Venice, June 3rd, 1920

Dear Alexander,

May I call you Alexander?

You cannot imagine how delightful it is to correspond with a man for whom mystery and romance are as important as science and logic. Humanity has come to value the head above the heart, often to its detriment. And please, call me Vlad.

My specialty –I hesitate to use the term, for it exaggerates the import of my research– is the history and habits of the creatures of the night called vampires. There are, as you say, many unreliable sources on this subject, which explains my anxiousness to see our old friend's work firsthand.

During our time together, she and I enjoyed many discussions by the fireside about the nature of vampires, or the "Fallen Ones" as you may have come to know them. I was privy to many of Sir Hellsing's thoughts, and she often spoke of her book before our relationship came to an end and I returned here, to my home.

Venice awaits you, dear Alexander.

Yours,
Vlad

London, June 6th, 1920

The Count's latest missive is ripe indeed. It arrived with that familiar waft of expensive perfume, quite enough to turn a man's head, were he the vulnerable type –which I am not– although the Count poses a mystery that I have an increasing urge to solve. Why, I wonder, did his relationship with Sir Hellsing end? Something tells me that he is the man standing at her side in the picture from the casket, a picture she kept for nearly half a century and left for me. What can it mean? Perhaps she wanted me to contact him, as I am so increasingly drawn to do. My previous suspicions of him are now replaced by more tender feelings, emotions that sometimes feel out of my control.

The sunlight shimmered and danced on the rippling water, the reflection of the stone basin beneath giving it a warm, earthy glow. Anderson wondered if such a thing was a typical sight for the Count with his residence in Venice.

What an amazing city it was! Beauties both human and natural filling every sense one possessed, from the incredible stonework of past Renaissance masters to the channels of clear, cool water flowing between the buildings, making them look like magic palaces floating on a lake. Anderson had only spent a week there, and it had not been nearly long enough.

But to live there, to be surrounded by its exquisite beauty day in, day out, how wonderful it must be-

Water suddenly poured out over his shoes, soaking them through with an unpleasant wet shock, and Anderson stepped back with a sound that was half a gasp of shock and half an annoyed hiss, bringing up his pitcher. It seemed, in his distraction, that he had overfilled the bird bath, leaving the water to spill out over his shoes while he stared off into space and daydreamed.

He shook himself sternly. Enough distractions.

Leaving the brimming stone basin as it was, he moved off to the small tangled beds of plants, pouring out the remainder of the copper pitcher there before returning it to its place on the shelf of the tiny garden shed he used. Anderson couldn't seem to shake off his vague fugue, though, as he returned to the church to begin his morning cleaning. He'd been distracted these past few days, easily slipping into long spells of aimless thought.

Only yesterday, the priest had found himself staring for a disconcertingly long time at the bottles that held the sacramental wine, thinking of the rich ruby red color accenting the mysterious man's clothes in the second painting at the front of the book. Who was he? Was he –the Count? The mystery of that painting seemed to occupy all his thoughts, despite the far more urgent matters of what else the book held.

Perhaps it was just because he had a name and a face to attach to it. Although Anderson was coming to increasingly trust the book and Sir Hellsing's words in it –however blatantly occult– everything in it seemed foggy and dark, more an impression of swirling danger rather than a proper list of enemies. The Count, at least, was personable. More than personable, if that grave, formal painting and the photograph of that merry devil did indeed refer to the same person. He seemed…real.

Of course, if he was real (in the sense that both pictures referred to the Count) he would certainly not appear as that wickedly handsome young man. Not anymore. No, he would be of an age with Sir Hellsing, that silken black hair gone white or iron grey, his face wizened with a network of fine lines. Still, if the letters were any indication, more than a hint of the Count's youthful energy had remained…

Anderson realized that he had been staring off into space again and drew in a deep breath, glancing at the clock as he began to polish the glass under his rag a bit more heatedly. What on earth was coming over him, that he was so…fixated on this?

He needed to shake some sense into himself, and quickly. The best cure to the rosy daydreams of a handsome man was work, dusty and mundane work, and at the moment –aside from his duties as a priest, of course– Anderson knew no better work than inspecting the book. He had glanced ahead, somewhat, before his job pulled him away again, and the title of this chapter was one he was keenly interested in –however melodramatic it may be.

IDENTIFY –OR CHOOSE TO DIE

And although it was tempting to take the book with him to confessions to read…Anderson was hesitant to do so. He was reluctant to do anything that might make it plain that he, in fact, was the recipient of said book, and carrying it about in public would certainly do that. So far, he had a somewhat thin blanket of safety in the fact that his office was full of old and fragile manuscripts as well as more recent editions, and that there was no way to tell that he was studying this book or plowing his way through piles and piles of paperwork when he retreated to his study for hours on end.

He would lose that plausible deniability the second he brought the book out of its makeshift hiding spot, and he had the deepest reluctance to do so. Not yet. Not now. Not when he was only just beginning to learn how to properly deal with and defend himself against vampires.

So he had to wait, and read his book in his office as usual, when the light was draining away to evening and the church had settled down for the day.

An ability to identify vampires is essential for those hoping to evade these bloodthirsty monsters. During my training as Protector, I mastered this art quickly and have since escaped a grisly fate more than once by using these simple methods of identification.

This short paragraph at the very opening of the chapter irritated him somewhat, he had to admit, even when he was fully invested in what it said. Sir Hellsing, apparently, had undergone training under someone else's benevolently extended wing, while he had almost literally been flung to the wolves. He knew that this wasn't intentional on her part –she had hardly meant to be murdered, after all– but that didn't necessarily quell his lingering resentment.

MIRRORS
Like much of the mythology surrounding the Fallen Ones, the notion that their reflection does not appear in mirrors is true, but only partly so. A fully fed vampire in the peak of nutrition will have a reflection like any human. One who is hungry will not –its reflection will appear half-formed or opaque. A starved Fallen One will show no reflection at all.

BODILY FUNCTIONS
Do the Fallen Ones breathe? No, not in the strictest sense, but they do maintain the pretense, processing air and simulating the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest associated with breathing. Should you be able to get close enough to touch a vampire's wrist, however, you will feel no pulse.

Vampires do not sweat; neither can they process food or drink –any item consumed will cause the vampire to vomit immediately. Look for picnic-goers who refuse the kind offer of refreshment, even on a particularly hot day. As already discussed, vampires do not perform pedestrian bodily functions, though they will periodically excuse themselves to freshen up to avoid detection.

Anderson was reassured someone by that last section –at the very least, he knew that he wasn't being stalked by vampires in any of the sewing circles or knitting clubs he hosted, given how much tea and biscuits those elderly women ingested on an hourly basis. That would've been the perfect time to ensure he was met with an "accident," too: invent some errand that took him out of the eyes of the rest of the ladies, then use their vampiric strength to inflict injuries that no harmless, babbling old woman could ever possibly create.

DRESS AND SPEECH
Many of the Fallen retain some affection for the speech and dress of the age in which they themselves were Chosen. View a man dressed in an old-fashioned costume with suspicion! Be wary, also, of those who can be heard speaking in languages such as Ancient Greek or Sumerian.

PLANTS
An aversion to garlic is another telltale sign of vampirism. Many herbs are effective against supernatural enemies; deterrents include almond, aloe vera, bay, catnip, chive, iris, garlic, mustard, nutmeg, and star anise. These can be carried with you at all times. More details about these herbs are featured in a later chapter.

So that explained, then, the bed of bay leaves and star anise that Sir Hellsing had stuffed in the hiding place of this very manuscript. Perhaps his original thought had been wrong –perhaps Sir Hellsing's enemies had found the hidden drawer with the book, and just been unable to remove its contents. This section didn't quite specify whether the plants acted as a sort of barrier, or if vampires just found them extremely unpleasant.

APPETITE FOR BLOOD
The one infallible method for identifying a vampire is its insatiable appetite for blood. Cut yourself in public and observe the response. A Moloch will be unable to resist the temptation to feed –so be ready to take to your heels. A Ba'al may be able to show more restraint but will be unable to tear its eyes away from the blood. It will also show signs of distress, licking its lips hungrily. Belial will display these cravings only when severely undernourished. Some say a fondness for bloody or undercooked meat is a sign of vampirism, but this is yet another myth. After all, vampires do not consume meat.

GREED
Many Ba'al are compulsive gamblers, and will struggle to resist a wager. In addition, a Ba'al will usually respond to the sight of anything of monetary value, which you can employ as a last resort in case you are being pursued. A lady may break her string of pearls; gentlemen should choose to throw coins in a similar fashion. The belief that vampires must stop to count these dropped items is not necessarily true, but it should still give you another few seconds of freedom to act.

RESPONSE TO ANIMALS
Watch carefully how animals react to a suspected vampire. Dogs, in particular, are likely to growl at a Fallen being. Domestic cats and other small creatures will run away from the Fallen Ones, while horses will rear and stamp. It is highly unlikely that anyone walking a dog or riding a horse is a vampire.

FAITH
The myth that vampires will not enter a place of worship is untrue. Neither will they cringe at the mere sight of a holy relic. The faith of a true believer, however, will greatly unnerve a Fallen One and will cause it to shriek and cower uncontrollably. For this reason, the daily rituals of a devout Buddhist or a crucifix in the hands of a courageous child are equally anathema to these creatures.

Well, that was comforting, somewhat. If nothing else, it confirmed his prior suspicions, which was that there were no vampires lurking about in his immediate vicinity. Stalking him, perhaps, but so far it seemed that no one Anderson knew had fallen victim to these creatures in some long-ago time. If these were the signs to watch out for, then everyone in his immediate circle was human.

He was therefore more interested than alarmed at the two paintings that took up the majority of the second page, one dark, the other light. The dark one showed a man draped in a sheet sitting down in a familiar chair before a full-length wall mirror, with a paler man standing behind him in a long white apron that fell down to his shins. The man in the chair seemed to be caught mid-ejaculation of annoyance, his hand thrown up in the air as he craned his neck back, showing the oozing red slice on his throat. The barber behind him was leaning forwards with a noticeably predatory expression, a shaving razor in one hand.

Many vampires have taken up everyday businesses such as barbershops. Sir Hellsing's caption stated. Note the barber himself, who licks his lips greedily as he nicks his customer in the neck. And notice that the reflection of the barber is faint –his hunger is noticeable.

The second painting was far busier, depicting a busy park scene in the middle of a bright summer day. Rearing horses, a barking dog, and several other factors seemed to indicate the presence of at least one vampire –Anderson counted two. There was a woman sitting beneath a parasol, who languidly waved away the offer of a cup of tea, and a man crouched on the ground between the barking dog and the bucking horses, picking up some money from the ground. Both the woman and the man had subtly paler faces than the people around them, as well, although that may have been an artistic choice rather than a reflection of fact.

At a picnic in the park, watch for people who refuse to take a drink, those who cannot walk by a stray coin, and those who unnerve animals and young children.

All in all –for once– this was a satisfying entry, and he sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief. While knowledge was coming to him slowly, it was coming, all the same. Anderson was no longer completely helpless against the enemies that stalked him: he could now, at the very least, see them coming. Probably. As with any other acquisition of a new skill, perhaps some practice was in order…?

Of course, he wouldn't do anything stupidly risky. It was perfectly safe for him to almost literally take a page from the book and go visit one of London's parks. Perhaps he could even shake off this odd fugue that seemed to have settled over him, as well as get in some good, solid practice at beginning to try and identify vampires in a crowd. Apart from how he was actively looking to spot monsters that could conceivably kill him, it was a perfectly harmless activity.

He wasn't asking for trouble, after all. Just people-watching. Surely even the Fallen Ones would take no notice of that, not even the ones that he suspected were already on his trail…

Children –mostly boys, but a few girls– shouted and scrambled excitedly along the banks of the slow-flowing stream, watching their toy sailboats scud along. Couples walked together (the more daring, arm in arm) along the trimmed and manicured paths, while the elderly or the artistic reclined on sinuous benches, watching the world go by with bright eyes.

Amidst all this sunny joy, Father Anderson felt as though he was trailed by a cloak of gloom. He sat on one of the more secluded benches, watching the whirl of human activity in the small green park, and felt achingly alone. Usually, his isolation among the larger crowds of London didn't bother him, but perhaps…perhaps thinking of Sir Hellsing had reminded him of his position.

While many of the old ladies and the spinsters and the youth groups (both leaders and children) that used his church as a meeting place would miss him if he went away suddenly, very few of those people could claim to know him –to actually know him as Sir Hellsing had. He was a warm but distant figure in their lives, a friendly man who was nonetheless little more than a fixture in their daily goings-on.

He had become a priest in the first place in no small part because of his social nature, but now, looking out at the park and feeling the distance between himself and all the happy people, Anderson felt lonely for the first time in a very long while. If he was preyed upon by a vampire and killed, it hardly seemed likely that more than a handful of people would mourn him for longer than a week. Maxwell would grieve, and Sir Hellsing would have grieved, and perhaps Mrs. Phoebe Smith –but very few others.

He didn't know why this sudden rush of depressed isolation had washed over him. Perhaps it was just that he was so oddly dispirited, and it was dragging the rest of his feelings down with him. Perhaps it was the thought of Sir Hellsing, so honored, so praised, only having a half-dozen people at the hasty funeral to lay her mortal remains to rest. Perhaps, even, it was the thought of the handsome man in the faded sepia photograph beside her, and the shockingly blissful gleam in a young Sir Hellsing's eyes. She had probably had a lover, at least –once upon a time.

But that was not what he was here for, and Father Anderson shook his head briskly, wishing he could splash some of the water from the canal on his face. What was coming over him? Was he sickening for something? Surely that was the only explanation for why he had been so distracted and listless of late.

He raised his head and began to scan the park with determined eyes. To forestall any unpleasant accusations, the bulky priest had his notebook open in his lap, the stub of a pencil tucked between his fingers. Pretending to find human figures to sketch was a good excuse for peering closely at other people, although in the past he had always done so without pretending.

There were certainly a lot of figures to study. Although the park was not overly crowded or busy, there was an eclectic mix of people from various backgrounds and ages, with both older women in ruffled skirts and more than one thin, boyish girl aping the new style, with her hair chopped short at ear-length and a small, draping dress that hung loose around her, concealing her figure. Some of the children sailing boats were aping the naval dress of their adult peers, and there were even one or two wildly eccentric bohemians sweeping through the park, clearly out to scandalize with their unconventional garb.

Despite having come here mostly to try and put his lessons into practice, Anderson found himself relaxing as he idly sketched a few figures and outlines, more for the excuse of doing so rather than fining any real inspiration. There was a woman sitting on the bench over there, though, who was the very epitome of a modern woman, with a bucket hat and that sheer flapper dress…

He spent several industrious moments sketching the cypress trees behind her, the drape of the shawl coiled about her shoulders, the dome of her hat and the flare of its brim –even the bow of the ribbon tied around it– but when he looked up again, the woman had half-turned to stare directly at him. Sometime between the interval of him glancing down to slash another line with his pencil and then glancing back up again, she had popped her fan open, half-screening her face with it.

Despite the distance between them –she was something like fifty yards away– and despite the fact that half a dozen people were scattered around the park with sketchbooks in hand, she was looking directly at him, as though sensing his gaze. Even at this distance, he could see her eyes glinting directly at him from beneath the shadows of her hat.

A chill ran down Father Anderson's spine as he dropped his pencil.

There was something in that dark gaze –it was flat, without emotion, and yet so simultaneously threatening that he felt his hackles rise. There was no reason for his sudden surge of dread, too: the woman had screened her face to hide her expression, but she was not glaring at him. Her posture was still and calm. Her gaze was not unfriendly.

But nor was it friendly, and something in that alien otherness –in how completely without expression those eyes were as they steadily rested on him from halfway across the park– made him deeply uneasy. He wanted to scoop up his pencil and babble excuses she wouldn't be able to hear from this far away, buckling under the force of habit to politely apologize for drawing someone without permission, and yet the idea of bending, of exposing the back of his neck while this strange woman's gaze was on him- it seemed inadvisable in a way he couldn't fully articulate.

An apologetic smile weakly flickered on and off his face as his hands bunched into fists at his side, fighting the odd but deep-rooted urge to run, to flee that flat, doll-like gaze.

Was this woman…

…was she…?

The woman blinked, cutting off that intimidating gaze, and then turned her head slightly, looking aside at the children as there was a particularly loud giddy shriek and splash. Father Anderson let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, quickly bending to scoop up his dropped pencil. He was more convinced with every moment that the woman sitting on that bench was one of them –the Fallen Ones– and yet he equally knew there was nothing he could do about it. He did not have the tools or the knowledge to destroy her, not yet, and this was a public place.

Chilled and heartsick, he did the only thing he could do: mark down her face as keenly as he could, so that he would know her later, and discreetly slip away before he came further to her attention.

The park had not been effective in trying to relax himself or lose his odd tension, and when he opened the book again, Anderson found himself battling an odd mix of relief and satisfaction. Nothing on how to destroy vampires, oh no, but finally, after some four or five chapters, he was being given the knowledge of how to keep them at bay –in the aptly-named PROTECT YOURSELF section of the book.

There were only two paintings this time: the first lay across the bottom half of the first page, showing a line of gold and silver religious artifacts, shown up handsomely against a pure black background. He recognized several of them, and the caption named the rest that he could not quite remember.

It is believed that humans with some knowledge of vampires have used their own cultural, religious, and mystic symbols against the Fallen. As discussed, faith imbues the artifact with power. Pictured here, left to right, are the Islamic crescent, the Jewish menorah, the Irish Jesus staff, the Celtic knot, the crucifix, and the Fain hand.

The second painting was more dynamic, and showed an amorphous shadow rearing up over a suited man with a salt-and-pepper goatee. His expression was pensive, but oddly calm, and in one hand he lifted a massive silver crucifix, which took up the center foreground of the painting. The background seemed nondescript: all that seemed obvious was the fact that there was a strong light source somewhere, with the shadows partially falling across the man's face and partially across what was probably a dark plaster wall behind him. Beneath this was another caption in Sir Hellsing's handwriting: When used by a believer with strong faith, the crucifix will offer some protection against a vampire.

Of course, that left one very obvious problem: how did one test the strength of one's faith beforehand? Anderson believed himself to follow God with love and devotion, to follow down the laws that He laid out, but was that enough? There were a thousand niggling little secular doubts that afflicted even the most pious minister, and he was by no means immune. When, exactly, did one's faith become not enough, and how could one discover that except by a trial by fire?

He scratched his chin in consternation. Maybe, maybe there was something else in the rest of this section, but…well, much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't be sure of how effective faith would be in protecting him. He needed to be sure before he used it as a defense, given how vicious the Fallen Ones seemed to be, and if there wasn't anything that he could use to fall back on, should his faith fail…

Well, perhaps that was why it was called faith, after all. It wasn't a certainty. Anderson had to huff a little at that as he returned his eyes to the head of the page.

Identifying the Fallen is one thing: protecting yourself from their deadly charms is another. Let us closely examine ways in which they can be thwarted, or at least weakened, as they pursue your spirit and your blood.

He also had to snort a little at the statement of "deadly charms." Deadly, yes, but charming? Considering how a chill had run down his spine as he faced down that shifted vampire and the woman in the park, hardly not. Their very presence was unsettling, and only a vampire's hypnotism and their centuries of practice at seducing others could coax someone into compliance with their presence.

AVOIDING PURSUIT
As discussed in the previous chapter, a Ba'al can be distracted by exploiting its innate greed. Dropping rice or a more modern item of monetary worth will win you some time. In extremely desperate situations, a hungry vampire may be delayed by a fresh trail of blood, but this should be employed only as a last resort. If an opportunity presents itself, cross a body of water and try to shed a few drops of blood in it. The current will carry the scent of blood and confuse your pursuer's olfactorum.

He nodded at that –he knew enough about hunting more mundane creatures to see the value in distracting a predator's sense of smell.

USE THE DAYLIGHT
One of the most foolproof ways to protect yourself from vampires is to avoid the dark. Venture into the nightly realms as little as possible –many harmless social events, such as dances, balls, and ceremonies, have felt the scourge of vampires. Vampires are not harmed by sunlight –yet another tiresome myth– but they will rarely draw attention to themselves by attacking a human in full view of others. Rather, the cloak of darkness provides natural cover for their hideous and secretive methods.

HOLY RELICS
A synagogue, church, or mosque filled with the prayers and songs of true believers will offer some sanctuary to anyone who is being pursued by a vampire. Holy relics can also serve as defense against the Fallen Ones. As we have already learned, there is no power in the artifact itself. Only the faith of the carrier will imbue the artifact with power. A holy silver relic wielded by an individual with true belief will leave the Fallen One temporarily blinded. If the relic is placed against the vampire's undead flesh, it will smoke and burn. Legend says that an intuitive Irish boy once held off two vampires with nothing more than straw in the shape of a Celtic knot.

There was another section sewn into this page –a scrap of parchment paper with a series of detailed scientific sketches of various plants. Their colors had faded somewhat, but the paint was still clear enough to show which sections were which. The writing, as he turned to the other side, was as archaic as some of the earlier fragments sewn into the pages, which made him sweat a little. Had Sir Hellsing cut up an original centuries-old scroll? The very idea made the historian in him feel faint.

HERBAL TALISMANS
Certain Herbes and Plants have Power against Vampyres. The Fallen like not Garlicke and neither will their raw neare to some other blessed plants. As well as White Mustarde, Star Anise, and Sweet Almonde, these special Herbes and Plants will repel Vampyres ad give you Strengthe.

ALOE VERA The Properties of this plant will not protect against attacks, but Legend says that regular ingestion of the Juice of the Aloe Vera invigorates and Strengthens the mind.

BAY Bay trees are a wise choice for any Garden, as their Presence will repel the Vampyre.

CATNIP The Catnip Plant and Flower, known to bewitch the Common Cat, also instill Courage in those who inhale its Scent.

CHIVE Chive, like Garlicke, offers some Protection against the Vampyre.

IRIS All species of the Iris Flower are a Weapon of Faith and Courage. Protectors of Yore Showered their Garments in a Perfume made of its distilled scent.

NUTMEG This Herbe will bring clarity of thought –many Protectors have been known to Drink hot milke with this herbe mixed into it.

So, chive and bay and garlic were the best deterrents against vampires, it seemed. Well, it wouldn't make a particularly appealing sachet, but there were enough amateur projects hanging about the church that Anderson doubted any of his human parishioners would even notice him hanging up multiple bags, despite the smell. Well. That was at least a little reassuring.

The next page, naturally, contained far more useful information.

TEETH
If you are lucky enough to discover one, the tooth of a destroyed vampire is a powerful deterrent against these Fallen creatures. Possession of a tooth will ensure temporary protection against any Fallen One from the same bloodline. This quirk has never been properly explained; it can only be assumed to be some genetic taboo.

SANCITY OF THE HOME
Do not look for respite in the fool's tale that a vampire will not enter a house without an invitation. If only life were that easy! There is no simple way of protecting a home –a string of garlic cloves by the window may ward a vampire off, unless it is in pursuit of a Chosen One, whereupon a much greater deterrent is needed.

FIRE
The Fallen are afraid of fire because, as we shall see later, it is often used in the process of their destruction. Keep a fire burning at home if you suspect a vampire is near.

LOCK OF HAIR
Vampires are very protective of the hair on their heads. They have no body hair, and any hair they lose does not grow back. Seizing a lock of a Fallen One's hair demands extraordinary courage and speed but brings great benefits. Fallen Ones cannot harm any person in possession of a lock of vampire hair –be it their own or that of another vampire. For this reason, carrying a locket containing such hair is an excellent form of protection.

Uncharacteristically, Anderson felt a burst of frustration upon finishing this page, and he shut the book with an aggrieved snap. How hard would it have been for Sir Hellsing to tell him this beforehand? Most of these forms of defense were fairly innocuous, and she could have given him some measure of defense rather than shoving the manuscript in his hands and telling him to go forward from beyond the grave.

Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out the heavy locket. Tilting it so that the light of the lamp gleamed off the silvery surface, the irritation suddenly surged, and he found his fingers prying at the catch. He still knew that it was not right, that it was an invasion of her privacy –but now, with frustration welling up inside him like a volcano at all her secrecy, he relished rather than rejected such a course of action. If Sir Hellsing kept her secrets close to her heart, then perhaps he could crack it open and finally find something useful inside.

The clasp yielded easily, the hinge swung open, and he found himself staring at the revealed contents with a furrowed brow.

In most such things, there was a picture, a message, or a token of a loved one. He didn't honestly –quite– expect such things out of Sir Hellsing, and never mind the happy-eyed photograph of her with that younger man. And there was, indeed, a small, close-folded scrap of paper covered with her thin black handwriting. But when he teased it out with careful fingers, there was also a loop of several black strands of hair.

And the note, when he unfolded it, did not carry words of affection.

The strands of hair I enclose here are from an old acquaintance whom I was unable to destroy but who was also unwilling to destroy me. The locket itself is more precious than its silvery exterior suggests. Keep it at hand, for it is more valuable than you realize.

Father Anderson's eyes widened slightly.

This locket had not been sentiment –it had been protection. Sir Hellsing had religiously carried and worn it every day of her life that he had seen her, and as he had so recently learned, the Fallen Ones could not bring themselves to attack someone bearing a lock of vampiric hair. This was not the remnants of a lover, as so many had whispered –it was a very practical defense.

He looked up from the note and stared at the strands of hair inside the locket, feeling an odd thrill of mixed unease and excitement. So this…this was something that had once been part of a vampire. This was actual, tangible proof of Sir Hellsing's occult theories, and validation of his own strange and inexplicable encounters in the past.

The strands of hair looked so –normal, though. There were not many of them, and they were caught in a loop that curled the ends together to prevent the fine strands of hair from being frayed or lost. Measuring it with a curled finger held about a centimeter away from the hair, Anderson estimated that it would've been an inch or so longer than his own. So, it might've come from a man or a woman in modern times, but with Sir Hellsing's statement that this was an old acquaintance…likely a man.

A man with ink-black hair like the Count's, perhaps?

He scoffed quietly at that. His confidence in his mentor had been restored somewhat with this very tangible evidence of her care –with this, he would certainly be safe from any vampire that attacked him, and enclosing it for him might very well have been what left Sir Hellsing vulnerable enough that she was brought to her death. She may have been an aloof and mysterious woman, but she had also clearly trusted him a great deal. If the Count was this acquaintance that she was unable to destroy, she would have warned Anderson against him. Cryptically, perhaps, but she would have done it.

Now he felt obscurely ashamed for opening the locket she had carried for so many years, even though the note made it obvious that she intended him to at some point. It felt like a betrayal of her trust in him, even when he now knew that it was no lover's token that she religiously kept at her throat, but a ward against her deadliest enemies.

Hopefully, it would serve him just as well.

He reverently closed the locket and hung it about his neck again beneath his shirt, feeling the solid silver weight settle over his heart. There was something comforting in that, in knowing that he was not without protection. His fingers drifted over the lump the locket made in his shirt as he wondered over the note that had been folded inside –the words from an old acquaintance I was unable to destroy but who was also unwilling to destroy me. Vampires were clearly monsters, but Sir Hellsing's words in the note seemed to imply that there was, perhaps…more than an echo of their past selves still lingering within them.

Perhaps that was how she had grown into such a stern and proud woman. Even through the blurred sepia of the photograph he had tucked into the front page, there was an innocence and joy in Sir Hellsing's frank blue gaze that he had never seen in her sole remaining eye. If she had fallen in love while being trained as a Protector, and her lover had been corrupted by a vampire, the ensuing confrontation must have been bitter.

And perhaps that was the source of both her lost eye and her broken relationship with the Count –in the aftermath of such a battle, Sir Hellsing would have wanted to sever ties with everyone she cared about, lest they be used against her. He, knowing this however subconsciously –the Count's letters at least made it clear that he knew of vampires– would have held no grudge against her, which explained the lack of bitterness or reproach when mentioning Sir Hellsing in his letters to Anderson now. While it was hard to think of the merry devil in the photograph doing anything seriously, the grave man in the painting seemed like the sort who understood what duty was. He would've left quietly, with respect.

And now, perhaps, Anderson was getting to understand why the Count had contacted him to begin with –although he and Sir Hellsing had perhaps not remained in contact to ensure each other's safety while she was alive, with her death the Count had become vulnerable. He, too, might wish to know more about vampires as Anderson did, to discover enough hard truths about the mythical creatures to protect himself against Sir Hellsing's nebulous foes. But while Anderson had the book to teach him how to guard and defend himself, the Count did not.

Anderson rubbed his bristly chin uneasily. That made sense, but…even aside from the fact that he hadn't finished it yet, something in him was reluctant to send the book away. It didn't feel right. And it doubly didn't feel right to let it go without some sort of guard on it, without him there to protect the precious manuscript. But to travel all the way to Venice on a stranger's call…

It didn't matter that the Count was feeling less and less like a stranger with every lively letter he sent. It didn't matter that Anderson was beginning to look forward every day to receiving that so-charming correspondence, and to be obscurely disappointed when it didn't come. He didn't know this man, and with what was at stake, couldn't afford to trust anyone he didn't know as well as himself or better. Furthermore, the Count was a contemporary of Sir Hellsing's, and as such should be treated with his utmost respect.

The imagination was a fickle thing, though. Anderson kept tracing the line of the Count's jaw in that painting with his mind's eye, or thinking of how it would be to see that lean, aristocratic face in motion. Part of it was pure curiosity, but the other part –well. His face warmed whenever he caught himself thinking about it, but Anderson couldn't help but imagine the Count as he would be in his youth –handsome, perfect, and alluring.

He shook his head as he realized his thoughts were drifting into dangerous territory again, even going so far as to pinch himself on the wrist. Enough woolgathering. He needed to lock up Sir Hellsing's book for the night, then see what defensive herbs he had in his kitchen. Likely none, but it was always best to check, and he could go shopping for more to make his sachets in the morning.

As he left the room, the priest touched the lump of silver at his breast, swinging beneath his cross, and felt reassured.

Rather than improve with the brisk application of good hard work, Father Anderson's strange fugue seemed to strengthen over the next few days as he drifted about his duties. He couldn't seem to keep his mind on task, and he was clumsier than he ever remembered being, frequently dropping tools or forgetting materials. His head seemed wrapped in a fog of dense thought, and it was hard to wiggle his intelligence out enough to actual perform his daily tasks.

Whenever he tried to clear his head by opening the book to read, he found himself caught on the first few pages, transfixed by that photograph of the Count and Sir Hellsing, and the painting of the man himself in dark oils. The mystery of the Count's relationship with Sir Hellsing teased at his mind, and he felt an increasing urge to solve it. Who was he, truly? How had they known each other? Did Father Anderson dare ask, and disrupt the warmth with which the Count seemed to regard him?

He didn't know how truly bad it was until Mrs. Phoebe Smith hunted him down, several days after discovering the truth of what was inside the locket.

"Are you all right, dear?" she asked, peering at him through her thick glasses. That was so unlike her usual bossy lecturing –the hesitance, the mute frown of worry on her face– that he straightened up and gave the elderly dame his full attention.

"Yes…? I feel fine." he replied blankly, feeling a little lost at her sudden unprecedented surge of care.

Her frown deepened, twisting strange lines into the wrinkles already puckering her expressive face. To his surprise, one thin and knobbled hand reached up, making a valiant effort to reach his face. Due to the height difference, she only managed to cup his neck, but he knew the intent was there.

"You've been very distracted lately." Mrs. Phoebe told him firmly, almost as if she was trying for her regular sternness even when the worry was clearly leaking through. "Dazed. Are you sure you feel well?"

"Of course." he said. He didn't dare shrug, because she'd probably bean him with her hat for seeming so dismissive, but a shrug certainly lingered about the priest's frame as he gave her a helpless look. "I am fine, truly. There have just been a lot of things to take care of, lately."

She still seemed suspicious, but the concern faded from her eyes a little as she pursed her lips and looked him up and down.

"You aren't lovesick, are you?" Mrs. Phoebe asked wryly as she looked up into his eyes again.

To his surprise, he thought of the Count –that very mysterious, very intriguing man– and his face reddened slightly. Mrs. Phoebe saw that, and got a look of elation.

"You-" she crowed, but he quickly coughed and shook his head.

"No." Father Anderson said, gently removing her hand from its clasp around his neck. "No, really. Nothing like that. There's just been a lot on my plate, and I'm sure I'll be better once it mellows out."

She gave him a dubious look, but seemed to accept that explanation, and left.

He, meanwhile, retreated to his office after she had gone and slumped against the closed door with a sigh of mixed relief and frustration. This needed to stop, but he didn't know what was even wrong with him, save that he was far more easily distracted than he had ever been in his life.

…was it really the Count?

A flush crept across his face again at the thought, but Anderson could not deny that the man's letters to him were more flirtatious than otherwise –nor could he deny his own stirring interest. He had never really been so deeply interested in another person before, and it could very easily explain his near-fugue state over the past week or so.

If so, he needed to snap himself out of it, and fast. Being stalked by vampires was no time for starting a romance, and doubly not when he was so unsure of the Count's intentions and background. Since they had never met, and the Count was clearly the one to have made the first overtures, it was Anderson's responsibility to inject some cool politeness into their correspondence and try and see where that took them.

After all, he didn't want to reject a potentially useful ally, but he also didn't want to…encourage the man's mischievously flirtatious writing style. Nor (and he told himself this sternly several times to make sure of it) did he want the man actually interested in him, or to give the impression that he was interested in return. The most they could ever be was friends.

Yes, that was the ticket. He needed to put some emotional distance between them and hope that that gave him some clarity of mind and thought to continue acting in both his own and –possibly– the Count's best interests.

London, June 9th, 1920

My reason protests against continued correspondence with Vlad. He fills many of my waking moments. Yesterday I found myself staring again at the photograph in the front of the book, and it occurred to me that the painted portrait on the opening page may also be Vlad in his youth. My preoccupation with him is absurd, I know. He must be old-aged, but when I read his letters, I see only the incredible vision in the painting. As a younger man, I would have scoffed at the notion of seduction by letter, but now I am not so sure.

DRAFT

London, June 8th, 1920

Dear Vlad,

I will call you by your first name if I must, although I would prefer to address you more formally –your age and talents deserve more respect than you will allow me to give. However, I will do as you ask.

I must make a confession to you. Amongst Sir Hellsing's belongings I found a painting that I believe may be you as a young man, in a charcoal suit trimmed in red and with a locket around your neck. I keep it by me when I write to you and imagine my friend doing the same many years ago

I am, as you observe, your true friend,
Alexander Anderson