Venice, June 18th, 1920

My dearest Alexander,

My eyes filled with tears as I read your last letter –partly remembering happy times spent with Integra, but mostly the force behind my emotion was the thought of you sitting there with my painting, for I believe I know the very picture you now hold in your hands.

I am not now, of course, as handsome as I once was, but some of my youthfulness remains. You should visit me in Venice and make your own judgement.

I await your visit because I believe that we have much to learn from each other about the Fallen Ones. It is important to remember that they are not all of a destructive nature; allies can sometimes be found where least expected, just as betrayal may await at the hands of those we trust. Even Sir Hellsing did not always follow her instinct to destroy.

If you are kind and write again soon, I shall send you a more recent photograph of myself. Do not reciprocate –I have a picture of you in my mind's eye, and I do not wish to spoil the delicious anticipation of our meeting.

I am counting the days.

Vlad

London, June 21st, 1920

I heard from Vlad today. I feared that I had caused some offense with my last letter, but on the contrary, his latest missive is even more direct and alluring than his earlier letters. Now he fills my dreams as well as my waking moments. Not all the dreams are comfortable –in some he feeds upon my soul. Having read Vlad's letter, the gravity and importance of the task before me as Sir Hellsing's successor finally begins to sink in. How can I take up such a challenge, filled with danger and mystery, when so much remains unknown to me?

Rain pattered softly above him, tapping in an oddly slumberous roar against the old roof of the mansion and running clear fingers down the cold dark glass of the windowpanes. Inside was warm and dry, however, and lit charmingly by the glow of a fire in the grey stone hearth.

In the light of those crackling flames, Anderson saw old, rich draperies hanging from the walls, their colors faded but still somberly glorious. Smooth, dark wood shone faintly in the sinuous curves of the few furnishings, no doubt once polished to a mirror shine but now only a gleam beneath the dust and the neglect of years. The dulled gleam of smooth marble tiles spread in a black-and-white checker pattern across the considerable stretch of space, spanning from wall to wall uninterrupted by even the scrap of a carpet.

The windows were whole, and indeed seemed almost newly-cleaned, but the world outside was dark, with only the trickles of water running down the exterior of the glass to show him that they were transparent windows and not solid, opaque black squares. The very air seemed to sigh of soft desolation: forgotten, but not abandoned; bereft, but not quite lost; old and perhaps even ancient, but yet not in ruins.

This was a dream. He knew it was a dream, because he did not remember what he had been doing or why he was here, and the details of the room pulled vaguely at the corners of his eyes, fuzzy and yet solid, blurred and yet a complete picture. The only decor that seemed distinct and solid were the funeral lilies that sprouted from vases on the mantelpiece and cunningly fastened in several sprays about the room.

Lacking anything else to do, figuring that he may as well obey the mute commands of his own dream-logic, he stepped closer to the fireplace. The priest lifted his hand, running one of the soft white petals through his ungloved fingers in cautious wonder: these were new, and yet everything else around him had the soft fading of many years of dust. But who would place funeral lilies in such an ancient abode? This was also a parlor, or a ballroom: there were no corpses here, recent or otherwise.

"These do not suit your coloring." came a surprisingly deep, rich voice from behind him, and pleasant chills threaded their way down Anderson's back as he felt the touch of a hand on his bare neck, smooth fingertips gliding gently down the slope of his spine. This must be a dream, because he found such a touch welcome, rather than disturbing.

He dared to glance behind himself –not wanting to interrupt the shivering touch– and saw, as he had more than half-expected, the Count. But it was Vlad as he was in the painting that stood behind Anderson now, standing tall and erect in the very flower of his youth, a wry half-smirk on his pale, handsome face. His dark suit was perfectly pressed, his cravat a brilliant red, not a hair of his raven locks out of place.

"Nor yours." Anderson managed to answer, his throat feeling tight. If he had been awake, his head might be swimming at this incredible vision, but seeing Vlad like this, so young, Anderson knew it was only a dream beyond any doubt. He did not often have lucid dreams, but now he knew for sure. "Why are these flowers here, then?"

"Should they not be?" Vlad asked, a flash of the carelessness and arrogance that Anderson had glimpsed in the photo rising beneath his smooth expression and tone as one immaculate eyebrow lifted slightly.

"These are for the dead." Anderson said, lifting his fingers slightly with the frail petals still trapped between them. "And there are no dead here, are there?"

Vlad smiled and reached past him, those cool fingers lifting from his neck, and Anderson shivered harder as they slid over his knuckles first, gliding down to gently clasp both fingers and flower together.

"Perhaps they are for Integra." Vlad murmured in his ear, that low rumble running its way through Anderson's body all the way down to his toes. The Count's fingers shifted slightly over his own, a subtle caress. "In memory of she who we loved."

Anderson swallowed. The sudden grief seemed to hit him all the harder, as though he had just seen her body all over again. Tears would have burned his eyes, but he was asleep and could shed no tears in his dreams.

"She was the wisest person I ever knew." he replied softly, his voice thick. "And I am left all alone to fill her mantle, I fear I cannot…"

"Hush, my dear Alexander." Vlad's hand slid up his arm, and the priest shivered out a gasp as it curled around his chest, Vlad's forehead coming to press gently against the small of his back. They stood in silence for several moments, and Count's hand idly stroked across his chest.

That touch sent every nerve in Anderson's body coming alight like an electric wire, and yet…and yet even in the realms of fantasy, surely this was too much? Vlad would never have initiated this much contact on his own: he was a count, a nobleman, it was beneath him to offer such intimate contact to a stranger so quickly…and Anderson's mind was warping him, disrespecting this man on one count by imagining him as his younger self, and on a second count by thinking of him as the sort of man who would…

"I-"

"Hush." the Count said again, his voice low and soothing. "If Integra was truly as wise as you say, then she would have picked her successor well. If she laid this burden upon you, then she must have had high hopes of your carrying it, no?"

Anderson swallowed. Black as the betrayal might be, shameless as his subconscious had apparently become, he felt no small measure of comfort in those words and this touch. It was true, wasn't it? Sir Hellsing had believed in him. Sir Hellsing had directly named him as the most worthy of her trust in that initial letter. Surely she had thought that he could carry on her duties as Protector, even without any formal teaching on her part. Why else would she have not taught him when she was still alive, when he was helping her with her researches…

"This is a dream." Anderson said, the bitter shame of taking comfort in his own subconscious thoughts choking the words out of him.

"Then may we never awake." Vlad replied without hesitation. His warm breath flowed over the sides of Anderson's neck like a noose, cascading down the front of his chest, making Anderson shiver as the other man's deep voice turned playful. "Did Integra teach her successor to dance, perhaps? It has been some time since I last performed the waltz."

"A little." Anderson managed, sliding out of Vlad's grasp as he turned to face the other man. He felt jittery, less like butterflies were dancing in his stomach and more like they had been let loose in his veins, sending fluttering prickles of mixed tension and ecstasy through his body in waves.

Vlad's touch felt good, and yet part of Anderson deeply yearned to escape it. His touch was too good, too much for the priest's poor beleaguered self, and Anderson wanted to writhe away from that wonderful intimacy like a fish thrashing its way off the hook. "Not nearly enough to pair with a nobleman, I'm sure."

Vlad merely smiled, standing in the center of the wide room and yet less than one pace away (such was the logic of dreams), and he offered one white-gloved hand. Anderson became aware of music, both familiar and haunting, as though it had been playing this whole time –even when he knew the room had previously been silent.

Not knowing what else to do, even in a dream, Anderson reached out and took that expectant hand. Vlad's smile widened, though the Count remained silent, and he pulled the priest into the slow, revolving steps of the famous waltz. Anderson's breath caught and his heart gave a great thud at the sudden lack of distance between them, at how smooth and flawless the steps of their dance, and the look of blissful greed on Vlad's face.

"See?" the other man murmured after a few slow revolutions of the room. "You are a marvelous dancer."

"I don't-" Anderson began, his voice feeling strangled and his face hot even if this was a dream. How could he explain to Vlad that if this was the real world, he would've stumbled over his feet twenty times by now, enraptured by his partner's gaze?

How strange dreams were, though, that he could trace even the dark fan of the other man's eyelashes and yet completely fail to name the color of his eyes. Anderson's legs moved, but his feet were numb, as though he were quite literally walking on air even when he felt the ground firm beneath him. The colors and shapes of the room swirled around him, smooth white blending into dusty black and coffin-brown, the scent of fire and funeral lilies thick in his mouth.

The Count's slow, amused smile was dazzling.

"Such modesty, in one so young." he murmured, and Anderson shuddered against the man's wrist with a faint gasp as Vlad cupped his stubbled cheek with one tender hand. "Should you not be more arrogant? You have so much to be proud of."

"Should…" Anderson's throat was dry even after he swallowed. "Shouldn't you have more restraint? With age comes wisdom."

"And with wisdom comes the knowledge that it is worthwhile to indulge." Vlad countered smoothly, his eyes twinkling with great mischief. "Do you not wish to indulge with me?"

To his shame, Anderson choked as a great many thoughts flooded his mind, most of which were entirely inappropriate in regards to a near-stranger and nobleman such as Vlad, and even more inappropriate when considering the fact that Vlad was his elder and should have his utmost respect.

He wished the dream would work in his favor, unstick his clumsy tongue and unburden his heavy wits –but like screaming at himself to wake during a nightmare, the only boon the dream would stubbornly give him was how his feet kept on treading the graceful movements of the dance, never faltering, never ceasing their slow, intimate steps no matter how flustered Anderson got as the two of them revolved about the room to an endless waltz. Nothing seemed able to change that, nothing seemed to break the pattern, like Anderson had been taken without his noticing and placed inside a jewelry box, frozen forever in a perpetual dance by some witchcraft.

"You said you loved Sir Hellsing." he finally gulped after a long struggle of thought, feeling as though his sleeping mind was struggling through thick, clinging mud. He wanted to find a distraction, he knew that much. "Did you wish to marry her?"

For the first time, a flicker of a frown came to Vlad's lips.

"I…do not know." he admitted in a slow voice as his expression changed, just as shockingly, uncharacteristically hesitant. Those eyes darkened with some nameless memory, searching, searching. The words that came from Vlad seemed…strange, like he was telling the tale of someone else. "I was fond of her. I loved her, certainly."

"So why not marry her?" Anderson asked, a hot and burning coal lodging itself in his chest, a tight and furious knot of almost-anticipation, almost-pain.

"I'm not sure. I was happy, in those summers with Integra." Vlad said, and then another shadow crossed that perfect visage. "But…"

"But?" Anderson prompted when the Count trailed off and seemed lost to thought.

"I am not sure." They spun together on the floor, Vlad's face pensive as they continued weaving their way through the music without thought, without trying, without effort. "I do remember I was happy, and that I no longer have that same happiness. But I am not sure why it was lost to me."

"Can't you remember?"

Vlad laughed, and the sound was sad.

"Some things, my dear Alexander," he said, flicking a glance up at the other man through dark, sultry lashes as he did. "-are beyond remembrance or retrieval."

Anderson swallowed, his heart bumping in his throat. That glance did things to him; terrible, wonderful things. His mind spun with the music, and he could no longer tell if he was the one pulling Vlad in his wake, or if the Count himself was guiding him. The world seemed to rotate around them both, the very solid ground blurring and shifting beneath his feet like fog. They were still dancing, dancing like two jeweled figures caught in a cursed music box as the world spun around them, and that was the only foundation that he had.

His grip was tight on Vlad's arms, and yet it was not fear of losing his balance. The other man's melancholy words had simply stirred a desire to protect him, hadn't it? Such a sad, despair-filled outlook on his own future…Anderson could not tolerate such things in Vlad, in the man he had seen in those twofold pictures, painting and photograph. He could not bear the thought of that grinning devil in Sir Hellsing's photograph becoming so forlorn, could not countenance the idea that the proud aristocrat of the painting could be so defeated.

"Perhaps I can help you find it again." he said, and the words came out in an intimate whisper. "Your happiness."

Vlad laughed softly, the sound rippling over Anderson's nerves and running like tongues of fire along his skin beneath his priestly vestments. The Count's arms rose to circle around his neck, pulling him slightly closer.

"Perhaps you can." Vlad murmured as Anderson's heart raced like thunder in his ears, his chest tight with anticipation as the other man slowly drew him down. "Perhaps you will help me find what I seek."

The Count's lips melded against his as euphoria burst like fireworks under Anderson's skin, his hands instinctively grappling at the other man to draw him even deeper into the kiss. Something rang in Anderson's ears, a strange chime of warning like an unwholesome frisson to the air –a premonition of danger that his dreaming mind could not discern– and yet he was drowning in Vlad, his taste, his touch, his scent. It was all too exquisite beyond words –too fantastic to be real. Perhaps that was what made something churn faintly within him –disappointment that this could not truly be real.

"Ah, Alexander," Vlad murmured as he withdrew with a slow nip, their foreheads pressed together. "How much will you give me?"

"I- I don't understand." he managed to gasp, but Vlad was obdurate, arms around him like shackles, nether letting him move nor retreat.

"How much?" the other man pressed again, leaning closer so that his breath whispered along Anderson's mouth. Their lips met once more, this kiss hungrier than the first, stealing his breath away and leaving his knees to tremble as Vlad molded himself against him, devouring and gracing him all in one transcendent moment. Anderson gasped when Vlad moved further away again, staring at the black-haired man with dazed betrayal.

"How much will you give me, Alexander?"

"Everything." he promised dizzily, fingers clutching at Vlad's strong shoulders as his only support. "Everything, only-"

His desperate words were stolen by the hungriest kiss of all, and the temple of Anderson's body shivered down to its foundations as he moaned, feeling the Count's grip wrap around him, feeling the Count give him everything that he had wanted and more. It was so much- too much.

"Everything is enough, my beloved Alexander." Vlad murmured with the strange logic of dreams, his husky voice reaching Anderson's ears clearly despite the pair of lips pressed upon his own. "For such an exquisite creature, taking your everything –so that you never again have anything else to give– might be enough for me, I think."

Anderson shuddered, and moaned in response as a tongue slid over his mouth.

Vlad's lips felt like Heaven, but they tasted like blood.

Anderson awoke with a jolt, his heart pounding.

The bedroom was dim and dark and blue around him, the thick curtains blocking out even the glow of the streetlamps in the distance. Soft ticking and dripping sounds of water washing against the panes told him where that part of the dream, at least, had come from, and he passed a shaking hand over his face. His body was soaked with fear-sweat, his heart thumping loud against the locket that currently against his breastbone. He –hadn't forgotten to take it off. He hadn't wanted to take it off along with his cross, fearing a sudden attack in the night.

For a few moments, he lay as he was, staring at the dim and formless reaches of his bedroom as his gasps sounded loud in his ears. His mind swirled in aimless, frightened circles, like a mouse surrounded by several cats, before slowly, slowly settling. The priest took one last deep breath, and threw his covers aside.

Sweat in his hair and his body shaking, Anderson got up and crossed his darkened room to the washbasin. Discounting the rag that lay beside it for a moment, he bent over in the dark to splash his face with water. The water in the basin was tepid at best, but compared to the hot flush of his body it was almost icy, and he gasped again in muted relief.

That blessedly cool water trickled down his face as he combed wet fingers through his hair, feeling overheated and disheveled. Twitching open his nightshirt so that the locket swung out into open air didn't help –the silver metal was already warm from the heat of his body, and he was in an all-over sweat.

Despite how sticky he felt, though, Anderson paused for a moment with both hands gripping the basin, closing his eyes in the languid darkness and trying to just –breathe. Center himself.

Just another dream.

He did muse briefly, though, that he was lucky to not have been of an age with Sir Hellsing. It was probably well for him that he had never met Vlad in his youth, as his increasing attraction to that frustratingly mysterious and enticing man might very well have come between him and Sir Hellsing. Although he was still not entirely sure of their relationship, it seemed far likelier than not that there had been romantic feelings between them, and Anderson could not stomach the thought of competing with his mentor in such a way.

Only heartbreak lay in that direction.

Still. Vlad was certainly an alluring man, and Anderson felt he was lucky to have never met the Count in his younger days for an altogether different reason, his cheeks warming a little. If Vlad was still so charming at this advanced age, he probably would've eaten the priest alive in his almost-certainly-wilder youth.

But the thought of being eaten made him shudder again, and Anderson blew out a long, slow breath, feeling more water trickle down his chin. These dreams –these nightmares– were a sign of his distracted thoughts. Unlike his normal discipline, his mind was now so preoccupied with Vlad that the Count leaked over into the darker dreams born from the pages of Sir Hellsing's book.

Anderson had not been sleeping well ever since he had first gotten his hands on it, and now the nightmares warped in strange ways around his growing obsession with the Count. He sighed, curling and uncurling his fingers from where they clenched the basin, but it wasn't as though Anderson could particularly do anything about this. These thoughts were his own. These nightmares were his own. He just needed to find a way to deal with them that did not leave his entire body quaking like he had run a marathon in the dark.

And he didn't like drugging himself, either. The laudanum was a good sleep aid, but the more he learned about vampires, the less he liked the idea of impairing himself, especially when already made vulnerable by sleep. He had the locket, true, but he wasn't sure how protective such a thing could truly be. Sir Hellsing had stated that no vampire could harm him while he was in possession of it, but that seemed to imply direct "harm" such as an attack –and not indirect harm like, say, burning down his rooms with him still inside.

And while he still did not think such a thing likely –the Fallen Ones operated in the shadows and there was nothing more obvious than a house fire in a church– it was still, in theory, possible, especially as their list of suspects to whom Sir Hellsing had sent her book dwindled.

Father Anderson finally sucked in a deep, deep breath and let go of the edges of the basin. Picking up the rag, he scrubbed his face as clear of sweat and water as he could manage, drying what he could before returning back to bed. As there was nothing he could do about the nightmares, he resolved to endure them as best he could, and perhaps ask around for sleep aids from his flock when they came to their circle meetings and their knitting clubs.

He wouldn't be able to use everything they told him, but something was at least better than nothing…

Another night, another nightmare, and he was back to work in the morning again, blinking the sleep from his tired eyes. Despite the bundle of neatly-tied letters now lurking in the drawer with Sir Hellsing's book, he did not wish to write to Vlad again. Each letter they exchanged seemed to strengthen the magnetic pull between them, and that was another distraction he could ill afford.

He rubbed under his glasses with a sigh. He had been listless and worried enough over these past few days, he didn't need to make things worse with his silly little…infatuation.

There. He admitted it.

He was becoming infatuated with Vlad.

But –except in the realm of his dreams, apparently– Anderson could keep that infatuation strictly within the confines of his imagination, and let no hint of it leak out into his letters to spoil their correspondence. Although, considering how flirtatiously the Count wrote to him, such hints may not be entirely unwelcome…

Father Anderson shook his head a few times. Get ahold of yourself.

He had, however, finally managed to push past his obsession with the pictures on the title page of the book, which was currently opened to the first of the few chapters that he had been reading over and over again ever since he first saw the first title.

HOW TO DESTROY A VAMPIRE

The words that so keenly interested him were interspersed with ink-and-paint drawings of various weapons, and another, darker oil painting that showed a vampire collapsed facedown with an outflung arm, laying at the feet of what looked like three men, if the trousers and coats were any indication. Another scrap of an ancient scroll was sewn into the center crease, projecting between the two pages: it depicted ink-shaded woodcuts of a vampire from each bloodline, each one caught in the technique of final destruction.

The first section began:

By now, you have the means to identify vampires and the knowledge to protect yourself against them. But how can humankind actually destroy these wretched creatures? I include this chapter as a plea to my fellow humans –take up the fight and learn the skills of the Protector before it is too late.

It is impossible to kill the Fallen Ones outright; indeed, the term "kill" itself is inappropriate, for vampires are not truly alive in the first place. In order to annihilate such abominations, they must first be stopped or incapacitated and then ritually destroyed. It is vital that the correct procedure for final destruction is carried out according to the requirements of each bloodline –practical steps for doing so can be found opposite.

This, then, had turned his attention to the scrap of scroll, and what it said in those dark, old-fashioned letters.

HOW TO DESTROY THE VAMPYRE

MOLOCH
The Surest way to Destroy a Moloch is to drain it into Running Water, burne it and scatter its ashes. The Water into which it is scattered must have a current; the still waters of an inland lake will not prevent their Reconstitution.

BA'AL
Once a Ba'al Be stopped, the Head must be Removed. The Surest way to Destroy this Vampyre is to place its Body in a Sealed Case and Bury its Head Far Away, beneathe the Grounde when possible. Many Ba'al have been revived by Progeny, who Have Reunited the Head with the Corpse.

BELIAL
When Destroying the Belial, it Must be Hung By its Feete and drained of Bloode and its Throate must be Cut with a Silver Blade. This Method of Destruction will serve for any Fallen bloodline but remains the only true way to Destroy a Belial.

It was interesting to note that the method of destruction for Belial worked for all bloodlines, and part of him wondered why alternative methods were described at all. Certainly, this method seemed safer than burying a head and a body in separate locations and then simply hoping that a vampire's thrall wouldn't reunite the halves and reanimate their master.

The actual pages that the fragment of a scroll was sandwiched between detailed the methods of slowing or stopping a vampire before its final destruction –chiefly what weapons were used, and how effective they were.

GUNS
A gun can be effective against vampires only if it is loaded with silver bullets. Any number of ordinary bullets will have no lasting effect. Only bullets of silver will do, and then only if they are shot into the heart.

WOODEN STAKE
As legend tells us, stakes have some effect on the Fallen. These weapons will, however, only stop a vampire from functioning if plunged into the heart; final destruction must then be carried out afterwards. There is no evidence to explain why a wooden stake will work when a regular bullet will not.

SWORDS
An ordinary sword will inflict no damage on a vampire, but a sword or dagger made of silver, while it may not destroy a vampire, will inflict serious wounds that require time and care to heal. A sword forged with a shard from the Sword of Angels is the exception to this rule –it will destroy a vampire outright.

OTHER WEAPONS
The twelfth-century Protector Robin Hood fired silver-tipped arrows from a Saxon crossbow at the Fallen Ones. It is believed that the first Dutch explorers in Australia enjoyed some success in stopping vampires with silver, boomerang-shaped weapons.

FIRE
All vampires can be destroyed by fire; a lack of bodily fluids means that they burn to ashes more quickly than humans. Their ashes, however, must be scattered after burning or they will easily reform.

Given his access to both a gun and one of the shards of the Sword of Angels, he felt somewhat pleased at his chances of forging a useful weapon. Not that he would waste the infinitely precious material by forging bullets, no –but having the pistol to go with said bullets, when he made them, was a very reassuring thing, as was knowing as he read the words it will destroy a vampire outright that he did, indeed, have one of the shards in his possession.

He looked over the diagram beneath the first page, again, seeing the glint of metal in many places on the illustration.

Weapons used against vampires must be made of silver –the stock of the crossbow, the tip of the arrow, and the blade of the sword pictured below are all formed from this precious metal. For effective use against vampires, firearms must be loaded with silver bullets. As legend tells us, a wooden stake will have some effect in stopping a vampire, though it will not in itself destroy a vampire.

That was, perhaps, his only sticking point at the moment. He was no smith, and his access to silver of any kind was limited: he was reluctant to melt down the locket for sentimental reasons (not just because it had belonged to Sir Hellsing, but also, if that painting of the Count was correct…) and the thought of destroying any of the few silver pieces of art in the church was abhorrent. However useful they may have been against vampires, destroying holy objects to create weapons of destruction left a bad taste in his mouth.

Of course, he could probably buy enough silver, in jewelry perhaps, but…that would set a flag to any spies or observers that he was perhaps a bit more conversant in vampire lore than an ordinary parish priest should be. And that was something he keenly wished to avoid until he actually had a weapon in hand –he had the locket, and the vampire's hair inside for protection, but he wasn't willing to test his life on it, particularly not when his attacker didn't actually need to kill him to accomplish their goal.

Stealing the book would be enough, and it wasn't as though his drawer, however sturdy, would hold up for more than a second against a vampire. If what he had been reading was correct, they could tear a locked safe open with their bare hands.

He glanced towards the other painting again. Like most of the materials used in this book, it was old enough that the oils of the simple background had darkened into an indistinct blur, though the four figures it depicted were clear enough. Three men, or masculinely-dressed figures, gathered with ominous stillness around the sprawled figure of a vampire –a Belial, from the three horns, who looked up through dirty, straggling locks of hair with a gargoyle's frozen grimace. Sir Hellsing's note on this picture, though, had given him some pause when he first read it.

Experienced vampire hunters are well trained in the art of destruction. Pictured here is my predecessor, along with two werewolves in their human form and a vampire stopped by a wooden stake.

The next section that he had been obsessively re-reading, though –THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS– finally gave him the answers to the questions that had been niggling at him ever since that first offhand mention of werewolves and the truth of their existence.

The life of a Protector is a lonely existence, and our comrades are few. For many centuries, however, my predecessors have found solace in the companionship of one other creature –the werewolf. One of the first Protectors set up an alliance with these creatures of the night, and they have proved faithful companions ever since.

WEREWOLVES
Werewolves are not undead or immortal, but their life span is longer than that of humans. Humans cannot simply "become" a werewolves. Only some humans have a propensity towards wolfism, which usually becomes apparent when they reach adolescence. However, in others this propensity remains dormant, and they never develop werewolf characteristics. Werewolves are a secretive folk who have kept their knowledge of their origins to themselves. For most of their lives, they exist peacefully as humans, but can adopt their wolf form at will. A hunting were-creature is exceptionally quick and strong, with razor-sharp claws and fierce teeth; rarely will prey survive its attack. Happily for us, grazing animals, not humans, are their preferred prey.

The enmity between vampires and werewolves is centuries old. When the curse of the Fallen first spread across the world, werewolf populations were decimated –vampires saw them as a threat to their influence and so murdered were-folk en masse. From this point on, the were-creatures went to great lengths to disrupt the schemes of the Fallen Ones, and in the first century, werewolves declared war on vampires. Werewolves are particularly adept during pursuit of vampires and are well-trained in the art of final destruction.

The monochrome pencil sketch below this section showed a pack of wolves with bared, slavering teeth hurling themselves over the incline of some boulders to leap at a trio of vampires, who likewise charged to meet them with crooked swords and bared fangs.

Some of the world's chief vampire hunters are werewolves. Many battles, similar to the one depicted below, have been fought during the night's darkest hours.

This, actually, made a great deal of sense, and reminded him of another incident during his previous years.

He had been visiting Switzerland at the time, and taking the time to explore the breathtaking natural beauty of his surroundings when he had a free moment or two. This had unexpectedly come to a head one night in an Alpine hotel, sandwiched high in the mountains and far from most roads. The scenery had been stunning, but the behavior of one of the guests –two, technically– had been somewhat bewildering.

They had been signed into the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Bernadotte, and Anderson had actually met the husband, smoking out on the balcony one evening. He was a rakish man, with a green eye glinting with mischief and his auburn hair tied an eccentric long braid beneath an ostentatious cowboy hat. He had struck the priest's attention on two counts –one, because he wore an eyepatch like Sir Hellsing's, and two, because when Anderson had stepped out onto the veranda with the intent to talk a walk, Mr. Bernadotte had swiveled to face him so fast that Anderson jumped, his green eye glinting like fire in the gloom.

Bernadotte had laughed it off a moment later, replacing his cigarette in his mouth and cheerfully telling Anderson –in heavily-accented French– that he was always jumpy after a fight with his wife. But how quickly he had moved, how instantaneously the man had zeroed in on the slight noise in his peripheral…that almost canine reflective flash of his eye in the dark…

Father Anderson, knowing nothing of what he knew now, had brushed aside his surprise and any other oddities he had noticed, reasoning that it was just startlement from the man's sudden turn. Being a priest, he instinctively moved to mediate instead, asking what had caused the Frenchman and his wife to argue. Mr. Bernadotte had laughed again, seemingly none the worse for the sudden curiosity, and said that they had had a difference of opinion on hunting.

A low, wavering howl had split the air before he could say more, and while the priest had stiffened and reached for a weapon he didn't have, Mr. Bernadotte had remained casually leaning on the balcony, cigarette dangling from his lips.

"There she goes," he had laughed after a few moments, pointing with his cigarette at a hulking shape rapidly descending down through the trees in the distance before tapping off his ash. "Always in a hurry."

Father Anderson had stared at the shambling, furry figure that bulked and scuttled between the straddling alpine trees. It was too far away, and night falling too fast, to have picked apart many details, but it was an animal, certainly. At the time, he had thought it a comment on the wolf's behavior, or perhaps a wry jab at the man's wife.

But now, he had to reassess that assumption, particularly with the man's next, bizarre choice of words.

"The lady Hellsing, she has introduced you, no?"

Anderson had blinked and then, rather naively, asked what Mr. Bernadotte had meant, and if he had ever met Sir Hellsing in person. It made him wince to look back on now, especially how Mr. Bernadotte had suddenly frozen at that response, muttered a quick curse under his breath, and then quickly turned back to the priest with a laughing quip on his lips, as though seeking to distract him. If so, it certainly worked: Mr. Bernadotte had an inexhaustible series of rather amusing little tales, and he was also a very charming man who knew how to use his charm to the fullest. By the end of their chat, Anderson had almost completely forgotten about the shape in the woods or the man's odd question.

But now, several years later, he looked back on that incident and he had to wonder. Had that husband and wife been werewolves, and he an inadvertent bystander on their hunting trip? Mr. Bernadotte, at least, had fully hinted that he knew of Sir Hellsing, and given the allegiance between Protectors and werewolves, such an assumption made sense. Good God, the man had all but explicitly asked if Sir Hellsing had been training him.

The fact that she had not was somewhat galling, and on reflex, Father Anderson spread his palm over his chest, feeling the solid, comforting weight of the locket and his heart thumping steadily beneath it. She had not abandoned him, and whatever reason she had for delaying his training, it must have been justified. Perhaps it was even because of this book: she had intended for it to be published widely, which in turn meant that there would be more than just him attempting to protect future generations of humanity.

But aside from Sir Hellsing's instructions of allies and destruction, there was another reason that he kept obsessively reading and re-reading these pages. There was a second section in this chapter, and it held the answer to a question that had been fluttering in the back of his mind ever since Vlad's last letter –a question of how truly irredeemable vampires were, and what exactly the Count had meant by saying that sometimes allies could be found where one least expected it.

LEGEND OF ANOTHER ALLY
There is a legend of a vampire, a tortured Belial known as the Slayer, who defeated her worst enemy –bloodthirst. It is said that she could not tolerate the guilt that came with her condition and underwent an inner transformation, feeding on animals as prey and using Eastern forms of meditation to train herself out of her vampiric ways. According to legend, the Slayer possessed all the powers of the vampire and usually took the guise of a young girl. It is also believed that this Slayer mastered the art of destroying her own kind, using many of the methods discussed on these pages. How precisely she managed such a feat is unknown –a number of benevolent Belial made similar attempts to follow her example and failed. Many Protectors have denied her existence entirely, brandishing this tale as mere distraction. To me, her story rings true, and a number of unexplained recent destructions have led me to believe that she may still be active.

Records show that an unnamed Protector from many years ago met with the Slayer to discuss an alliance. His idea, it seemed, was to form a "Circle of Protection" –a cluster of individuals committed to finding the lost shards of the Sword of Angels and destroying vampires for eternity. Notes made by this Protector show that the group included the Slayer, an appointed member of the were-folk, and the Protector himself. The Circle is believed to have disbanded some time ago for reasons that cannot be verified.

A NEW ALLIANCE
Whether these stories be fact or legend, the tale of the Circle is an inspiration to the line of Protectors. I, Integra Hellsing, intend to give my all to the restoration of the Circle. If the Slayer is still active, I shall find her; I have also established new links with the were-folk. At the heart of this Circle, however, some new members must stand –ordinary humans. As we have seen, the true nature of the vampire has been hidden from the world for too long. It is time for ordinary people to face the enemy that lurks in our midst and take up the fight against the Fallen Ones. Only then may we defeat these bloodthirsty beasts once and for all.

This, then, might explain Mr. Bernadotte's obvious expectation that he –as the current Protector's foremost student– should be aware of the existence of werewolves. It might also explain Vlad's oblique hints that not all vampires were entirely consumed by their bloodthirsty nature, and that enough of their humanity remained that they, too, wished for their kind to be destroyed.

But that was a risk that Anderson could not, dared not take. Not with his life, and not with this so-precious book, the only remainder of Sir Hellsing's legacy and presumably all her wisdom and skill as a Protector.

No –now that he finally, finally knew enough to get on with –how to identify, destroy, and protect himself from vampires– he should begin taking steps to deal with this enormous problem. That was his clear duty. The problem, of course, was where to begin? He had seen what was almost certainly a vampire in the park, but how to find her again? Did he have the temerity to stalk her to her home, and the strength to drive a stake into her heart so that he could begin the dissolution process?

And if not her, then who? When? Which vampire would he finally be bold enough to face? The ones that he knew were probably already hunting him from the shadows? But how could he unmask them, save by putting himself at a risk he could not excuse?

No. The first thing, perhaps, was to make serviceable weapons –a blade from the shard he now carried, silver bullets to go in his gun. Once he had the means to actually dispose of vampires, then and only then could he dare think about hunting them.

London, June 23rd, 1920

I feel the pull of Venice, and I am ill at ease. Since our first correspondence, I have questioned Vlad's intentions: his broken association with Sir Hellsing and his interest in the book disturb me. And yet I am enchanted by him. Who is he? Could he be the Slayer? Did Sir Hellsing, indeed, succeed in reforming the Circle? I cannot bring myself to write to him again; I am in an agony of uncertainty.

A stream of dark, gritty ash fell from the upturned box that Father Anderson held over the Thames. A bitter burned scent lingered in the air, despite the fact that they had ceased smoldering ten minutes ago.

It had been almost anticlimactically easy to destroy his first vampire, the priest reckoned. He had been lingering about the park for some days, attempting to put his lessons into use, and followed this particular Fallen One into the shade of an alley after they had aroused his suspicions. Once there, it had been quick to reveal itself, and only his nerve and the sudden flinch it made upon drawing close had let him keep his head. A quick thrust with the wooden stake he had hidden up his sleeve, and the vampire collapsed in a groaning heap on the ground.

He had dispatched it fairly easily after that, choosing to burn the body to ashes with a match due to how close they were to a public space –ashes which he had then swept into a cardboard box and was now emptying over running water, as instructed.

Simple. Easy. Swift.

It had taken him less than ten minutes, from identifying his target to setting them aflame.

He wondered if this was perhaps beginner's luck, or just the fact that he possessed a vampire's hair providing enough of a powerful protection that the Fallen Ones had had no way to directly retaliate in a fight. This one had certainly checked itself, cringing back as though menaced by a sword for a brief moment when it closed with him. It hadn't even been able to see the locket, or identify it if it had: he kept the silver pendant hidden beneath his shirt, like always.

With a sigh, he acknowledged that once again, he just did not have enough context in the matter of vampire-hunting to know, and collapsing the folded cardboard box, he tucked it under his arm and headed for the train station.

Within moments, he knew that he was being followed.

Although his stride stiffened slightly and he pressed the box under his arm closer to his side on instinct, Father Anderson did his best not to show that he had noticed his watchers. Instead, he lifted his head as his eyes roamed the crowd before him, searching for windows, glass, anything to show a reflection.

There.

As he changed direction, turning onto a prosperous shopping street with a corner building covered with display windows, he glanced up at the rippling glass and saw, in the darkened patches, two men hasten their steps a little, turning onto the street to join him. Once again preventing himself from making the rookie mistake of glancing back to check on them, he contented himself with peeping glances on the window reflections as he passed.

Both men wore somber grey coats that went down to their knees, and fedoras pulled down low, so that the brims shadowed their eyes. Something in their hunched, purposeful movements and brisk strides screamed plainclothes detective, and he felt the tension in his shoulders easing a little. These were police, then, most likely.

In retrospect, he probably shouldn't be surprised. Although he thought that no one had seen him, there had still been the cab driver who took him to and from the museum on the very day of Sir Hellsing's death. He ought to have expected police attention sooner, to be honest, but in his defense, he had been very preoccupied with, well…everything else.

Still. His alibi for her death should be solid, and he could produce the telegram she had sent him at the last extremity –although he would deeply prefer not to, as there were likely vampiric spies in the police (especially around the investigation regarding Sir Hellsing's murder) and they would be deeply interested to know that it had been him who had found and opened her hidden cupboard.

Only one thing for it: act conspicuously normal for the next few days as they tailed him, which meant that he would have to wait on testing his theory that the vampire he had destroyed today was a lucky shot or not. In fact, he would have to wait to begin or continue a great deal of things, so long as he was under police supervision.

Better than being arrested, though, and he spared the men an annoyed glance as he saw them enter the train car behind his out of the corner of his eye.

At the very least, the British Museum was free of any watchers –visitor's passes were required, and although he didn't doubt that his rather ominous watchdogs were lurking at every entrance in lieu of following him inside –as he had spotted them following him on and off ever since yesterday– in the library itself, Anderson could actually at least take a deep breath, heavily scented with the ancient, paper perfume of books, and feel temporarily at peace.

Right. Well then.

Although he had come here because it was a part of his routine, there wasn't actually much that needed…researching, right now. He had finally accepted that if he was going to find answers, he would find them either from the mouths of other vampire-hunters or from Sir Hellsing's book, and not in the neatly-cataloged library, however magnificent and large its collection was. As such, he had no real purpose here, especially since there was little that interested him about his former hobbies and protects now.

There were much larger things to concern him.

Still, he did his best to putter happily about, like he might have done several months ago. He found several books that would make for light reading, although he did have to admit that they skewed a bit…differently…from his usual tastes. Books on Italy, and on Venice, because if he ever did visit Vlad…well, there was no harm in wanting to be prepared, was there?

He could feel the blood rushing to his face even as he brushed his fingers over the old cover of one of his choices. He was not being infatuated again. This was strictly academic research.

Still, there were ghosts of old memories in these shelves that made his heart ache, that finally pulled his attention away from the thought of the Count and how they might meet. Sir Hellsing had spent many long hours in this library with him, the two of them delving ever-deeper into the shelves and the wisdom within as they whiled away their days in study.

He lost count of the times where she had flicked him with ink from her pen while they were taking notes, showing a brief glint of playfulness that he had never seen even a hint of anywhere else, or thrown back her head and laughed as they read some absurd observation from a scholar dead long before the time of proper science. He could identify each of the reading desks by the story that they carried, about the time he and Sir Hellsing had come together here to speak on this or that, or bring up a new book or line of research.

God, he missed her.

He missed her even more, perhaps, for the glimpses of the person she had never been –for the woman he had never truly seen for as long as he had known her. It showed in those little flashes of sly grins and the quick flick of her wrist, flinging a spot of ink onto his glove or sleeve, and it threaded its way through the pages of her manuscript, as businesslike as he had ever known her and yet with a touch of wry humor that he had rarely seen. It shown through in the soft tones of that sepia photograph of herself as a young woman, standing beside Vlad in that long-ago parlor.

What a trio they would have made, if he had been born alongside them both!

Anderson could just see it now, the three of them terrorizing a good bit of London's population with their eccentric ways –he and Sir Hellsing with their hair dusty from reading old tomes, her and Vlad's obsession with the occult, and the way all three of them would blend together and feed off of each other as though burning a mutual flame.

He could imagine he and Sir Hellsing's lively discussions at noble parties, except her hair would be gold rather than silver and both her eyes would glint amusement at him, as they stood together in an antiquated parlor decorated with styles that had been old in his youth. He could imagine Vlad grinning at him and wringing his hand in greeting for the first time as a flush of warmth suffused the young priest, beginning at their conjoined palms and working all the way back to his cheeks.

He could imagine the three of them in a library, haring off after some occult story or bit of forgotten lore; Sir Hellsing posed with unconscious, elegant perfection in her chair, a book in her lap; he browsing the materials on hand; Vlad coiled sinuous as a snake in another chair by the window. One of them would make a quip, and the other would answer, and when she tired of it Sir Hellsing would raise stern but amused eyes from her book and tell the two of them off. And they would both laugh, and when it ended Vlad would look at him with his lips parted to show that charming half-grin, his eyes twinkling with the spark of amusement that slumbered but was never extinguished within him, and-

-and he needed to stop with these inane fantasies, Anderson thought with a flush of his cheeks as he came back to himself, shelving the last book with a bit more firmness than was actually necessary. The Count was a man of respectable elder years, not the rakehell youth of the photograph and painting. No matter how spritely his letters were, his face was not the vision that Anderson kept imagining.

God, but he couldn't stop imagining.

Perhaps it was a painful form of nostalgia and wish-fulfillment mixed, thinking of that perfect, impossible world in which they had all somehow managed to meet in the flower of their youth, in which he could have both the friendship he had cherished with his beloved mentor and yet also the camaraderie –and perhaps a little more– that he craved from the Count. It was embarrassing to realize that this was how he spent his thought, and yet like probing a loose tooth with his tongue, he couldn't help but feel out the edges of it, constantly.

My God, what a trio they would make.

Despite his resolve not to go hunting vampires –or to do anything else that might attract the suspicions of his two watchers– Anderson had been unable to stop himself from going after several of the Fallen Ones that popped up in his radius when out and about. It wasn't like he saw them everywhere –but as if his eyes had been opened, or his perception had been sharpened, he was increasingly starting to notice the unnoticeable, and he was starting to see at least one probable vampire every time he left the house.

And even though he knew there was a chance that one, or both, of those two strange men might be tailing him at that very moment, every time he tried to turn aside from the Fallen One mingling with the crowd, he thought back to that day in the park, and Anderson flinched, turning back. The fact that he had backed down without a fight, without even trying to defend the victim that the vampire was probably selecting at that very moment from the parkgoers, galled him down to his soul. He couldn't do that again.

And so, as the days slid by and he went about his various mundane businesses, trying to act conspicuously normal for his followers, he also hunted without hunting –keeping a sharp eye out for the irregularities he was beginning to recognize in the undead, but not deliberately going out of his path to find any…victims?

Victims seemed like the wrong word when talking about vampires. Targets, perhaps?

Well, either way, he took only what was placed before him, and it was both depressing and chilling to realize how many vampires he encountered. None in his actual direct circle –none in the groups of people that came to his parish to use it at a meeting place, or to actually attend a service– but some pretending to shop at the grocery he frequented, some strolling by on the street, and once even seeing one of them come into the library at the British Museum.

He did not know these people. He hadn't even seen most of them peripherally. But the fact that they were here, that he was beginning to spot a vampire almost every day, was deeply disturbing. They were settled enough in their habits and ignored enough in their presence that he knew that they were not newcomers to the area, so they were not spies sent to retrieve Sir Hellsing's book.

There were just that many vampires around.

Horrifying.

Deeply, truly horrifying.

Anderson felt more inadequate than ever in trying to deal with this plague, this infestation of undead on his own, even when he was proving surprisingly adept at handling them. Between the locket of hair and his own natural talent for reading an opponent's moves and changing his approach to match, no vampire he faced had even been able to touch him, despite their enhanced reflexes and abilities. With each Fallen One he destroyed, he felt a tiny mote of confidence returning –but it was like trying to build a mountain peak out of sand. There were just so many.

He was slowly recovering his old skill with the knife –long since neglected due to his peaceful life as a priest– preparing against the day when he could forge a silver blade. For now, stakes and flame and the Thames were enough to dispose of his targets, and the cuts on his hands were lessening by the day as he regained his old techniques.

This was living on borrowed time, though, and Anderson knew it. Yes, he was proving to be an adept, or at least competent, destroyer of vampires. Yes, he had more or less found his feet in the supernatural world that he had been so unceremoniously plunged into –enough to know what to avoid, anyways. Yes, he had so far been undisturbed by any watchers or enemies lurking around after Sir Hellsing's death.

But this tenuous peace couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, her enemies would find him, and now that he was no longer a bleeding child in the woods, Anderson still had to figure out what to do from here. He had at least one shard of the Sword of Angels –was his next task to look for the rest? But what about Sir Hellsing? Was it the done thing of Protectors and vampires alike to just…ignore the murder of the prior guardian, having much more important problems to face? Or were her enemies his enemies, and he should track them down and destroy them with all speed?

He didn't know. He desperately wanted advice, but the only person he could think of turning to was Vlad, and that brought its own worries. Could he actually trust the man? There was so much that was unexplained about the Count…and so much on the line. Did he dare take that risk?

The werewolves, in theory, could help him, but Anderson had no way of knowing how to contact any of them. Even if he somehow found the Bernadottes, he only had a deeply strong suspicion that they were lycanthropes –and it would still require time and effort to track them down. And he likely did not have that time.

So even though he had finally gotten his bearings, the priest still found himself not knowing what to do, and he did not like it. Although he could not fully articulate what he was feeling, something deep inside him sensed that he and everything else around him was spiraling inwards, winding tighter and tighter. He was poised before a drop, on a beam that he could not tell whether it was a tightrope or a springboard, but Anderson's instincts told him that time was short and he needed to make a decision, fast, before someone else made that decision for him –even if he was working blind.

Anderson trusted his intuition –he had learned to, after long years of working with Sir Hellsing. And right now, everything inside the priest was telling him that his time to act was running out. Right or wrong, he needed to make a decision and commit. It may damn him, yes, but doing nothing would damn him for sure, and at least this way he had a chance to grit his teeth and ride the gale.

When a faintly-scented letter from the Count arrived on his doorstep, the feeling that his time was running out was only cemented, and Anderson turned to his journal again in agony.

London, June 29th, 1920

The latest letter from Vlad –prompted because I failed to respond to his last note– has an intensity and urgency that I had not sensed in our previous correspondence. He is not what he seems, and I do not understand what "puzzle" he is referring to. Can I trust him? Two men have been following me for days now. At first I thought that they might be the police, suspicious because I was in Sir Hellsing's office on the day she was murdered. Vlad's letter leads me to believe that they may be much more sinister. I do not know where to turn if not towards Venice. And what of the book? Shall I risk taking it with me, or leave it here, where it may be found?

Venice, June 26th, 1920

My dear Alexander,

Your silence has me in a fright, and I feel that I must reveal myself and what I know to you more fully. I believe you to be in serious danger –the same danger that sent our friend to her grave. Come to me at once, Alexander, and bring the book. I can offer you protection. No doubt you suspect me of being duplicitous and dangerous, but you must believe that, at the very worst, I am the lesser evil of those you face.

I must tell you that I hold the fourth piece of the puzzle, which I believe you may be seeking. With it in hand, your destiny may be fulfilled. Come, before it is too late!

Yours, desperately,
Vlad