Insert obligatory reminder that I was raised Catholic and I have next to no idea what goes on in a Protestant priest's day-to-day life in the modern era, much less the early 1900s. Apologies if my research was inaccurate.

Father Anderson woke in darkness, which was not altogether unexpected. He generally woke before dawn in most cases, no matter how late he had worked the night before: it was habit at this point. Alongside everything that was necessary to get ready for each new day, he had the morning service to prepare for, the church to clean and maintain. If he attempted to remain in bed past the rising of the sun, his body would start screaming at him to rise and to do, the nagging itch at the back of his mind practically dragging him to his feet even when he was on vacation.

Alas.

The first thing he did upon waking was roll over, fumbling on the bedside table for the lamp. Warm yellow light flooded the room, leaving him to yawn and sit up, rubbing his scruffy chin. He removed his glasses from their case and slid them back onto his nose, bringing the room back into sharp focus, and then reached for the two necklaces coiled together on the nightstand. Untangling them with care, Anderson hung the silver locket back around his neck, but rather than donning his rosary, he knelt beside the bed and bowed his head, beginning his morning prayers.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour or so later, Father Anderson emerged from his rooms, his more mundane garb firmly in place, his hands gloved, and his rosary swinging around his neck. A slight bulge under the black fabric covering his chest was the only sign of the locket that he carried: its chain was hidden beneath his clerical collar.

Being irregular enough in his habits and low enough in his salary that he did not bother to engage even a single menial servant, Anderson made his way to the kitchen and prepared his humble breakfast alone, although the addition of a gas stove at least made his cooking somewhat easier. Some of his colleagues still had to make do with hearths or wood-fired stoves, especially in the countryside. In London, at least, he had a great deal of modern amenities, even if his parish was small.

Methodically stoking himself with food to face the long day ahead, Anderson drank his boiling coffee and tried to hold onto his morning state of an unconcerned fugue. He didn't want to think about –well, anything, really. He didn't want to think about Sir Hellsing, or her death, or the strange book she had gifted to him as his inheritance, or how utterly ridiculous said book was. He didn't want to think about anything, except his duties for the upcoming religious service.

Perhaps this was the coward's route, but in ignorance lay bliss, or so he had heard. Personally, Anderson was just happier to push away the bitter sorrow that had clung to him ever since he had seen Sir Hellsing's sprawled, bloody figure and felt grief clench in an iron claw around his heart. He shook his head briskly at such thoughts as he stood from the kitchen table and went into the sanctuary. If he buried himself in work and tried to force his mind into an unthinking blankness, then he wouldn't have to face what had happened to her, or all of his raw and raging feelings.

Unfortunately, cleaning had always had something of a meditative effect on him, and Father Anderson felt his mind irresistibly trailing back to Sir Hellsing's death and the strange mystery surrounding it as he dusted the sanctuary and cleaned its fixtures. The idea of vampires was preposterous, but…she had foreseen a danger that had come upon her. No matter how he tried to rearrange the facts in his head, that always came up clear. She had known that she was in peril of her life, and taken steps to preserve something that she clearly thought was very important.

And just as clearly, her murderers had agreed. Her office had been torn apart in a frantic search after she had died.

And for one shining, hopeful moment as Anderson carefully wiped down the windows, he imagined that his first guess might have been wrong, and that whoever had so wildly searched her office had found the hidden cupboard, and replaced whatever Sir Hellsing had meant for him to find with this useless book and other items. But –no. It was her locket, her photograph, her letter in the cupboard, and her handwriting in that very strange book. These were the things that she meant for him to have.

Baffling as that may be.

He sighed as he applied a broom to the stone floor of the sanctuary. Things would be so much easier if that book was a mistake, but it looked like Sir Hellsing had, as ever, decided to make things difficult. His admiration for her did not change the fact that she was a very stubborn, very willful woman who delighted in mysteries and her own dramatic demeanor. Outside of research, he had yet to remember a single occasion where she clarified rather than obfuscated one of her own obscure comments –and even for research, she sometimes would not answer his questions, instead preferring to let him search on his own.

It was incredible, to think that she was gone.

Pulling in a deep breath and reminding himself that he was trying not to think about it, Anderson touched the smooth lump under his clothes. The silver had already warmed by contact with his body, and he drew a little comfort from it, reminding himself that he was carrying on Sir Hellsing's tradition of keeping said locket with her everywhere she went –for whatever reason. It was a small and cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

He did wonder about the mystery of why she carried it with her, but time was slipping away, and he needed to get himself cleaned up and ready for the liturgy before his parishioners arrived.

He retreated back to his quarters, running a quick bath to clear the dust and grit of his own morning efforts at maintaining the church, and then wrapped a towel around himself and made at least an attempt to tame his short, ever-spiky hair. Before donning his clerical uniform, Anderson also went through the usual effort to scrape the stubble from his jaw with a razor, even though he knew it would make a reappearance sometime before the eponymous five-o-clock. It always did.

Both he and his church cleaned and ready, he stepped out of his quarters with perfect timing as the first few parishioners began to trickle in.

As much as he loved carrying out God's rituals, though, Father Anderson found himself distracted and morose as he went through the morning service on this particular day. The unsolved questions of last night haunted him, and no matter how he tried to drag his mind back to the ceremony, he couldn't quite slip into his usual pleasant communion between himself, God, and the souls who came here to pray and be blessed.

Thankfully, he did not make any mistakes.

His heart may be in it as far as his duties went, but his mind was not on it as Father Anderson retreated to the back of the sanctuary after the morning service had concluded, shaking hands and murmuring greetings to his parishioners as they shuffled out. There were not that many –it was morning service on a day that was not Sunday, after all– but there were a few, mainly the old and those who were deeply faithful. Normally, dealing with them was a refreshing part of his day, but with the fog of thought clouding his mind, Father Anderson was somewhat preoccupied.

He did spend some time talking with Phoebe Smith, though that was only because Mrs. Phoebe Smith was not to be denied or avoided. A widow fully as old as Sir Hellsing but with none of her mettle, this somewhat doddering lady had decided in her own persistent way that the young priest of her parish needed looking after. Anderson was somewhat used to prepositions –though a Protestant minister had a rather meager income and thus very little prospects, being a man who looked like he could crush a watermelon in his grip had a certain attraction to certain people– but rather than coy offers of food or clothes, Mrs. Phoebe's attention was decidedly more maternal.

"-and it would not be that much more money to hire some nice young person to at least help you clean the church." the old woman sniffed, shaking her head. As usual, she was one of the last few out, and the others were passing by with barely more than a nod of farewell. "You'll ruin your health, you will, taking care of this drafty place all on your own and doing all the work needed to keep body and soul together."

He smiled, though it was with the ghost of a sigh.

"I'm up at all sorts of odd hours with my research hobbies." Father Anderson reminded her patiently, his usual counterpoint. "It wouldn't be fair to inflict that on an employee."

"Well, you could apply to the church and ask for an acolyte. Do them some good, I say, learning to take care of the church and their priest at the same time!"

Despite his gloom, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"I'll keep it in mind." he promised, chuckling internally a little at the idea of ordering an acolyte from the church as though they were a housekeeper he was requisitioning servants from, and she huffed.

"See that you do." Mrs. Phoebe told him sternly, before fishing a rolled newspaper from her handbag and slapping it with more noise than force against his ribs. "And I don't suppose that you've gotten the paper yet today, have you?"

Father Anderson took the paper from her gently.

"I was going to find a newsstand after the service." he said, which was true enough. Mrs. Phoebe, however, eyed him with a gimlet glare, as though she had dire expectations of his ability to actually follow through with such a plan. What he had done to give her such little confidence in him, Anderson had no idea. He was distractable, certainly, when it came to paperwork and organizing his books, but his attention span wasn't so miniscule that he'd go wandering off during a short stroll to a nearby newsstand.

Father Anderson gave the most reassuring smile he knew how to give, tucking the newspaper under one arm.

Mrs. Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him.

Perhaps it was an age thing. He was more than thirty years younger than she was, so Anderson supposed that he got stuck under the "feckless youth" label in Mrs. Phoebe's mind. No one else worried so about his competence, not even Sir Hellsing or Maxwell. Well…Anderson rather suspected that Maxwell would be willing to bash his own head in rather than admit worry for a peer, but Sir Hellsing, certainly, had a far more critical and discerning eye. She'd never said anything about his ability to take care of himself before: quite the opposite.

He gently ushered the old woman on her way, reminding her of the visit she was expecting from one of her grandchildren later in the morning, and she left him with one last dire warning that if he ever got so much as a sniffle, she would send the entire fleet of her relatives and hire a maid to look after him herself.

With his morning duties out of the way, though, he was momentarily left at loose ends, and Father Anderson took the newspaper with him to read in the small scrap of back garden, this church being too small to even support a proper cemetery. He sat on the bench amid the climbing roses and opened the crinkling pages, his eyes sliding with no real interest over the various news and scandals. They stopped, however, near the back of the newspaper, and his heart twisted as he read the obituary.

SIR INTEGRA FAIRBROOK WINGATES HELLSING, 1850-1920

SIR HELLSING, a noted historian who devoted her life to the study of the supernatural, was found dead in suspicious circumstances on the night of May 11th at her offices in the British Museum. Hellsing was born in Islington, London, in 1850 to Arthur, a captain in Her Majesty's Navy, and his wife, Elizabeth. After reading history at Oxford, Hellsing entered the Civil Service in 1873 and served with distinction in the Foreign Office until 1897. Since that time Hellsing undertook various assignments for the Foreign Office but mainly devoted her energies to her work in the Department of Anthropology at the British Museum. Her particular specialties were death rituals and the afterlife in various world cultures. Sir Hellsing was unmarried and leaves no issue.

So, she was dead, then. Dead not only to his eyes, but in the eyes of the world as well. Reading this flat statement was somehow worse than seeing her body –even with the weight of the silver locket nestled against his heart, he could convince himself that it had been a hallucination, a mad and painful dream. Sir Hellsing wasn't really dead, he had just had a dreadful nightmare. It was so easy to believe –how empty and isolated the museum had been when he entered, how ludicrous the idea of such a murder was, even the splay of her body under the setting sun. Surely it had just been a feverishly realistic and disordered dream.

But now, with Sir Hellsing's death inked out in the precise type of The Times, there was no more denying it. She was gone, and the whole world knew it.

Gloomily, he refolded the pages and laid the newspaper down on his lap, but Father Anderson did not rise, instead sitting in a slumped and grief-stricken pose on the garden bench. Birds twittered faintly amid the bushes, and the light shone off the water in the curved dish placed here for their use, but he did not move. He was a man of science as well as a man of faith, and it was his duty and his pleasure to follow the cold, hard spiral of logic to whatever end it might lead him, and thus come upon new knowledge.

Sir Hellsing was dead. That was a fact.

She had seen her own death coming –that was another fact.

She had entrusted the contents of the hidden cupboard to him. That was the third fact.

She wanted him to protect and use those contents. But for what?

That was what baffled him, and the most logical conclusion flew in the face of all reason. The book, purportedly, was a practical guide on how to kill vampires. Therefore, if Sir Hellsing had wanted him to use it, then she could only mean that she meant him to use it to hunt and kill vampires. The very idea was preposterous, and yet, it was the most logical chain of events. And one other thing –if this book was meant to be a guide in killing vampires, and Sir Hellsing had wrote it, and she had foreseen her death…then might her enemies, the ones that had killed her, be…?

No.

Ridiculous.

It made no sense.

Frustrated into a sudden fit of pique, Father Anderson stood abruptly, walking with long strides back to his office. He pulled the curtains wide to admit the light, and pulled that so-strange manuscript from the drawer in which he had consigned it to last night. This was nonsense, all nonsense, and yet…

Well, perhaps in the harsh, mundane light of day it would be easier to puzzle out these strange intricacies. Laying the manuscript on the desk and opening it carefully to the first page, Anderson then reached into his pocket and pulled out the small pocket journal that he carried with him everywhere, and in which he jotted down all his notes and ideas. He laid it beside the much-larger book and got out a pen, dipping it in the ink and jotting down the date on a fresh page before setting the pen aside and returning his critical gaze to the manuscript.

It was old, certainly, which bore out Sir Hellsing's statement that it had not been a recent commission. The paintings that had been fixed to the two pages did not in any way resemble the sketches he had seen her create before, and as an amateur artist of no mean skill, Anderson felt confident in saying that they had not been drawn by her hand. The painting of an odalisque woman reeling backwards in dramatic pose under the supposed assault of a vampire seemed fairly modern, and was oil paint over the lines of a charcoal sketch. The second picture, the one he had barely glanced at the night before, depicted several strange, mostly humanoid creatures in a variety of dress, but it had the pale and delicately precise shading of an oil painting done by a Renaissance master.

While this was practically very interesting, it did not tell him much about the book itself. He already knew that Sir Hellsing had access to a variety of old materials and manuscripts due to her position working closely with the British Museum, so it would have been easy for her to find copies or originals of old paintings that supported her strange, mad beliefs.

He'd only glanced at the second page and its contents last night, and hungry for more information –however preposterous– Anderson found himself paying much closer attention now.

The delicately-colored painting that headed the page depicted a series of what he supposed were vampires, arranged in a rough line. The first appeared to be a creature in the midst of a transformation, whose human body was giving way to the rougher features of a bat as their toes splayed and elongated, webbing began to stretch itself between their joints, and fur covered their body. The second was a full human in ancient Chinese garb, but with arms stiffly outstretched, taloned nails, and a corpselike pallor. The third creature was a strange, furred beast hunched over a bloodied goat, looking something like a grim mix of dog and bat. The fourth and final supposed vampire was of a large bearded man in Indian armor, bearing a drawn sword.

Anderson glanced at the caption under the second painting.

Vampires have adopted many different guises throughout history, which have been both worshipped and feared by different cultures. From left to right: manananggal, chiang-shih, chupacabra, and rakshasa.

Beneath this caption and this painting was another title in the more ornate Gothic script of the original heading but far smaller and less bold, seeming to indicate a section rather than a true chapter.

WHAT HUMANS ALREADY KNOW ABOUT VAMPIRES:

For the cynics among you, consider this: stories concerning vampires have been present in every culture of the world for centuries. Using many guises, the Fallen Ones have concealed their true identities, hiding behind romanticized lore and legend. Although I find much fault with such lore, not all cultural depictions of vampires should be dismissed. Many stories passed down for centuries contain some truth, though there are too many old tales of the Fallen to recount them all here. The mere fact that almost all cultures have some form of ancient myth regarding vampires should be enough to convince sceptics that there is an element of truth at their core.

ASIA AND EUROPE

Chiang-shih, meaning "hopping corpse," is the popular name given to vampires in Chinese lore. They were given this name when their undead bodies were spotted down dark alleyways, waving their animated limbs to create large, terrifying shadows. I cannot offer an explanation for this strange behavior, though I can confirm that these creatures are from the Fallen bloodlines. The notion that chiang-shih have difficulty crossing water is, however, untrue.

Hindu cultures have many names for vampires. On some Indonesian islands, blood sacrifices are still made for the rakshasa, and it is widely believed that these creatures are demons who also consume human flesh. The same region of the world tells stories of the manananggal, a witch that can separate its upper torso from the rest of its body as a means of taking flight. This description is misleading –in truth, this creature is a shape-shifting vampire who has the capacity to change into a bird of prey, a bat, a dragon, or a gryphon (more on this can be found in the chapters following).

When in Ireland recently, I purchased a book of the old folktales that told of sidhe and their many powers. These creatures are not vampires: rather, they are Irish ghouls who announce an oncoming death with their wailing. A more detailed discussion of ghouls can be found in "Vampire Relationships with the Undead."

THE AMERICAS

Not long ago, I was asked to travel to North America to investigate a number of grisly killings on the southern border. I discovered that the culprit was known to the natives as the chupacabra. I can confirm that this beast is a vampire; the notion that this creature consumes the flesh of its victim is, however, a fallacy.

Anderson rubbed his chin reluctantly. This was all nonsense, of course, but…well, it was rather internally-consistent nonsense all the same. Although what Sir Hellsing said about every culture having a myth of blood-drinking creatures was true –so far as he was aware– he was highly reluctant to take that as evidence. Near every culture also had a Cinderella tale, and that was no grounds for conspiracy about some secret class of women with magic shoes.

But her other statements rang true. He had come across many legends of blood-drinking creatures in his time as an amateur folklorist, from many different cultures in the world, and the notion that they might be real was…terrifying. Hints of Sir Hellsing's meticulous research style were floating through these pages, and it made the hair rise on the back of his neck, thinking about how such things may be real, real snippets of forgotten legends and lore that she had found in her role as…Protector?

No.

Nonsense.

It was all nonsense.

Flipping quickly back to the title page, Anderson's eye fell upon the oval painting of the handsome black-haired man again, and a burst of frustration spread inside his chest. Why affix the portrait of her long-lost lover to a book such as this? Why create such a book at all? He knew Sir Hellsing had a love of secrecy, but if she meant for him to have this knowledge, then surely she could have just told him outright!

Setting aside the frustrating and yet oddly hypnotizing manuscript for a moment, he pulled the drawer open again and retrieved the letter she had written to him. Father Anderson scanned the single slip of paper once more, hungry for the slightest scrap of evidence as to…well, anything. None of this made sense, and she was offering him little to no guidance in fumbling his way towards an answer.

The book, together with this letter, definitely seemed to imply that she wanted him to succeed her in some sort of nebulous role. One of the last sentences, particularly, stood out to him: You are the only one who can take up my mantle –you are to be my successor, the world's next Protector.

Picking up his pen and holding his journal open with his opposite thumb on the corner, Anderson scratched out his thoughts in more concrete form, still frowning at the inscrutable letter and the even-more-perplexing book.

London, May 12th, 1920

I, the next "Protector"? What nonsense is this? I knew that Sir Hellsing had an interest in the darker side of myth and legend, but I now see that her belief in it went deeper than I ever thought. How I wish she was here to explain it to me, for I am finding it hard to believe that the book in front of me is fact rather than fiction. Yet it appears to be written by my own friend, a woman whose word I trusted above that of all others.

Setting down his pen again as he finished those thoughts, Father Anderson pinched and rubbed the bridge of his nose. If one ignored the absurdity of vampires, then both Sir Hellsing's writing of this book and the events that proceeded him inheriting it did make a certain kind of sense. Her words that hinted about the gruesomeness of vampiric feeding, along with more direct statements like these vicious blood drinkers, this ancient battle in defense of humanity, and we do not fear them as we should, capable though they are of eradicating our kind forever seemed to more than imply that this was a very serious matter. A deadly matter, in fact.

So, if one ignored the nonexistence of vampires, then a very clear pattern of events at once suggested itself. Sir Hellsing had been fighting these enemies for quite some time: this book was a guide she had written in order to bring in more reinforcements, as well as educate her successor or successors. Having been uncovered or surprised by her enemies, she only had time to reach out to him –her nearest, closest associate– and hide the precious manuscript before they had come upon her, with fatal results.

Still…vampires? Vampires? It boggled the mind. It was ridiculous.

He found himself gnawing at his lower lip as he stared at the words on the page, trying to discern how much was true or even how much he was willing to accept as true. It was a difficult thing for a man of faith to grapple with –to think, for even a moment, that God could be so thwarted. The existence of vampires would be an aberration, a blasphemy. They perverted the natural order of life and death, and their very existence was a mockery of God's creation.

To accept such creatures as even theoretically possible flew in the face of everything Anderson had been taught to believe, everything he had spent his life preaching. Neither God nor the Church –any Church– acknowledged the possibility of such creatures, and what was not acknowledged under God did not, could not, exist. It was simply an impossibility.

He realized his mind was starting to run in circles again and shut the book with a frustrated sigh. If he couldn't even get past the first page without getting his mind tied up in knots, there wasn't much hope of reading the book through.

Glancing at the clock balanced precariously on one of the book-stuffed shelves, Anderson realized that he ought to collect his mail –something that Mrs. Phoebe had unintentionally distracted him from, since he usually collected it upon returning from getting the newspaper.

Rather unsurprisingly, when he went out to the postbox to collect it, he found amongst the usual bulletins and charity letters a message from the solicitor handling Sir Hellsing's postmortem estate. Keeping in perfect time with her usual brisk character, Sir Hellsing had not only arranged for her funeral far in advance of her death, she had left orders for said funeral to be conducted no less than three days after said death, presumed or actual. No loose ends, and certainly no lingering attachments.

This particular letter included regrets, condolences, etc. and an invitation to attend the funeral of Sir Integra Hellsing on the 13th of May 1920, further details and time enclosed. He sighed as he opened the letter and read through the attachments, noting as he did that he was not the priest Sir Hellsing had chosen to officiate. A lesser man might have been hurt by this, but he attested it to her usual ruthless practicality. Yes, they had been close, but she would have wanted to give him the time and space to grieve rather than wrangle together a eulogy, especially considering the tight schedule between her death and her funeral.

Three days. Hah. Most people wouldn't even have time to settle the legalities of their death in that span of time, but not her. Sir Hellsing had nothing and no one, as far as Anderson was aware, and while that might have been a cold and lonely existence, she was a misanthropic woman to her core. She had never seemed to be troubled by it much, if at all.

And now she was gone.

Grief twisted a gentle but irresistible hand around his heart again, squeezing, squeezing, and Anderson found the words of the letter blurred again through his tears. He already missed her so, and it had not even been a full day since Sir Hellsing's death.

He needed work. Work was the antidote to sorrow, and if he could not forget his grief, he could at least lay it aside under the mundane weight and business of his day.

The morning of the funeral dawned pale and grey, with flashes of bright light from the huge, puffy clouds scudding by overhead, the world slipping in and out of sun like water streaming through stones. It was, thankfully, scheduled for later in the day, and so Father Anderson could actually conduct his morning business and then pay for a hansom to take him to the funeral without causing an unfortunate disruption to his schedule.

The hooves of the horse clopped briskly against the cobblestones of the street as they pulled onto one of the busier roads, and an echo of them went ahead, a warning of the cab's passage that ran against the grey stone and brick of the buildings lining the street as countless other cabs, carriages, and the occasional automobile wove through the busy thoroughfares.

Father Anderson had not been born here, and he had always found London a very grey city, with its skies overcast, its stones dark with age. Even the newer, smarter buildings covered in plaster were usually damp with rain or mist, situated on the coast as London was. Iron railings ran down like trickles of water from the various fences that guarded stoop or sidewalk, and white curtains behind the window-glass gave every house he passed filmy grey eyes, as though covered by cataracts. Even the wood was bleached and soaked by long years of weather into a dreary grey-brown.

For all its greyness, though, this was a very lively city. The sidewalks swirled with life, men and women and children hurrying to and fro on various errands, their hats seeming to swim in a sea of frantic movement. Old-fashioned women with their high collars and tight sleeves going to work, skirts rustling with brisk purpose about their sturdy little walking shoes, while more modern girls wore their hair bobbed and their clothes loose, with their high and short sleeves as an afterthought. Men in suits, some somber, some loud and bright, paced quickly across the stones, and working men in their dungarees and cloth caps moved in a grim bubble of space.

The chatter and rustle of these thousands of souls filled the air as the cab steadily drew Anderson to his destination: high and shrill voices, low and sober conversation, brisk chatter, and always beneath it all the tramp of hundreds of feet, the muted swish of fabric and canes, and the clatter of wheels and hooves on the cobblestone street. Occasionally a bus or an automobile would chug past, panting and rumbling, and carriages and cabs alike would draw aside to give the machine a wide berth.

Father Anderson closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat, letting the rocking, swaying motions of the cab calm him, ease his mind, taking in a deep breath and letting the murmur of the city run over him like a stream flowing over a stone. It was soothing, in a strange way, to hear all the thousand lives that would never mix with his passing by around him, wondering what errands had sent them forth from their home, wondering what events were going on in the lives divorced from his own.

It served to distract him for long enough to the cab to pull into the curb, slowing to a gradual halt as he opened his eyes and straightened. Seizing the overhead handle and climbing out, he thanked the driver and paid him, before stepping onto the pavement as the cabbie flicked his whip over the horse's head and it rattled off again, heading for better places than a mere graveyard.

Although she was a titled noblewoman, Sir Hellsing's family had not held any appreciable amount of land for quite some time, ever since London had grown up around their ancestral estate. They had reinterred their remains elsewhere, closer to the church that had serviced their family, and now, generations later as the city had engulfed the space between, the Hellsings kept the claim of a modest family plot in the cemetery.

Pausing a moment to once again and futilely comb his fingers through his short spiky hair in an attempt to neaten it, Father Anderson strode off quickly through the decorated bushes and quietly moldering headstones. He twitched his collar a tad straighter as he went, pulling his shoulders back, but for all his attempts to appear presentable, it seemed that they would not be much good –except in showing respect to the woman who was gone.

Perhaps it was because of her acid tongue, perhaps it was because of the haste of the funeral arrangements, but despite all her honors and respect in the scientific community, there were only a few attendees at Sir Hellsing's graveside as he slowed to join the group, a meager handful of souls to send her away into the afterlife. One or two clerks from the offices; himself; and Enrico Maxwell, a friend and mutual acquaintance of them both.

He was glad to see Maxwell there, even if he and Sir Hellsing had had some friction in the past. Given Maxwell's sensitive pride and Sir Hellsing's blunt mannerisms, their two personalities were bound to clash, but Maxwell had respected her, albeit in his own begrudging way. They made eye contact and shared a friendly nod, but Anderson had very nearly arrived late, and they didn't have time to exchange much more than that before the priest hired to conduct the ceremony stepped up to his podium and began.

It was a fine day for a funeral, Anderson supposed as he listened to the familiar prayers he himself had said far too many times to count. Although the sun flashed and faded behind the grey clouds, leaving the light frequently overcast, the day itself was neither too warm nor too cold, and no umbrellas were necessary. The mourners were all quiet –a respectful silence, and a sad one, watching the plain and simple casket Sir Hellsing had ordered with grieving eyes. Having been to and conducted funerals that were a great deal more dramatic, it eased his heart a little to know that nothing was going wrong.

Watching the sextons begin to lower the coffin into the ground with stinging eyes, Anderson clasped his hands gravely before himself and prepared to listen to the eulogy.

"Sir Integra Hellsing was…an amazing woman." The priest –not someone he recognized– began solemnly, the wind ruffling his hair a little from where he stood beside the lectern that held his notes and the Bible. "Even in her advancing age, she was undaunted by all that was set before her. Though we gather here today to lay Sir Hellsing's physical remains to rest, we know that her wisdom lives on, and the memory of her will dwell in all of our hearts."

Almost on reflex, Father Anderson touched the smooth oval shape of the locket that lay beneath his clothes. The silver was still slightly cool against his skin, and even through his gloves and the fabric of his shirt, he could feel the spidery raised lines of the relief etched onto the front. What was this locket to Sir Hellsing, and why had she never explained it to him? Why had she never explained anything to him? He understood caution, if she truly believed she had been beset by unseen enemies on all sides, but a fighter like Alexander Anderson did best when he was armed with understanding and prepared for his enemies.

Right now, he felt uncomfortably like Sir Hellsing had entrusted him with a still-warm carcass and shoved him along a path filled with wolves with nothing but his innate wits and strength to defend himself. And that, even at the beginning of his path, did not seem nearly enough.

He dragged his focus back to the eulogy with an effort. The other priest had continued to speak, naming all of Sir Hellsing's many contributions to the fields of science in which she dabbled, praising her for her impeccable bearing and manners. It was nothing less than what she was due, but even so, Anderson found himself vaguely frustrated. It was as though he expected explanations to pour from the lips of the other priest: that surely this man, who was naming all that was notable in her life, would start to speak of vampires, and the strange mythologies that Sir Hellsing seemed to have engraved into her heart. Surely amongst his tribute he would give some hint, some clue, some guideline for Anderson as he proceeded onwards.

The other priest did not.

Naturally, he did not. In this day, in the age of electricity and automobiles and telephones, who would ever believe in vampires? Sir Hellsing had seemed to be the only one, but she was dead, and she had taken her proofs and her convictions with her into the grave. Unless…

Father Anderson felt the weight of the journal in his pocket like it was burning a hole through him. Unless she had left more proofs in that strange manuscript of hers, and he had yet to read them. While his reason and logic fought against everything he had read on those first few pages, he could not deny that they were internally consistent, nor could he deny the suspicious circumstances of Sir Hellsing's death.

The fact of the matter was, Anderson eventually realized, that he did not have sufficient information to make any kind of decision, whether to believe Sir Hellsing's message or no. However, he knew very well that when one did not have sufficient information, one did research. And it seemed as though the research had already been compiled for him…

Well.

There was surely no harm in simply reading the book, no matter how nonsensical it got. After all, he could always put it down again.

Back in his church, after the ladies' sewing circle had departed and after he had closed his (empty) confessional booth for the day, with the late afternoon tending towards evening, Father Anderson once again sat at his desk and opened the manuscript Sir Hellsing had left him. He turned past the first few pages, and blinked as one of the first reasons for the strange heaviness of this manuscript presented itself to him.

On the third page from the front, there was a thin framework of red-painted tin, riveted onto the page. Fine silver chains were also riveted onto this framework, holding what looked like the broken fragment of a blade between them. It was jagged piece of silvery metal several inches long, with sharp and shattered edges, but the blond priest could see the remains of a flowing and elegant design etched into the center of the blade. The workmanship was more marvelous than it seemed, for when he gently tucked a finger beneath one of the strands of chains, turning the blade towards the light, he had to hiss and yank his hand away. Blood welled up, rich and red, from a thin line on his fingertip, and Anderson stared at it in shock.

It's still sharp.

Assuming that this book had been compiled almost twenty years ago, and the sword seemed to be made entirely of silver –an impractical substance that dulled quickly even if it was sharpened– the fact that the edge was still razor-sharp, keen enough to cut the wind, seemed impossible. And yet, there was that line of blood slowly oozing down his thumb.

One more oddity of this strange book.

He caught a glimpse of writing behind the metal frame of tin that held the broken fragment, and carefully, not willing to dislodge it, Anderson pressed a finger down on the center and slowly pulled the frame upwards. Beneath, in Sir Hellsing's handwriting, was a short note on thick parchment paper.

This is the first shard of the Sword of Angels found by Saladin, the Protector from the mid-twelfth century. Guard it well.

Sword of Angels? Anderson eyed the gleaming silver metal with a certain amount of skepticism mixed with awe, quickly drawing his hand away. The slight throb of the cut on his finger seemed more significant, more weighty, but he quickly shook such ideas aside. Even if this sword-fragment was of divine origins, Anderson was human –and a man of faith– through and through, and it would have no ill effect on him.

Still, that combined with the heading for this chapter –IN THE BEGINNING OF TIME…– made Anderson itch with curiosity. Was this what he thought it would be?

Leaning closer to the book and refusing to admit that a tingle of excitement was building deep within his heart, he began to read the words shaped by Sir Hellsing's pen all those years ago.

The origins of vampires date back to the time before time. According to the legends of Heaven, the creatures that we now call vampires were descended from three angels –Moloch, Ba'al, and Belial– who rebelled against God and fell from His grace. God sent a host of angels, led by the Archangel Michael, to battle the three rebels on the clouds of Heaven. The battle lasted three days: Michael and his host prevailed, and the three were slain, their bodies burned and cast down to earth.

These three Fallen Ones should have passed out of memory. But wandering tribes on Earth found their smoldering ashes and began to worship them. This revived the creatures, who woke with a terrible thirst for blood. They drank deeply on the blood of humans and, refreshed, set out to seek revenge against Heaven. An appetite for blood stayed with them –it was the nectar that sustained and nourished them. They each went their separate ways to spread the curse of bloodthirst throughout the world, but before they parted, they agreed to the Rule of Three. This stated that each of the vampires was permitted to create three progeny, or Chosen Ones, who would be transformed to feed on human blood. Each of the Chosen could, in turn, create three of its own progeny. This rule ensured that vampire numbers would not overwhelm human populations –as the Fallen wished for human blood to remain available always, to save them from having to feed on less tasty animals.

Ba'al, the Deceiver, insinuated himself into the hearts and minds of men, submitting them to mind control and making them serve his needs. Moloch, the Destroyer, declared war on humankind, murdering for the sheer pleasure it gave him. Belial, the Tortured, retreated to the Earth's remote places to dwell on the price he had paid for his disobedience.

Beneath these words lay another sketch, and Anderson's eyebrows rose as he considered it. This sketch was in black and white, reminding him vaguely of woodcuts and yet with far more detail and skill. It depicted three creatures with batlike wings and tunics, standing atop the rocks of a cliff with jagged swords. The first took the form of a bellowing minotaur, and yet instead of the champing teeth of a bull, it had long, needlelike fangs. The second seemed like unto a satyr, with shaggy goat legs and a plumed helmet. The third was the only one with his sword pointed downwards, planted in a resting position in the stone, and he took the form of a bearded man with three slender horns arranged in an arc above his shaggy brows. Sir Hellsing's neat handwriting once again captioned the image.

It is important to be aware of the Fallen's physical changes as they vacillate between a more "human" form and their natural bestial frame. When hungry, feeding, or roused to anger, vampires generally assume a more bestial appearance, their canine incisors and red eyes on full show. At all other times, they can pass as everyday humans, though they remain pale and may still display elements of their natural form when they believe they are alone. Below we see (from left to right) Moloch, Ba'al, and Belial, prepared for battle.

So, this was what vampires supposedly looked like. They seemed like creatures ripped straight from a Classical bestiary, and yet that, perhaps, was the point. These were ancient monsters according to Sir Hellsing's version of history, and perhaps many human mythologies had taken inspiration from them over the centuries. Anderson's eye was caught by the side of the crease opposite the sword-shard, where a fragment of an exceedingly ancient scroll seemed to have been sewn as a tiny wing into the book. The handwriting, at least, was markedly different than Sir Hellsing's, with archaic spelling that matched the frailty of the parchment under his gentle fingers.

It drew his interest because it seemed to expand on the…species differences between the three vampires named on the opposite page, and thus offered more evidence that both what Sir Hellsing had said was true and that she had done extensive research in order to present this manuscript. The parchment itself, at least, seemed shockingly genuine, and a faint chill wound its way down his spine as he read the words it contained.

THE THREE BLOODLINES

BA'AL
Be They the Deceivers, the Ba'al are Creatures consumed by Greede. Little shall stop these foul rank things once their hearts be set; Little will sate their appetite for Power. Though they are endowed with Charme and Wit beyond Measure, the Ba'al are rarely Weakened by the Emotions felt by Humankind. Their desire to make a Wager swells when they become Anxious or Angered. The Ba'al are vociferous and will Boast –a weakness that their enemies may Choose to exploit. In their full bestial form, the Ba'al bear a Resemblance to goat-legged Creatures.

MOLOCH
The Moloch are Born to Destroy. They do not need Reason to kill –it is their preferred Pursuit. The Fiends of this bloodline are quick to Anger, and physical power is their Greatest Weapon. The Moloch attires himself very poorly and is not concerned with personal cleanliness. This Bloodline considers Slaughter a Tribute to its Ancestors, and usually displays a Monstrous head, hooves, and claws when Hungry, Feeding, or in Battle.

BELIAL
The Belial are Tortured Souls and the only ones who suffer remorse for their actions. Vampyres of this bloodline can fall prey to the same passions with which Humankind are beset. But beware: although these Fallen Ones will do everything to limit their Appetite, they are vampyres nonetheless. The Guilt of their Ancestors weighs heavily on the shoulders of the Belial, who often become Mad with Confusion and Grief. In their natural state, these Creatures display three horns.

Although each was a damning monstrosity in its own way –especially considering that they had once been human– Anderson was not sure which vampiric bloodline was worst. The Ba'al seemed to be drained of everything that made life worth living –love and passion, empathy and concern– and yet the Moloch seemed no better, driven by a mindless appetite for ruthless destruction. The Belial may feel remorse, but wouldn't that be a fate even crueler than death, to be doomed to an eternity of sin while being tormented by one's guilt?

Vampirism seemed monstrous in all its forms, and Anderson was not sure which fate it would be worse to be condemned to.

He gently flipped the manuscript aside to distract himself, looking at the second page. The watercolors from before were back, hinting at the same artist: this page seemed to be all part of one narrative, with Sir Hellsing's caption heading the page in unobtrusive letters.

In compiling this volume, I have included a number of source materials written by my predecessors. The transcript blow was penned by a Protector of the mid-sixteenth century who chose not to reveal his identity, although I believe it to be the work of the Elizabethan court magician John Dee.

The painting was of winged angels fighting those same three monsters as before, and it seemed to have been cut out of a larger manuscript and physically sewn into the book. Carefully tilting it up to reveal the underside, Anderson was surprised to find that the story laid out on this page apparently started there.

MICHAEL BATTLES THE THREE:
As Twilight comes, it falls to Michael to take the fight to the Three. The Battle commences; lightning streaks across the skye as Michael's Sworde cleaves the air; Black Thunder rumbles as Moloch's Blade blocks the strike.

Three times the Archangel attacks, and each time, one of the Fallen takes the Force of the Blow. Michael hesitates after the thirde attack, and Moloch launches a vicious counter. Michael defends, bringing his silver blade up to protect his body. Moloch's Sworde splinters, and the Earth is burnt wheresoever the fragments falle. Ba'al attacks, and Michael brings his Sworde around just in time. Sparks fly from the clashing Blades, and Mountains across the Earth spout molten fire as an echo of the fray. Ba'al's blade cuts into Michael's side, and the Angel's blood darkens Heaven's Skye. With his heade turned and his back exposed, Michael steels himself for a blow from behinde, but Belial hesitates. The moment costs the Fallen dearly. Michael wheels, his silver Sworde knocking the blade from Belial's hands. The Archangel turns and sends Ba'al's head flying from his shoulders. The Hoste of Angels aid the fight: Moloch is smitten with a shaft of divine lightning and crumbles to ashes. The cowering Belial is lifted by his ankles; his Throat is slit and his Body drained of Bloode.

The battle is won. As Michael tries to sheath his silver Sworde, it falls into four broken pieces. The four Shards fall to Earth, and the Archangel is left holding the useless pommel. Quickly, he returns to his Master's throne.

So much for the close-written words underneath the painting: now for the other two sections of the page, split down the middle and headed, once again, by drop-cap letters in an ornate script. Anderson noticed that both sections were bordered by an ink design, the first abstract and the second depicting the words as though caught between two slender birch trees.

THE PROTECTOR:

As the Curse of the Fallen Spreade throughout the Earth, Michael set out to find One who could stand between humanity and Vampyres. He found among mortals a Protector: a strong Man, a Hero, and counselled him in the ways of the Vampyre. For his time on Earth, the Protector was to be custodian of the true knowledge of Vampyres. He was charged with the destruction of these Blood Drinkers and ordered to seek out other Creatures of the Nighte to fight against them. When his days came to an end, he was to appoint a Successor to take up his mantle. So began the line of Protectors: men with gifts of courage and intellect who would take the fight to the Fallen Ones. It was a harsh and thankless task.

Well, so this was one mystery solved at last. The Protector, the position Sir Hellsing seemed to intend to hand down to him, was a hunter of vampires and a guardian of humanity. But the sole guardian? That seemed like more than just a harsh and thankless task –it seemed downright impossible. There were thousands of people in London alone, and that would be enough of a task to consume him completely: how on earth could one man or woman, however determined and remarkable, claim to protect the whole of the Earth?

THE FOUR SHARDS:

After Archangel Michael's Battle with the Fallen Ones, the Shards of his Sworde fell to the four corners of the Earth. Legend tells us that in each of these corners, a great and beautiful garden sprung forth, an Echo of Paradise itself. At the heart of each garden was a Silver Birch Tree, majestic and shining, which grew in the very Spot where the Shards fell. Over time, humans became blinde to the Beauty of the Gardens, and the knowledge of their locations was loste. But deep beneath the earth, the source of the trees' power remains. It is the Protector's task to find the lost Shards and make them one again. With this task complete, the Vampyre will be destroyed for all eternity.

And so that was the significance of the broken shard held on the opposite page, Anderson thought as he eyed the gleaming metal once again. It was far more precious than it initially seemed, even as a curiosity item. With this one shard, he was already one-fourth of the way to assembling the entire sword –if, of course, this manuscript was to be believed.

Anderson sat back in his chair, becoming aware for the very first time that his neck was stiff and his shoulders ached. Glancing at the clock, he blinked to realize that many hours had gone by, and it was already long past dinner –which explained the gnawingly empty feeling in his stomach. The book had absorbed him completely, it seemed.

He shook his head a little, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. He wanted to say that this was ludicrous: but the researcher within him refused to countenance that. Sir Hellsing may have been deluded by her occult obsession, certainly. She may have written this book and mistaken her attackers for what they were not. But she couldn't have reached her hand back in time and caused these paintings, that scroll, to be written. Every inch of the historian in Anderson cried out the same thing: the materials she had assembled and sewn into her book were too old to be faked.

So if they weren't fake, and they all seemed to weave together into the same coherent narrative, the same story that vampires walked the earth and Sir Hellsing had been a Protector…

Anderson swallowed thickly. Did he believe this? Did he dare to believe this? All the evidence seemed to be pointing one way, and yet that conclusion flew in the face of all logic and reason.

Vampires existed, and were in all likelihood responsible for his beloved mentor's death. How could he accept that as true?! And yet, at the same time, how could he not? No other explanation seemed to fit. No other arrangement of the facts seemed to work. This was his only option to move forward, and yet, Anderson shied away from it. This was simply too much.

He pushed away from his desk and fumbled towards the kitchen, intending to make himself a late supper, and yet when he sat at the table ten minutes later, Father Anderson found himself staring blankly at his food.

Eventually, he shook himself out of his fugue and began to eat mechanically, but he barely tasted his bread. He had pulled out his journal and left it on the corner of his table to chronicle his thoughts earlier, and yet he had left it on the page where he had sketched a portrait of Sir Hellsing's face, her hair running smoothly down over her shoulders.

Sir Hellsing never shrank from a confrontation. Father Anderson had never run from a fight in his life, all too accustomed to using his fists and his strength to win arguments back in his impetuous youth –and even now, he did not shy away from using his size and bulk to intimidate ruffians. Staring down at the lines of his sketch, Anderson asked himself how could he face her –how could he face himself– if he ran from this truth, impossible as it seemed, and the fight it beckoned him towards?

He didn't want to admit it, but the manuscript Sir Hellsing had left him gave proofs too strong to deny. All of this was…too real, and because of that, it was terrifying. Even his own skepticism turned in on itself, feeding the hesitation that now rose and replaced it in his heart. If he had gone his whole life up until now never thinking of vampires, never fearing them, never believing in them, then how well-hidden and deadly must those creatures be? How ferocious a Protector had Sir Hellsing been, and how could he possibly hope to fill her shoes, starting as he was now in confusion and doubt?

He could only hope to try, of course, but…how futile and how faint would his struggles be? He knew how to fight as well as any man, and better than most, but he was not trained as Sir Hellsing surely had been, and furthermore, he was starting with a severe handicap. He assumed that this mantle had been passed to her by someone she likewise knew, but she had almost certainly been taught directly by this person –whoever it was– and their sheltering arm had covered her as she learned. Anderson was starting his education with no such surety: he was dangerously exposed to the metaphorical wolves that loped just out of his line of sight.

With only a manuscript for his teacher and his wits to defend himself, how long could he possibly expect to last against all the vampires of the world?

It was a terrifying task, but it was one that he would not, that he could not, abandon and pass to someone else. For better or worse, he was now the custodian of the knowledge Sir Hellsing had died to preserve, and he would see her wishes through, or perish in the attempt. Perishing was far more likely, but at least then he could stand on his own two feet and look Sir Hellsing in the eye when he passed through the gates of Heaven.

When Father Anderson retired for the night, he left a new entry in his journal, secreted in the pocket of his clothes hanging upon the chair.

London, May 13th, 1920

So much of what I thought I knew about the world is being tested as I read these pages. I imagine that the weight of this knowledge on Sir Hellsing's shoulders must have been great. If what she says is true, I pray that the knowledge I gain here will keep me alive if I am to carry out the duties of the "Protector." I still know little about this role, but these pages will surely enlighten me as I read on.