London, July 3rd, 1920

Enrico Maxwell,
Solicitor-at-law

Dear Enrico,
I write to you today as a final resort –you are a dear friend, and the only one whom I can trust. We have known each other for some years, and I have kept few secrets from you.

To explain my request more fully, I shall acquaint you with the circumstances of my current investigation, though I cannot reveal everything, for some things are indeed too horrifying to speak of and I do not wish to burden you with the weight of my suspicions until I have evidence to prove them right. I recently discovered that a foul murder had taken place at the British Museum.

Having been summoned there by an old colleague of mine –one whom I assisted in several previous cases of an unusual nature– I arrived to find her dead. The issue is now in the hands of the police, but they are unaware of what I now believe may be the circumstances of his death, and I shall not enlighten them until I have the facts at hand. My erstwhile college, Sir Integra Hellsing, was a secretive woman, and one whose public guise of a venerable academic masked a covert and dangerous existence.

Sir Hellsing had warned me beforehand that, should I arrive "too late," I must look in the concealed cupboard. After some searching, I located it and found therein a number of items, including a book, which has since proved to be a revelation.

You know me to be no coward, and no slouch in a fight, but the things I have read over the last few weeks have made my blood run cold and I now find myself overtaken by events of a bizarre nature. The book points me towards southern Europe, and I depart tomorrow. If my worst fears are confirmed, I may even need to send the book to you and Elsa for safekeeping. Should this happen, do everything to protect it, Enrico –do not let it fall into the wrong hands.

In the meantime, please have funds available from my account to wire to me in a variety of European currencies. Some time ago, I furnished you with my wishes regarding my effects; these have not changed. I very much hope that my fears are unfounded and that I shall return, alive and well, in a few weeks.

Your friend,
Alexander

London, July 3rd, 1920

My mind is made up to visit Vlad; I am packed and ready to depart. I have set my affairs in order here and left instructions with my trusted solicitor, Maxwell. The book I shall keep with me unless the danger becomes too great –at which point, I shall send it to Maxwell and Elsa for safekeeping.

The latest chapter of the book is a kind of vampire family tree, tracing a basic lineage of history's most powerful vampires. It is staggering to read how many mythologies involve the Fallen, and terrifying to realize how few believe these myths to be true.

Father Anderson finished these words with a flick of his pen, and withdrew it, leaving his journal open on his knee. His valise sat by his knee, the priest's massive body folded uncomfortably onto the rather small bench placed in the station for waiting passengers. The locket was in place under his clothes, as usual, and steam and shouts filled the air in several languages as people bustled around him.

Given as this was the station for the boat-train across the Channel, most of it was English and French, and Anderson sighed and sat back on the cramped bench, closing his journal. This felt all too much like a risk…but it was a risk he couldn't see a way out of. Where else could he go, if he wanted to take a step forward? What could he do?

A shrill whistle cut through the air, and he groaned, before tucking his journal back into his pocket and levering himself forward as he picked up his valise.

People rushed here and there on the platform, but as he was blessed with exceptional height and had spent most of his life sculpting muscles to match, Father Anderson didn't find it a problem to cut through the crowd as he made his way, with many courteous apologies, to the train to Paris. He presented the ticket to the conductor and then shuffled his way along the narrow passage, feeling like he should be moving crabwise through the close corridor between the compartments on the train.

But he made it to the compartment reserved for himself, blessedly without incident, and sat down with a sigh, appreciating the much-greater leg room. As much as he tried to see his physique as a blessing, sometimes having legs this long was a curse.

He stared out the window, watching for any signs of vampires, as the crowds swirled and rushed and gathered to depart. He didn't see anything overtly suspicious before the train whistled again overhead, and with a great groan and lurch, it began to chug into motion. The grey platform slipped past, moving faster and faster by the moment, as a familiar rattling buzz began in his bones –the vibrations of the train car.

Safely underway, he felt his muscles relax a little more as the priest's body unconsciously settled back in his plush seat. Turning to his valise, he opened it with two brisk clicks of the buckles, revealing Sir Hellsing's precious manuscript, laying atop his folded clothes and a few other necessities. A bit of paper was sticking out from one corner, and he pinched the edge and tugged it free.

Ah.

It seemed he had not secured his draft copy of his letter to Vlad this time, and Anderson reread it carefully, wondering with a faint hint of a blush on his face if it seemed a little too…forward.

DRAFT

London, July 3rd, 1920

Dear Vlad,

I shall come. I have placed my affairs in the safe hands of my solicitor, and I shall soon depart. I will be stopping over at the Hotel Vue in Paris, should you need to contact me. I find my heart beating faster at the notion of seeing you. Can we keep each other safe?

Yours,
Alexander

No, this was still well within the limits of propriety. They were, at the very least, friends, and Anderson could be concerned for the safety of his friend, could he not?

Heat still tickled his face.

This was a rush of euphoria and nervousness that he wasn't used to, feeling the giddy excitement of drawing close to another person, feeling them draw closer in turn, and wondering…?

He coughed and shook his head, even if no one else was in the compartment to see him. He needed to be on his guard, to be able to protect both himself and Vlad. Anderson had failed with Sir Hellsing, but he would not fail so with her old comrade. Not with the knowledge he now had. He was armed, and more than that, he was ready. New he may be to the world of vampire-hunting, but he was no longer helpless.

His thumb rubbed almost fondly over the edge of the letter, and Anderson flushed, putting it away. He might be ready to face vampires, but he probably still needed to work on getting ready to actually face the Count without making an utter fool of himself. Their letters had been warm, but how would that translate in person when he was dealing with a nobleman? A smile and a firm handshake? A courteous bow? Some Italians greeted one another by kissing on the cheek…

Scarlet color flooded the priest's face.

No. Absolutely not. Ridiculous. Even if he himself would dare –which he wouldn't– there was no way that Vlad's greeting would be that effusive. They only knew each other through letters, they weren't the kind of bosom friends who could just…do that. From a practical standpoint, as well, Anderson wasn't sure how tall the man was –could he even reach Anderson's cheek, especially since old age might've begun to weigh down on his back?

Would he want to?

The priest rubbed his cheeks, blushing fiercely as he thought of another man and not afraid to admit it.

Focus. He needed to be courteous, charming(?), and competent when he met the Count, able to reassure him both mutely and otherwise that Anderson could handle both himself and any vampires that came after the two of them. Perhaps he could split the hair in his locket, giving the man several strands in order to give Vlad some personal protection.

He hoped nothing would happen to Vlad between now and when Anderson came to meet him. They had been exchanging letters, after all, and although he was fairly certain he had been able lock everything up securely while his replacement came, the fact still remained. Vlad's address could be traced through those letters, which made contacting Anderson to begin with a risk.

So, it shouldn't be too dangerous to reciprocate that risk, should it?

And perhaps it would not be too much of a risk at all. Sir Hellsing had been an excellent fencer even in her advanced years, and such was not a talent that developed alone. Perhaps in their younger days, she and Vlad had sparred together, and he was still, like Sir Hellsing, more than capable of at least putting up a fight against any vampires that came knocking.

Anderson rested his elbow against the rattling ledge of the window, putting his cheek on one hand as he stared out the window, watching the damp, verdant greenery speed by. Steeples and spires occasionally pierced out of the rolling landscape, stretching out towards the sky, and there was a brisk sea-breeze in the hills that set every leaf to fluttering. It was a cheerful landscape to start a journey out on, and he indulged in a moment of the fantasy of a world in which his work as Protector was done –in which humans could live free from the curse of the undead.

That had been the focus of the latest chapter of the book –a rough family tree of various Fallen Ones throughout history, as well as a population estimate. It had been showing in a spiraling, gnarled, smoky charcoal sketch of a tree, with names perched amongst its branches and trailing down towards the trunk. It had been headed with a warning:

It is impossible to get a complete picture of the vampire lineage; details of every human lost to vampirism can be known only to Heaven. The long line of Protectors have kept a record of growing numbers of the Fallen Ones, naming each where possible. World populations between 1500 and today have tripled to approximately 1,650,000,000; based on the wok of my predecessors, I estimate that one out of every hundred humans is now a vampire. Below is a family tree of just a few better-known vampires throughout history, several of which we have studied in these pages.

One in every hundred –that tallied with what he had noticed over the past week or so after he had taken up weapons. London had several million inhabitants, to say nothing of the amount of visitors: it wasn't at all odd that he was seeing vampires frequently, almost daily. He had whittled the number down a little, admittedly, but it was like carving twigs in a forest.

That was why the idea of completing the Protector's task of reuniting the shards of the Sword of Angels and exterminating vampires once and for all within his lifetime was a fantasy: even if they all came to him and meekly knelt to bare their necks for execution without a fight, that was still over 16 million vampires to destroy. Hardly possible for one person, even if they were trained from childhood to do it –and he was already a man of several decades.

Still. He could fantasize.

More than that, though, he was interested in the box of text that had appeared beneath the names of the three original vampires –and what it implied.

THE FIRST PROGENY: These are the Nine, the progeny of the original Three, many of which were worshipped as gods in the ancient cultures of Egypt and Greece. The dates of their turning are unknown.

Erebus, Adephagia, Aphrodite. Achilles, Seth, Camazotz. Hephaestus, Athena, Anubis.

There was another, larger box of text beneath it, followed by that tangling thicket of names.

Records documenting the precise lineage of progeny that followed are ill-defined. Many early Protectors did not trace the direct relationship between a vampire Master and its three progeny. It is unclear, for example, whether the vampire Erik Bloodaxe was a direct creation of Fritigern, though notes confirm that he is more closely related to this branch of the Moloch bloodline than any other. Records of Fritigern's other two progeny, along with the progeny of many others, have been lost to history.

In another section nearby, there was three paragraphs of solid text, each describing the numbers of Fallen Ones from each specific lineage with a short sentence.

BA'AL Adephagia was a vampire who assumed the position of the Greek goddess of gluttony. Erebus, the son of the primordial god Chaos, was prey to a vampire who discreetly took his place as the god of darkness and shadows. Aphrodite posed as the Greek goddess of love. Ba'al Prince Amistamru was a controller of import taxes at the Phoenician city port of Ugarit. Qin Shi Huang was the Chinese emperor responsible for monuments such as the first Great Wall of China. He outlawed and burnt many books, along with some notes made by the Protector of his era. The general Hamilcar Barca was an admirer of his "son" Hannibal rather than his biological father. Sigismund was the king of the Burgundians who occupied western France after the collapse of the Roman Empire. Ishida Mitsunari led the losing side at the battle of Sekigahara. Robert Curthose was a vampire who built the New Castle on the River Tyne in 1080. Timur was a conqueror –and military genius– who loved to play chess in his spare time to improve his military tactics and skill. Boris Godunov was a Ba'al who became the effective ruler of Russia when his feeble brother-in-law, Fyodor I, inherited the Russian throne. After Fyodor's untimely death in 1598, Godunov became the tsar. Pizarro was a vampire who conquered the Incan empire and founded Lima, the present-day capital of Peru.

MOLOCH The Mayans worshipped Camazotz as the god of bats. It is unlikely that the myth of the vampire as bat had its origins here. Achilles was a Greek hero who was actually a particularly violent vampire. Seth, the Bringer of Death in the Egyptian pantheon, was, in fact, a vampire. The vampire Hammurabi posed as the sixth king of Babylon. King Xerxes I of Persia, who was the son of Darius the Great, became a vampire during his reign as king. He enjoyed the task of punishing the Athenians, Naxians, and Eretrians. Wu Wang was a bloodthirsty Moloch known as the Conqueror. He led the Chou armies to capture the Shang capital of An-yang in northern China. Fritigern, the Gothic war leader, was destroyed by a Protector of the fourth century. Sextus Pompeius was a war-loving vampire who raised an army on the island of Sicily to rebel against Rome. Abu Jahl, chief of the Makhzum clan and leader of the forces that opposed Muhammad, was destroyed at the Battle of Badr. The Moloch vampire given the name Erik Bloodaxe earnt his reputation when he killed seven of his allies in order to become Viking king. Godefroi de St. Omer was the French lord and Moloch who founded the Knights Templar.

BELIAL Anubis was Egyptian god of the underworld. In fact, this vampire had a passion for theatrics and adored costume-making. He often wore one of his own creations –the head of a jackal– and enjoyed his reputation as guardian of the dead. Hephaestus was the Greek god of artisans. he fabricated a human-like marriage to the vampire Aphrodite in an attempt to conceal their true identities. Athena posed as the goddess of wisdom and craft. The Romans knew her as Minerva, and some say that she invented music. Gilgamesh, the vampire responsible for the building of the legendary city of Uruk, did so to keep the lure of humans away from the Sumerian people, many of whom were Belial. Niall Nogillach, one of the traditional High Kings of Ireland, was a Belial. Little is known about him. Romulus was a Belial who survived the Egyptian wars and emerged later to found the City of Rome. Boudica was a Belial queen who led a powerful revolt against Roman rule. Werner Stauffacher was a vampire who formed an alliance with William Tell. Though he began his rule with military victories, Ashoka the Great was a Belial who ultimately led a more peaceful vampire existence, adopting the Buddhist faith around 257 CE. Franz Jacobzoon Visscher was the Dutch chief pilot abord Abel Tasman's ship during its voyage around the southern coast of Australia. The last Aztec emperor, Montezuma II, was of Belial bloodline. Wladyslaw I led a fierce resistance to the Moloch Teutonic Knights and was likely the first vampire to forge a truce between two parties, in this case, Bohemia and Poland.

He had read these pages the day before, and as interesting as they were –including the section that expanded on a number of famous vampires from history– there were neither terribly important nor relevant to his current quest. It was more important to think about Vlad, and how they were going to have their first meeting. Although Anderson had already given something of a first impression via letters, most of them were businesslike, and he wanted to make a good, proper first impression on the charming Count.

First and foremost, he shouldn't presume on their prior relationship. He knew that the Count had thought fondly of Sir Hellsing, and seemed eager to meet him. That was it, though. That was all. Therefore, when they met face-to-face for the first time, Anderson should be polite and businesslike, and let no hints of his improper infatuation show. If the two of them were to work together to bring down vampires, it would be up to Vlad to provide wisdom and experience, and Anderson the muscle: thus, he should also immediately begin taking charge of their personal security.

That should not be too difficult a thing, in Venice. By necessity, means of ingress and egress were limited for most of the buildings, even if vampires had no problems with running water as stated in legend. Anderson should therefore demonstrate his competence first thing by checking the various waterways or streets around Vlad's home, and seeing what could be done to make their abode more secure.

Even then, though, the priest was a little nervous. This was certainly a brand new chapter –practically a brand new book– of his life, and he wasn't sure how far it would stretch. Would Vlad bequeath him some heirloom, some short stretch of training, and then consider his duty discharged? Or…and Anderson still blushed a little at the thought…would their relationship last much longer? Would Vlad come to replace Sir Hellsing as his mentor, and guide him for as long as possible?

Would they become friends?

Would they become close?

It wasn't too difficult to imagine. As a former associate of Sir Hellsing's, Vlad must have known what it was to be lonely, same as Anderson. Whether she shoved him away to protect him, or he left of his own volition, there could not be too many people with whom Vlad felt it was safe to speak freely. And from the liveliness of his letters and the mischief Anderson saw in the photograph, being unable to speak his mind in any setting would probably have been a bitter thing for Vlad. With Anderson, at least, he would have some knowledgeable company.

He couldn't help but trace that image over and over again in his mind, as though rubbing his thumb over a slick surface. He and Vlad sat down together at the fireside in matching armchairs, talking long into the night about whatever came to mind, the soft crackle of flames accompanying the scent of their drinks –wine, tea, coffee, cinder, whatever most suited the hour and season– that wreathed around them in idyllic swirls. Vlad seemed like he would make a fascinating conversationalist: he was certainly interesting enough on paper. And the firelight would gild his face –still strong, still handsome even at this advanced age– as he looked at Anderson with a flicker of a smile and something soft in his eyes…

Anderson blinked as he saw a series of roof suddenly bloom out of the hills, and blinked again as he realized that they were nearing the suburbs of Paris. Where had the time gone? He couldn't have spent hours staring out the window and thinking wistfully of Vlad…

Besides, he had meant to read the penultimate pages of the book on the train to Paris, as he would likely be too busy preparing for meeting the Count to finish the book in its entirety on the way from Paris to Venice. He was nearing the end, now, with only a single chapter and, perhaps, the ending page pasted onto the cover of the book itself remaining.

He hastily removed the book from his valise and opened it to that second-to-last page now, seeing the rather imaginatively titled THEY LIVE AMONGST US… as this chapter's heading. Most of the two pages were taken up by a folded piece of sketch paper, upon which was drawing in charcoal and ink, or perhaps charcoal and markers, the view of a modern city square. Paragraphs of text, which seemed to denote specific people in the drawing, bordered its edges. Sir Hellsing's personal address, which he had long since realized began each chapter, was squashed up above the pasted-in sketch, alongside the chapter's title.

Vampires live amongst us, present in industry and organized crime. As we have seen, their presence is insidious, their guise charming and elusive. As a final demonstration of this, I present to you my notes below, which result from a day of research in 1899 in London, and which call upon a number of police reports that found their way onto my desk around this time. This study shows the real dangers posed by vampires on a daily basis.

His eyes flicked over the sketch, scanning without thought as he attempted to find the vampiric characteristics he had been taught to identify –self-taught, but taught all the same. A pair of train drivers standing in the middle of the road caught his attention, two men scowling with folded arms. One was exceptionally massive, and the other's legs splayed slightly odd, as though the joints in the knee were not quite correct. He also caught a glimpse of a broken parasol and several ill men lingering about the gutters, but that seemed like the after-effects of an attack, not vampiric in and of themselves.

He glanced at the sections that seemed to detail parts of the sketch and how they related to the Fallen Ones.

VAMPIRES IN LITERATURE
As we have already discussed, the Fallen Ones are often romanticized by literary types. Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Grey, serialized in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine, contains a caricature of a vampire, Lord Henry Wotton. He appears as a cunning, coercive personality who displays certain traits of the Ba'al. I have no knowledge of Wilde's acquaintance with vampires, but I do know that glamorized depictions such as this will lead the world away from the true story of the Fallen Ones.

PICCADILLY FLOWER GIRLS
Do remember that even the most innocent-looking girl can be a vampire. Last week, I received word that a number of the Piccadilly flower girls were using more than charm to sell their posies –indeed, it seems as if they were using powers of mind control. The report reveals that several customers have been "entranced by the sight of these girls…who flashed their wide eyes at the passerby, calling 'Carnation, lily, lily, rose.'" I will be conducting a thorough investigation into these incidents in the coming weeks; everything suggests that this is the work of a vampire.

Well, it was nice to know that Sir Hellsing was on top- had been on top of things. The moment she saw a threat, she moved to neutralize it with her characteristic brisk efficiency. Anderson should do his best to mimic that in the coming trials ahead.

RAGTIME MUSIC
The Fallen Ones have lately hit upon a new hunting method: attacking their prey whilst doing the jig. The recent craze of ragtime music, the presence of brass bands, the numerous street parades and marches, and new dance forms such as the cakewalk have given the vampires of North America a new, inconspicuous means of drawing close to their human prey. As this music sweeps the streets of London, such methods are likely to be employed by vampires in Britain. Be wary of dancers who, during an energetic jig, lead their partners away from the crowd –I fear that the broken shoe and lady's parasol seen here may have been the unfortunate result of a lively, rag-inspired attack.

He did have to snort softly at that one –not that he disbelieved Sir Hellsing's notes, absolutely not, but that Anderson's ears had been filled with outraged madams of the latter generation ranting and raving about this daring and downright sinful form of dance for as long as he could remember. Being a priest, he was naturally expected to be a pillar of the community, and more than that, a guiding authority who could nudge girls away from flapper parties and ragtime when their parents had failed.

His success at that was mixed.

With a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, Anderson read on.

PORPHYRIA –NOT THE WORK OF THE VAMPIRE
Vampires will do everything to conceal the true origins of their ancestors. In recent times, a number of medical publications have linked the disease of porphyria to the beginnings of vampirism. Note: this theory is the cunning work of vampires, designed to throw us off their trail, and must be dismissed! According to a confidential report commissioned this year, porphyria is, in fact, a blood disorder in which sufferers are unable to efficiently absorb iron. This results in symptoms that affect the skin, such as photosensitivity, blisters, and itching; the disease also causes abdominal pain that may result in vomiting. Take note of the porphyria sufferer –neglected and uncared for– as the vampire walks happily by.

VAMPIRES AT WAR
It should come as no surprise that vampires, in particular the Moloch, still play a role in inciting war and conflict. See the large, unidentified Moloch in the crowd? It is not widely known, but vampires such as this fought in the American Civil War, serving in the Confederate Army as powerful pro-slavery forces. These Molochs were impossible to stop, until one member of the Union forces used a newly-invented, rapid-fire, multiple-barreled Gatling gun against one of them. Though the bullets did not destroy the Moloch in question, they did slow him down somewhat. The Gatling was not widely used until much later, by which time the bloodthirsty Moloch, so impressed by its efficient method of slaughter, had enlisted themselves in even greater numbers than before, taking every opportunity to put this weapon to its work. It is likely that these guns were used in the Spanish-American War last year by Molochs such as the one pictured here.

He had not seen such a thing, and glanced towards the sketch again, searching, searching, until the priest saw a huge, thickly-built man in a soldier's uniform and hat. Despite the large pack of supplies on his back, this vampire seemed disinclined to move from his spot standing on the pavement of the square, watching the goings-on from behind his unkempt beard. That was another unconscious tell that Anderson should probably watch out for in the future: not noticing how heavy certain items were, and how quickly an ordinary human would tire of carrying them.

VAMPIRES ON THE LONDON UNDERGROUND?
I fear that recent advancements in underground electronic train systems across the world will offer new opportunities for vampire attacks. A number of police reports surrounding the train accidents of 1888 in Pennsylvania and Georgia in the United States suggest that vampires may have been involved directly in the murders of passengers. Will the London Underground be their next target? Take note of the two men dressed as train drivers; both display physical characteristics of vampires. Let us hope that these creatures have not consumed a pair of human train drivers for lunch and seized their uniforms as handy disguises.

THE MUTOSCOPE
The mutoscope –a coin-operated machine that allows single viewers to enjoy a motion picture in public places across the world– may be under the influence of vampires, who, I suspect, are using this modern invention to exert mind control. Reports following the first viewings on this machine in New York and London note that some individuals have been "fainting…and upon waking, appear to have lost their minds." I suspect that vampires, likely from the Ba'al bloodline, may be interfering with the film cards of the mutoscope, incorporating certain cards featuring images of the vampire's red eyes. Note the individual depicted here –a recent user of the mutoscope who displays the symptoms of someone in thrall to a vampire.

A slight chill ghosted through him. Vampires did not even need to be present to use their hypnosis…? All it took was a mere picture of those damning red eyes to enrapture the target human?

That did not bode well for his half-humorous wonderings if his glasses would keep him safe. Anderson stirred the lenses with his finger and swallowed, but any further nervous musings were cut short by the whistle from overhead. Quickly, he closed the book and replaced it in his valise, buckling the sturdy leather shut, before taking it in his hand and pulling his luggage off the table as the train began to slow.

His hotel had been, thankfully, easy to find despite being discreetly out-of-the-way, and the check-in process was smooth and without alarms. Although Anderson didn't doubt –given Sir Hellsing's count of how many vampires there were out wandering the world– that there were at least one or two Fallen Ones in the building, there had been none immediately obvious in the lobby, nor in the few people he'd seen as he retreated to his rooms.

His night had passed without dreams, and when Anderson woke he saw the sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains and hitting the elegant papering of his room with some surprise. This was the first night of uninterrupted sleep he had had in…well, some time, to be sure.

It left him in a cheerful frame of mind as he got up to splash water on his face and begin his morning shave, although he did pause for a moment, self-consciously fingering the razor. Vlad seemed to think he was adventurous…would he like seeing Anderson without his usual scattering of hair?

After a few minutes of consideration, the priest realized that he was being ridiculous, as his stubble would regrow itself by the time he made it to Venice, anyways, and he may as well look presentable on the trip there, at least. So thinking, he shaved himself as per usual, and gave his glasses an extra polish on his sleeve.

Perhaps it was silly, to preen so before meeting the mysterious Count –assuming nothing untoward happened, they would see each other before the end of tomorrow– but Anderson couldn't help it. A nobleman would expect something a bit more polished than the priest usually was, wouldn't he? Anderson had the fine evening clothes to play the part –he had not attended those crashingly dull parties with Sir Hellsing for nothing– but he had been reluctant to pack them and take up space. Even if he did want to look his best…

Anderson realized he was dithering, and shook his head. He took up his valise and left the room –although he fully intended to return after breakfast, he had sworn never to carry the book openly, or leave it unattended– and locked the door behind him as he went. His journey down to the hotel's restaurant was uneventful, and even as he cast a practiced eye over the crowd, he saw no obvious signs of vampires.

It was hard to focus on his food, even when it was well-cooked and well-served. His fingers kept twitching with restless excitement, thinking about how soon, very soon, he and the Count would meet for the first time. If Anderson's reflexes had been any poorer, in fact, he might have ended up wearing more than half his meal.

He was almost giddy with the rush of mixed nervousness and anticipation, wondering what Vlad would actually be like, wondering if the Count would give him as warm a welcome as his letters seemed to imply. His emotions swirled and curdled in his stomach, now nauseous, now tingling like a champagne bubble. He almost wanted to slap himself or cut his hand, just to give himself some other sensation to focus on.

Anderson compromised by biting the inside of his cheek –but he felt that that, in itself, was probably a sign that he needed to get moving. He was restless, disturbed, and the sooner he felt that he was making progress, the calmer it would undoubtedly make him.

When he got up and went to settle his bill with the hotel staff at the front desk, however, he was surprised to see the man turn and rummage in a drawer afterwards.

"A moment, a moment." the concierge hummed, flicking several glances at the priest as he rummaged. Anderson blinked, and subtly shifted on one foot, adjusting his weight in preparation for something…dangerous.

However, he relaxed a little when the man finished his rummaging, coming up with a crisp envelope and holding it out to him with a bow.

"A letter from a Count Dracula for you, monsieur?" the concierge said smoothly.

Anderson's heart bumped up into his throat, and he felt his pulse speeding like a lovelorn adolescent's as a faint flush spread across his face. He coughed and swallowed before the man could send him a knowing look, reaching out and taking the envelope with a word of thanks that hopefully distracted the man from his trembling fingers.

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

Was Vlad all right? Had he sent Anderson this letter because of some new danger that threatened him? Or worse, perhaps –though what worse there could be, Anderson wasn't sure at all.

He carried the letter hastily back to his room. The things he and Vlad had to talk about were definitely not meant for the prying eyes of servants or nosy-parkers –it was enough to worry about getting attacked by vampires. He didn't want to concern himself with a horde of people trying to pack him off to a sanitarium for delusions at the same time.

Anderson slit the seal with quick grace, born of many hours of handling a variety of small blades (he blushed to tell as much to the Count, however) before setting the letter-opener that had been provided in the room on the table. To his surprise, rather than Vlad's usual chatty letters, this envelope contained a note only a few lines in length, and a miniature painting.

A painting?

Suddenly, Anderson remembered the sentence from one of Vlad's earlier letters –a promise that if he wrote soon, the Count would send him a more recent picture than the painting in the frontispiece of the book. His cheeks heated up a little, even when he sternly told himself that this was probably only so that they could make sure not to miss each other at the train station –if, indeed, the Count intended to meet him there.

When he looked at the small portrait, however, he had to chuckle.

It was of Vlad, but certainly not recent –he wore the same dark suit with the brilliantly-red cravat, but rather than somber, his eyes were now dancing with mischief and a slight smirk played about his lips. It seemed that the portrait itself was inviting Anderson to share the joke, the idea that this was a very recent painting of the Count. The priest turned his attention to the note, expecting to find a sly apology for the deception.

I know you will come –my mind is set, and I am drawing you to me. Am I still handsome, my beloved Alexander?

Oh yes, very handsome. Anderson had to admit that, glancing towards the painting again.

Still…

That was a bit of an odd statement, come to think of it. And this painting…now that he was paying it more than a brief glance, Anderson was beginning to frown a little in puzzlement.

The paint was…fresh.

Not newly wet, but it was certainly new enough that it retained its gloss and shine. Even if it had been stored in a perfectly-controlled cabinet, hermetically sealed against all the ravages of time –not only was that an absurd amount of effort to go through for a painting that was singularly average in artistic skill, but it was also not feasible. The paper of the painting was stiff and new, the paint gleaming, the colors sharp and saturated. This was a modern painting, inasmuch as it couldn't be more than a year or so old. And yet, it captured Vlad's expression, his youthful image, perfectly. One might be accomplished by working off a prior painting, but both at the same time? That was rather…

And why? Why go through so much effort to show Anderson an image of a man more than seventy years old in the flower of his youth? Anderson could accept that there were some hints of pride in the Count, but Vlad did not seem even a fraction this vain in his letters. Certainly not vain enough to refuse the evidence of his own senses. Commissioning a portrait that erased all the ravages of time, just to send to a priest who was a stranger…

Suddenly, as he tilted the painting slightly towards the light, Vlad's smiling mouth contorted into a vicious, fanged snarl as his raven locks spooled and writhed like the snakes of Medusa around that perfect, pale face, the eyes flaring a hellish red.

With a wild shout, Anderson dropped the picture and staggered back against the wall.

His heart pounded as he watched the small painting flutter to the dusty carpet, landing facedown. Despite his beating heart, it lay there on the floor, an innocuous thing of ink, chemicals, and paper. An innocuous- harmless thing. Just a simple painting.

He didn't move.

Couldn't move.

In vain, he told his thrumming pulse to slow. In vain, he struggled with his reason, his desire to dismiss it all as a mere trick of the light. In vain, he clutched at the gasps escaping from his chest.

My mind is set, and I am drawing you to me.

Trembling, Anderson tightened his fingers around the crucifix he wore at his neck. His skin was damp with sweat. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding so fast that it hurt inside the wall of his chest, throwing itself against his ribcage like a wild animal flinging its body against the steel bars of a prison in its frantic effort to escape. In vain, he adjusted his glasses with a shaking finger and prayed for calm.

Am I still handsome, my beloved Alexander?

Clues he had ignored –or had been led to ignore– danced merrily before his eyes, like a ghoulish parade of mocking skeletons in the Danse Macabre. The broken relationship despite Vlad's fond words for Integra; the Count's admitted interest in the supernatural; how coquettishly he wrote to him despite being at least several decades Anderson's senior; the words I have acquired this lock of hair from an acquaintance who I was unable to destroy but who was also unwilling to destroy me written in Sir Hellsing's elegant handwriting on the note inside Vlad's locket; her writing on the photograph of the two of them together, happy memories before the turning-

Much in the same way that the manuscript had forced him to believe in the existence of the supernatural, Anderson could not deny, could not refute the evidence that had finally been made so clear to him.

Vlad was a Fallen One, a vampire.

There was no escaping it.

And, it seemed, there was no escaping the man himself.

My mind is set, and I am drawing you to me.

Anderson shuddered. Revulsion, horror, despair, heartbreak –he was not sure which of the emotions so violently churning within him had birthed that shudder, only that he felt cold and sick on the inside. The Count was a vampire. Had he-?

How far away could a vampire's hypnosis take effect? According to the book, did they not have to stand in the presence of their victims, or at least show them the flash of their eyes? Anderson had never even seen Vlad outside of those two old pictures, and yet –oh, God– he had been ensnared the same way a spider would net a fly, patiently wound with near-invisible thread after near-invisible thread until struggling was an impossible afterthought.

Worst and perhaps most heart-sickening of all, he still hadn't realized he had been bound and immobilized until the author of his doom had deliberately showed it to him. If not for this painting, Anderson would have blithely walked to his death, stepping into Vlad's home in Venice and never stepping out again –not as a living man, anyways. Fallen One or corpse, he would not have left Vlad's abode alive.

Vampires chose their progeny from humans who possessed qualities that they found admirable, and Anderson tried to cool his automatic flush with a reminder of this fresh horror. It didn't matter if Vlad found him attractive, in whatever way that he did –that attraction was just a prelude to being damned, desecrated, utterly destroyed. Vlad was a vampire, and him being intrigued in Anderson was in no way anything but a dire threat to his well-being.

A threat.

A threat.

Perhaps if he said it to himself enough times, he might convince his heart that it was true, Anderson thought with a suffering groan as he bent his head forward. He knew, now, that Vlad was a vampire and undeniably a danger to him and everything he stood for. The Fallen Ones, no matter what they had been in life, were ashen remains of their former selves, no longer anything close to the humans they had once been. Though Vlad may be skilled at mimicking and recalling his old self, no emotions beat in his empty breast any longer.

He knew all this, and yet still Anderson yearned to go to Venice with every possible speed. Surely, if he just opened the Count's door and asked him to explain-

He'd be eaten, that's what.

But if neither Sir Hellsing nor Vlad had been able to bring themselves to destroy each other, then surely-

Surely he did not have the same connection to Vlad that Sir Hellsing had, having known him in his former life.

Well, yes, but Vlad himself had said that sometimes help would come from where it was least expected, begged him to come to Venice for fear of the danger hovering over his head-

And how did Vlad know about the danger, hmm? How did he learn so quickly of Sir Hellsing's death, and the book that her murderers were so clearly searching for?

Anderson ground the heels of his hands into his eyes with a shuddering breath that was almost a sob. Even now, as he was suffering, he was still not sure if he was struggling with the thoughts and impulses planted within him by the vampire, or with his own poisonous doubts and desires. He couldn't tell. He didn't know.

"God," he whispered. "Kyrie eleison, dimitte me pro peccatis meis, emunda mentem dubitationis meae…"

The Latin flowed from his lips with easy practice, but the comfort it brought was empty and cold. He wanted to splash water on his face, pinch his arm, shock some form of sense into himself, and yet he knew that the sickness in him was rooted far deeper than that. A mere jolt of shock couldn't shake one's feelings, and however manufactured they were, his feelings were deep and dreadfully sincere. He had fallen for Vlad despite every scrap of common sense telling him otherwise and so now, now when he finally knew everything that the Count was, it was much too little and much too late to cure the sickeningly-sweet rot that had already festered in him down to his bones.

He could try. Lord, God, he could try, but the feelings that had taken root in him were not so easy to shake off. He knew that much just from how he picked up the painting, pinching it by the corner and lifting the small square of paper with a shaking hand, as though afraid it would bite him like a snake. Even now, when he dreaded with every fiber of his being to turn it over and see the reverse side, that terrifying portrait of Vlad, some part of Anderson was still reluctant as his steps carried him, step by trembling step, towards the small fire crackling merrily in the grate. When he held it out above the flames, it felt like he was pushing through tar.

Just get rid of it. Get rid of this damned thing!

But, but a photograph of Vlad-

As though he was watching the hand of a stranger, Anderson saw his nerveless fingers open as the paper fluttered down, turning over several times before it landed in the very center of the blaze. His chest heaved like he had just run a marathon as he watched it burn, watched the paint darken and swirl around Vlad's handsome-monstrous-handsome face as it crinkled and swirled, more alive than any paper had a right to be –even after daubed with the chemicals to bring pictures to life. Nausea swirled in his chest and a lump rose in his throat, and he opened and closed his fists, digging his fingertips into the center of his sweating palms.

Am I still handsome, my beloved Alexander?

Yes. The priest answered those words silently, at long last. But not for long.

Hotel Vue, Paris
July 6th, 1920

I am in Paris, awaiting the train for Venice, but my mind is in turmoil. This morning I received another message from Vlad. It was a simple note, with a smaller painting of him in the charcoal suit trimmed in red attached to it. It is the most terrifying thing I have ever received, for I know now what he is.

Truly, I think I have always known. In the same way, I believe I knew long ago that Sir Integra was much more than a curious academic. It is too late to turn back, but I am sure that I am not the first Protector to set out on an uncertain journey.