated itself a few times in the family tree if it made it all the way down to you and evolved into Trevor."

Was that all? He snorted. "Yeah. My grandfather was a Trevor, and there have been five or six other family heads by the same name. I think old Leon named one of his own sons after his Celt friend." Trevor paused and stood on his toes to reach for a book on a high shelf. Not one that he needed, but he hoped pretending to concentrate on something else would deter the Speaker from continuing this conversation. By his estimate, it was nearly daybreak, and he was tired and sore and hungry. The spare provisions Sypha's family had given them had not lasted long. Not to mention one of them would have to go up and check on Vânt and Foc, if those were their names, and feed and water them. Miraculously, those steadfast horses had made it all the way from Gresit without suffering an accident or being killed by night creatures. He sighed wearily and cracked the book open to a random page where an illustration of a werewolf skull snarled back at him.

"Were you and your grandfather close?"

Trevor narrowed his eyes at her. "He died before I was old enough to really remember him." He set down the book and reached for another, this one regarding alchemy and weapons. Go away now, Speaker. I've answered your questions. His tongue betrayed him, however, and he opened his mouth, hesitated, and then, "I…think he loved children though. And I remember his hands. They were rough and scarred, and for some reason, they were always smudged black. Like he'd been handling spent firewood or something. I remember one time when he marked up my face to make me laugh."

"There we are. Some war paint for the mighty hunter," the voice that sounded so much like Father's echoed in his ears. And laughter. Grandfather's laughter. His own half-forgotten, childish laughter.

"Any man who loves his grandchildren is a good man," Sypha said warmly.

Trevor nodded, wistful. "He was a good man."

Or so he'd figured from all the stories he'd heard from his father and mother, and Aunt Anne and Uncle Arthur. Grandfather Trevor had died when he was a child of…maybe four or so, and what few memories he had of the old man were moreso images imprinted in his mind rather than memories. Only…no, now that he thought about it, Trevor the Elder could not have been all that old when he died. The imprints recalled to him a man whose dark hair had faded but had not gone grey. Sick, then? Or was it a hunt gone badly? All he remembered of his namesake was images of him in the estate's private chapel or reading his books in the study and more than a few vivid memories of him in the garden, sketching birds and flowers—all of a sudden, Trevor realized why his hands were always black. "Charcoal!" he all but shouted and Sypha jumped. "Grandfather Trevor was always drawing, so it must've been charcoal on his fingers."

"A hunter drawing?" The Speaker frowned.

"Well, who else did you think drew all the sketches of every monster we came across?" he asked.

"Hm, fair."

Just then, Aucard reappeared from around the shelving, taking them both off guard. "Just a thought, Belmont," he said peevishly. Trevor braced himself for whatever caustic words the little fucker had in store now. "But perhaps while we're availing ourselves of your family's extensive waste heap, we ought to exert some energy in researching our main objective."

"And which objective would that be?" Trevor said with a glare. "From what I remember, we have several: find what Draculina is looking for, figure out a strategy to invade Dracula's castle, and find a way to destroy the master vampire himself."

"I was more inclined to the latter." The dhampir smirked. "Rather than scrutinizing my sister in such perverse detail."

God, he was infuriating, yet he restrained him and took a deep breath. "All right. In all the years my family has hunted Dracula, nine of us have successfully invaded his castle and confronted him directly. Five more ambushed him in various cities he happened to be attacking and two met him by chance in their travels. And in all those instances, only two accounts have come down to us: the memoirs of my ancestor, Leon the Progenitor, and the journal of my great-grandfather, Lionel the Valiant."

To his credit, Alucard's eyes shifted from disdain to alarmed while Sypha only looked bewildered. "I don't understand. If there were sixeen hunters over the years, why would—oh."

Two vital narratives from men long dead were all the Belmonts spoke of the lord of the night.

Simply by virtue of being the only hunters to have fought Dracula and survived him.

Trevor raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. "You're welcome to look the accounts over. I've read them so many times, I almost have them memorized."

As the implication of his words sunk in further, Alucard bared his teeth and growled, "Here I thought your family were accomplished hunters, yet you know almost nothing of Dracula? Why the hell—"

"Then perhaps you would like to fill in the gaps, dhampir, Dracula being your father and all?" Trevor rounded on the bastard, who only narrowed his eyes hatefully.

So far, Alucard had only spoken of his father the polymath, the genius, the 'repository of ancient knowledge from forgotten times' and 'such a crying shame it would be to lose all that.' But of Dracula the vampire who had slaughtered thousands if not millions in his heyday, he was ever silent. Nor was the damned ponce forthcoming in the way of strategy or information of the castle's defenses or the Generals of Dracula's court or anything that was of any practical use in their little venture. It seemed to Trevor all Alucard had really done so far was confront Father dearest with no plan, nearly get himself killed, and was now skulking about the Wallachian countryside with the rest of the little ants. So which one was he, he wondered. Willfully ignorant? Or hiding something?

Not that the rest of their 'merry band' was better off; Sypha had probably conjured every insult in every language she knew in her head, and his own thoughts for the Speaker woman and the Goddamned halfbreed had been less than charitable these past couple days. Nonetheless…he sighed. "Look, Draculina is the only other vampire in the world equal to her sire, and we don't know where she stands in this war against humanity or what this mystery object she's searching for it," he continued. "So forgive me if I'm a little uneasy about the idea challenging the two greatest Nosferatu in existence at the same time. And as I've made clear, my family didn't know as much about Dracula as we would have liked."

Alucard scowled.

"But my family had a hell of a lot more run-ins with the Red Death than we ever did with her sire. If there is an answer to destroy him—"

"We'll find it through Draculina," Sypha finished.

Neither of their words seemed to mollify Alucard, although he did have the grace to look mildly abashed in spite of his sour expression. Before either of them could launch into yet another pissing match, though, Trevor suddenly heard a low grumbling noise somewhere in the Hold and he froze. It was subtle, like a book falling over on its shelf or a door creaking open, and had it not been dead quiet down here, he was certain he wouldn't have heard it at all. He glanced behind him, then to his right, and after a moment's consideration, he realized he knew exactly what the sound had been. He'd heard it before. And often.

Sypha pursed her lips and awkwardly flattened her hands against her blue robes. "I hate to interrupt, but…"

"Was that your stomach?" Trevor asked, both impressed and exasperated.

"I'm…really hungry," the Speaker mumured, as though an empty stomach were something to be ashamed of. Of all the things to render the little priss almost diffident…Trevor sighed, but it was Alucard who broke from their triangle and made for the stairs out of the Hold.

"Draculina's private keep is nearby," he announced without looking back and, once again, neatly slithered out of their quarrel. "I'll see if there's any food left in her pantry."

Or you'll find her in residence and she'll fucking butcher you if she feels like it. Trevor turned away in disgust and returned his attention to the alchemy book that had remained in his hands up till now. Briefly, he scanned the scribbled text of some ancestor, read a passage here and there on the properties of some weapon forged by sorcery to face a demon, and then made a mental note to look into the notes of Rinaldo Gandolfi, the alchemist who'd assisted Leon the Progenitor and the Celt Trefor in hunting Walter Bernhard. While he himself had no talent for alchemy, it couldn't hurt to find any more information on the weapons that could be used against Dracula.

Plus…it couldn't hurt to review Leon Belmont's memoirs. Where were those held again? Upstairs with the rest of the family's collection of journals or would they be housed with the heirlooms in the lower treasury?

"I've…heard the stories," Sypha spoke up, and he turned to her. "But is Draculina really as powerful as her creator?"

"Not as powerful," he admitted. "But after what the generations of my family have seen her do, I would wager she could take her master in a fight if she wanted."

"Would she?" the Speaker asked. "Could we somehow make them turn on each other?"

Trevor blew a long stream of air from his lips. "Hm…far as I know, she's never turned against him outright, but they've had their disagreements in the past. Matter of fact, she took up residence in Poenari over a dispute between the two of them, but I wouldn't read too much into it. Parents and children fight, it happens, but they are…unique aligned as far as vampires and fledglings go."

"Dracula is a doting father?"

"Our dhampir seems to think so."

"You don't?"

Trevor waved his hand in a general sweep of the Hold. "I know what my family knew. Vampires are little more than demons who bring nothing but death and chaos to Wallachia. I wouldn't look for compassion in any of them."

"You're really afraid of them, aren't you?" Sypha said. "Vampires, I mean."

He glared at her, but to his surprise, the look on her face was not her customary one of derision. Just concern. "Fear of a powerful vampiress and her master is not cowardice."

"I didn't call you a coward."

Fuck. He hated it when Speakers did that; implied one thing to evoke a reaction. Reveal a fear. He turned away. "When Draculina approached your family in Moldavia, would you have stood idly by had she attacked them?"

Sypha blinked. "Of course not. I would have incinerated her if it came to that."

"That's bravery then." You would have royally pissed her off, but it still counts.

He had never seen Dracula. No Belmont had seen him since his great-grandfather. But Trevor had encountered Draculina once.

And that was enough.

It was almost a year before the mob came. He, his father and Uncle Arthur were returning from an inquiry in…Lupo Village, wasn't it? Rumors telling of a witch residing there had abounded throughout the countryside, and so his family had taken an interest. It was a curious case, he remembered. During a family meeting, Aunt Anne had rolled her eyes and refused to have anything to do with it. "I see no reports of missing children, blighted crops or rampant sickness, and no demon sightings," she'd declared in that authoritarian voice that matched Grandmother Integra's perfectly. "It's just disgruntled villagers throwing blame for careless accidents at the feet of some poor, old widow who happens to live by herself." Such was often the case with witch hunts. Real witches rarely let anyone live long enough to accuse them.

So Grandmother left the hunt to her sons, and Father had thought it prudent to bring him along, even if he did not expect this excursion to be a true hunt. They set out for Lupo at dawn and arrived the following morning. As Aunt Anne had predicted, their 'witch' quickly turned out to be an ordinary, if somewhat eccentric and quite young, woman who lived at the edge of the village and seemed to have set up a practice as a healer of sorts. There was little evidence to suggest she was up to anything sinister, and so…

"I suppose the only thing left to do now is pay a call to the lady herself," Uncle Arthur had said with a careless shrug.

"Mm," Father nodded. "But under what pretense? Two strange men and a boy turning up on her doorstep is sure to alarm her." He was always a 'boy' in his family's eyes and would be regarded as such until he took part in his first hunt. Until there was demon blood on his hands.

"She's a healer, yes?"

"Right."

With that, Arthur pivoted sharply on one foot and landed a fierce kick to his elder brother's ankle. Father shouted in pain and dropped as though he's been kicked in the groin, cursing and holding his leg in agony.

"There," said Arthur, dusting off his hands. "Now we've a reason to visit the village healer." Father called his brother a piss-faced ass, to which Arthur pulled him up and dropped his arm across his shoulders, and they made for the house at the edge of the village.

The 'witch' was out in her garden when she saw them arrive, his uncle calling out, "Good afternoon, madam. Do the villagers speak true when they say you are a healing woman?"

"They do indeed, good sir," she said with a smile and stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. "You seem to have had some trouble on the road." She invited them inside and sat Father down on a chair in the main room, and then he and Uncle Arthur cast their eyes about the rest of the house. It was a tidy place first and foremost, and there were plants everywhere, all carefully tended from the healthy look of them. In the main room, for that was the only room they saw, there were several shelves filled up with neatly organized jars all labeled with the names of garden herbs and other substances unknown to them. She also had far more books than one would expect of a typical peasant. A whole shelf dedicated solely to physik manuals and herbology if the titles were anything to go by. His uncle even pulled one of them down and leafed through it while the 'witch' pretended to take no notice while she examined Father's now swollen ankle.

She seemed to live alone, they observed, save for a sullen, young man with one eye that watched them warily throughout their entire visit. The woman—he could not remember her name—introduced him cheerfully as her nephew.

"And your other family, madame?" Uncle Arthur inquired in just as jovial a tone. "I see from your ring you are married. Is your husband away?"

"Traveling," was her only answer as she reached for a glass jar and a roll of bandages. "He had a sudden urge to visit the sea and brought our son along with him."

"Strange that he would leave his wife alone for such a venture," Father said suspiciously, still wincing in pain as the woman spread a pale-colored cream against the angry bruise that had formed on his leg.

"We're a strange family, sir. And I am needed here." The woman smiled at him. "Besides, I am not alone. I have young Pipkin here with me." 'Pipkin' appeared not to appreciate this pet name, for his suspicious glare turned to one of exasperation as he regarded the woman. Still, he did not speak and made his way across the room where he pointedly took the book from Uncle Arthur's hands and returned it to the shelf.

"Oh, do wipe that dour glare off your face, Pip," the woman scolded and waved her hand. "Go out and tend to our guests' horses, would you?"

"Might I ask what exactly you're applying to my ankle, madame?" Leonel asked when he had gone. "It burns cold."

He and Arthur both tensed, but the woman merely laughed. "Oh, it's just a salve made from onion and arnica root, sir. For the swelling and pain. It doesn't feel broken and you should have full use of it in a few days."

"What a relief!" Arthur grinned cheerfully down at his brother. "See, Leonel, I told you there was nothing to fuss over! Worries about everything this one."

Father only growled, likely plotting his revenge for when they took their leave of the strange woman's house. For his part, Trevor remembered little else of that investigation. The woman had offered to host them for supper when the hour was late, and when they declined, she insisted on sending them on their way with some food at least. He remembered the hostile 'Pipkin' seething with impatience to get them out the door and they left that house with a bandaged ankle and some medicine for its upkeep and further treatment, as well as a fresh loaf of bread, some turnips from the garden, and a small bag of apricots from the tree in the yard.

"Your husband won't mind this generosity?" Arthur had asked as they were saddling the horses.

"This is my house," the woman said with a smile. "My food to give as I please. And you said you were from Argeș, right? That's quite a journey if I'm not mistaken, so these provisions should see you through."

Trevor remembered Father furrowing his brow, as though it suddenly occured to him he'd seen this woman somewhere before and was trying to place her. She shook hands with all of them, including him, something he had never done with a woman before. Her grip was as firm and confident as a man's, he thought as she stepped back and wished them well. "And if misfortune should cross your future and you are in need of a doctor, you are always welcome at my door."

This time, Father found his voice. "What a kind woman you are, madame."

The Lupo woman's smile widened. "Would that the world were a little kinder, sir. Imagine what a world that could be."

They made their way home without a word, none of them really sure what to say. Now and then, Uncle Arthure would take in a breath of air as though he were about to speak, but whatever words he'd strung together in his head dissipated and he remained silent. It didn't matter; all three of them knew which question was hanging above their heads. How do we make this report to Integra? Witch or no, their formidable mother and grandmother would want to know what they had uncovered in Lupo Village.

"So…not a witch, then," Leonel finally said. "We're in agreement."

Trevor remembered nodding. "Just a lady."

"Healer of Lupo Village." Arthur made an indecisive face. "The Lupo Doctor? We'll figure it out."

"My ankle fucking hurts, you toad."

It was when evening fell and talk had turned to stopping to make camp that the three of them were met by the Red Death.

She was coming from the opposite direction, and even as a boy of twelve, Trevor knew she was a vampire by sight. Not by her bloodless skin or ominous, red eyes or the ethereal grace to her footsteps, or even by the unease their horses showed in her presence. No, he knew a human woman dressed as nobly as Draculina would never travel on foot, in the middle of the wilderness, this close to dark, without attendants or guards. Only an undead woman would have the confidence to walk abroad alone.

"Shit," Father said as he reined in his horse.

"Calm down," Arthur reached across to grip his brother's arm. "She won't spill blood here. Not in front of the boy."

"You say that with such confidence," Leonel snarled back as Arthur dismounted.

"Just don't anger her or I will kick you again. Higher this time."

For his part, Trevor could remember his growing apprehension as the vampire lady neared them and the air began to cool. Father's consecrated whip had been created long ago alchemist and drew its power from the defeated shades of ancient monsters and a woman reluctuctantly turned vampire who sacrificed what remained of her soul for the good of the world; the mindless hatred that seethed from the ancient weapon was suffocating, like sulfur and ash. On impulse, he too dismounted from his fidgeting horse and went to wait beside his uncle. At first, the vampiress seemed to pay them no mind, advancing without glance or any indication she was even aware of them at all, but right as she came abreast with them on the road, she stopped and, smooth as a porcelain doll, turned her head and looked at them.

"Good eve, Draculina," Uncle Arthur said with a cordial nod. "How fare your travels?"

"Bloody awful," said Draculina, her voice much deeper than he'd expected for a woman as young as she looked. "And yourself, Arthur?"

His uncle shrugged. "I can't complain. Brother?"

Father grit his teeth and said nothing.

Draculina's pale lips curled in a small smile, then she jerked her chin in a brief nod in the direction they'd come. "What business did Belmonts have in Lupo?"

"None of yours," Leonel growled, then glared when Arthur answered:

"We heard tell of a witch in the area and thought we'd see if it was true."

Her smile widened, but her red eyes became cold as glass. "And did you?"

Arthur shrugged. "Oh, I wouldn't think so. Witches don't bandage swollen ankles or offer apricots for free."

The sound of a vampire laughing was both terrible and strange. Draculina's laughter was as deep and melodious as her voice was, and the broad grin across her face seemed to be nothing short of pure delight, as though she were simply a lady enjoying gossip at the royal court. A lady as much as Aunt Anne or Mother was. "That they don't, Belmont."

Then Arthur was laughing too. Easily. As if she were an old friend.

But then Draculina turned her eyes on him, and he froze as though caught in the gaze of a medusa head. Her lips quirked in a bemused, predatory smile and her eyes went narrow in some form of sadistic glee. "And who is this?"

As much as he could tell his father wanted nothing more than to put a silver knife through the vampiress, Leonel only clenched his jaw and answered, "My son. Trevor."

"Oh, really." The vampiress arched an eyebrow and tilted her head.

He remembered trembling under her unblinking stare. For as long as he could remember, the night creature he had been taught to fear above all others was the vampire. The creature that defied death, who moved with the speed of a lightning stroke and possessed the strength of Hell. Many of them commanded dark magic, could change their shape at will, communed with wicked spirits, and possessed ancient knowledge. In the face of so great an evil as that, fear was natural. Fear was sensible. Only fools had no fear of the dark. True bravery was dominion over fear. The ability to recognize a threat, have the will to face it, to know when to consider a battle lost and retreat, and, if it came to it, the resolve to give your life. "Stand up. Stand tall." Those were Grandmother's words. "Never let them see your fear."

But in that moment, he forgot everything his family had drilled into him since birth, his resolve wavered, and he looked down. And he showed Draculina his terror.

He heard the vampire lady take a step toward him, felt his uncle's inaudible warning to his father, and then he saw Draculina's knee drop into his line of sight as she knelt before him. This time, he squeezed his eyes closed, and the small sound he made in his throat was not the sound of a brave hunter.

"Boy," Draculina said in her low, haunting voice. "Let me see your face."

He dared not move, but he felt Arthur's hand on his shoulder, silently letting him know that it was okay. Slowly, as if a sudden movement would incite her to strike the way a feral dog would, he raised his head. Draculina's face was inches from his, their noses barely a hair's breath apart, and all he could see were those awful, red eyes stretched open so far that he wondered if she was even able to blink at all. They dilated and he saw his own piss-scared reflection in them. She drew her thin, pale lips back and bared her fangs and, finding nothing human in that face, he made to drop his own again, but her cold hand caught him by the jaw and kept him upright. "Chin up, little Belmont," she hissed. "Eyes forward. Or no one will ever take you seriously."

"Draculina!" His father's voice thundered. "That's enough. Leave him be."

The vampiress only tightened her grip and he felt her sharp nails prick his skin.

"Seras," said Arthur. Right…he called her Seras, her human name, as though invoking it would remind her of what she'd once been. "Please."

Draculina finally blinked, eyes flicking toward his father and uncle, then back to him. She parted her lips, revealing her fangs, and she slowly stood up and let him go. He was so relieved he fell back on the ground. As soon as the Red Death moved on, red cloak trailing after her, Leonel swung himself off his horse and, even with his injury, ran around to pull him into a firm hug. The feeling of his father's arms around him slowly drove away the fear, replaced by a slew of relieved tears fit for a much younger child. Not a boy of twelve. Not… "I wish you wouldn't indulge her so, Arthur," Leonel sighed in relief while he'd wept. "You'll be the death of us all one day."

"If Seras Victoria wanted our family dead, she'd have come down from that mountain of hers and done the deed years ago," Arthur answered crossly. "She's a peaceful creature, Brother. Leave her be."

"Peaceful for now."

"Not for long if you keep antagonizing her. We've proven that time and time again, she doesn't attack unprovoked."

"She also fucking skins her enemies."

But Trevor wasn't listening to their argument. The skin where Draculina's hand had gripped him was cold as death for days after they returned home and nightmares of her soulless eyes had plagued him for a month. Night after night he'd woken himself up with his own screams or he was shaken to consciousness by his mother or one of his brothers. He remembered how tired he was, never getting enough sleep and losing more sparring matches with his older siblings and cousins when before they had been relatively equal in skill. Then one morning, when the night terror of the Poenari demoness came again, he was awoken by the back of Grandmother's hand cracking across his cheek. When his eyes snapped open, too stunned to register pain yet, he saw the older woman standing above his bed, her lone ice blue eye narrow in fierce anger. "Enough of this," she snapped. "You are terrifying your family."

If all that was what it was like to stand in Draculina's presence, Trevor could not even begin to imagine how it would be to face her titan of a father.

Slowly, he turned the pages of the book in his hands. "I fear all vampires, Speaker. Better to fear a vampire and anticipate the odds stacked against you than to die overconfident and foolish."

He waited for Sypha to make some form of defiant retort—something along the lines of, 'Who said anything about dying?'—but the only words she seemed to have were, "There's another thing I've heard about Draculina. Is it true she refuses to harm children?"

Was it? Trevor furrowed his brow and thought back to every death his family knew for certain the Red Death was responsible. Hunters, ordinary folk, vampires, monsters, names like his great-grandfather's brother, Levi Belmont, came to mind, and the vampire chieftains of Scandinavia. Levi had been young but was undoubtedly a grown man and the Viking lords were all seasoned veterans of warfare. On the rare occasion when Draculina roused herself to attack a human city out of anger or vengeance or whatever, there was always a reason, he supposed. Or she was following Dracula's commands. For all her power and temper, none of the stories told of a champion for wanton bloodshed. Even now, with the Horde loose in Wallachia, there had been no tales of the Red Death adding her own numbers to the death toll. And…admittedly, while she had frightened him half to death when he was boy, she hadn't really hurt him. Not seriously. Not to mention there was that one time…

"Well, I've yet to hear a story where she willingly brought harm to a child," he conceded. "And…there was one time, years ago, a child in my family was carried off by a vampire. Draculina brought him back."

"The son of hunters?"

Trevor shrugged. "As a child, or anyone innocent, you are safe from her, I suppose."

"I wonder why."

"Sorry?"

Sypha crossed her arms and leaned back against the shelves. "In all the stories I've heard about vampires, and many of them seem to follow a code of honor of sorts, whether it's based on ideals from their lifetime or a personal philosophy, so I wonder what it is about innocents that gives Draculina her morality."

-0-0-0-

Author's Notes:

On Integra's harsh treatment of her family, I was aiming for the canonical personal of Integra amplified by the medieval setting. Integra is driven, at least in part, by family, religious and national pride. In the pilot episode of the OVA, she references the serial killing vampire duo as 'mocking the church, country, and Hellsing itself.' Additionally, she, at the age of twelve, fought to keep the family headship from falling into her uncle's hands, maintaining the wishes of her late father. The medieval era is the perfect environment for her character and I really hope I can tap into it more. However, in this story, it's hard to tell whether or not Integra genuinely loves her family, but she definitely views them all in the sense of familial pride. As her children and grandchildren, they are the continuation of her dynastic ambitions, which was key in medieval nobility. Integra has her expectations, and as the clan matriarch, it was her responsibility to ensure, in whatever way possible, her children and grandchildren met them.

Life was cheap and love was lucky in this era.

Also important to note, Alucard has misjudged the Belmonts as much as Trevor has misjudged him. In 'Old Bones and Shattered Homes,' Alucard imagines the vampire hunters would have killed him and his mother without a second thought, but Trevor's memory shows they had a investigation process and did not kill indiscriminately. He says so himself in season two they were professionals. Granted, the situation may have been very different had Leonel and Arthur discovered Lisa's half-vampire child.

And Lisa and Pip knew exactly who their visitors were.

I own neither of these series.