Author's notes: I am sorry to deceive you, but this is not really a new chapter. Rather, I have decided that 10K words is a bit excessive for one chapter, and have split this into two. If you read chapter one previously, then you have already read this. However, you can reasonably expect chapter three in a few days.
- The Fairy Mythology, Thomas Keightley
Integra emerged from her meeting with the Synod bishops, cardinals, and priests--and Heinkel, who had held up well despite her superiors obvious disdain for her Section and her gender. She brushed at the suit jacket, hoping to remove from herself the taint the whole affair had left on her.
Heinkel pursed her lips. "I'll give you some time to freshen up before the briefing." Integra nodded her agreement. "Did you enjoy your day on the town?"
"It was dreary." She was unsure if she was referring to the weather, or the company.
Heinkel took the former meaning, clearly. "Yes. And it's getting worse." She gestured to the window beside them, which opened onto the guesthouse's garden. The leaves of the oak trees there were bending upwards under strong gusts of winds. They were already slick with half-water, half-ice. "More sleet. Icy roads."
"Good thing I'm not driving." She hoped she would be able to catch the first train back to London in the morning--perhaps even tonight? She was just about ready to see this town falling into the distance behind her.
Integra had no desire to see Alucard again before the briefing--he could eavesdrop if he wanted, but she wanted to maintain at least the illusion of being free from him. Instead, she went down to the common room and indulged herself in some reading. The Harrigans had a selection of hardbound books--mostly historical--and among them she found an aging copy of The Fairy Mythology, written in 1870, by a Thomas Keightley. The text featured that sort of stately Victorian prose that nearly drowned under its own weight--including a preface detailing the author's hard luck, and the kind of prejudice he faced as an Irishman. You and Bram Stoker should have a chat, she thought, smiling. Idly, she flipped onwards, opening to the section titled Middle-Age Romance. Her eyes fell about halfway down the page:
... because therewithin dwelleth a king, Oberon the Fay. He is but three feet in height; he is all humpy; but he hath an angelic face; there is no mortal man who should see him would not take pleasure in looking at him, he hath so fair a face. Now you will hardly have entered the wood, if you are minded to pass that way, when he will find how to speak to you, but of a surety if you speak to him, you are lost for evermore, without ever returning; nor will it lie in you, for if you pass through the wood, whether straightforwards or across it , you will always find him before you, and it will be impossible for you to escape at all without speaking to him, for his words are so pleasant to hear, that this no living man who can escape him. And if so be that he should see that you are nowise inclined to speak to him, he will be passing wroth with you. For before you have left the wood he will cause it so to rain on you, to blow, to hail, and to make such right marvellous storms, thunder and lightning, that you will think the world is going to end-
The window rattled and scratched, and Integra started, nearly dropping the book. Outside, the wind had forced the branches of a nearby oak against the window. An early dusk was falling on the countryside, and the sleet had not relented its gritty assault against the window.
Footsteps behind her. Once again alarmed, Integra spun around. It was Heinkel.
"We are ready for the briefing, Sir Hellsing. We await only you."
Heinkel led her to a conference room on the first floor, closed off from the rest of the guesthouse by a set of louvered doors. The lights were dim within, and the blue glow from an overhead projector was splashed against the far wall.
Integra took her seat at the back of the room. The room was already full of people; some of them the clergy here for the Synod, some of them she recognized as Knights, diplomats, SAS and MI-5 officials.
Heinkel headed up to a podium, and fiddled with a few controls, tapped at a few keys on a keyboard hidden there. A slideshow popped up on the projection--that default blue and white, with the title: "Potential Threats to British Security." In smaller font: "Presented by Heinkel Wolfe."
Oh, Lord. It's like attending a convention for dentists. Integra wondered if she should be taking notes.
Heinkel lost no time in engrossing herself in a list of names and faces. Ira Almeida, suspected terrorist. Stephen Candor, suspected of handing information about key landmarks over to Millenium during the war. Emma Trabatora. Oren McAighan. Lynn Wood.
Integra soon tuned out. This was more of interest to her MI-5 compatriots; what interest did she have in hunting down mundane, human war criminals? Her duty was--and always had been--that of dealing with the supernatural, that which the Crown couldn't deal with on its own. Her services were hardly required here. In the warm, dark air of the room she was beginning to get sleepy-
Julian Albemarle. Heinkel's voice was suddenly a note more strident. Integra sat bolt upright in her chair. Had she been dozing? Now it seemed as if Heinkel's voice had struck her like an arrow intended only for her.
"This one will be of special interest to certain of you." Heinkel's eyes fell on Integra knowingly. She pressed a button and a new slide flashed on the screen, this one with a smiling male face. "Julian Albemarle, son of the Earl of Ellesmere."
It was strange for Integra to pay any attention to the features of the opposite sex, but she couldn't help but notice that there was something hauntingly attractive about this man's face. It was encapsulated, perhaps, in that hint of a smile, those green eyes, that black hair swept down in an untidy part, and a general symmetry of features. He bespoke a man at once meek and yet secretly confident, who knew his own beauty and its power...
Startled by her own thoughts, Integra halted her mental promenade, returning her attention to Heinkel. "Albemarle first came to our attention a few months ago, after a disturbing event at a Catholic day school in Shrewsbury. According to the reports of parents who showed up to pick up their children at the end of the day, the school was empty--except for a message, written in blood on the wall of a classroom: 'Fairies bite, too.' Foul play was feared, but seemed contradicted by the fact that a businessman at a store nearby reported that he saw the entire school's worth of uniformed children, and their teachers, crossing the street into the adjoining park at shortly after 14:00 that day." Heinkel paused, seeming a little overwhelmed by her own story. "One body was found in the Severn. It was that of a seven-year-old boy who seemed to have been mauled by some sort of animal. Written on his chest was the same inscription as was found on the wall of the classroom." Again Heinkel paused, this time while the room broke into murmuring.
One man in the front row raised his hand, hardly waiting for Heinkel to give him a nod before beginning to speak. "I heard nothing of this in the news."
Heinkel nodded. "Due to the young age of the victims and the kind of unpleasant publicity that would ensue as a result of this, we had approval from the Shrewsbury authorities and the families of the victims to keep this quiet. We would like to stop who is responsible before we release any more information to the public."
Integra spoke up, clearing her throat. "And you think it's this Albemarle fellow? Might I ask why? Besides both being attached to Shropshire?"
Heinkel smiled. "Ah, Sir Hellsing. I knew you'd take an interest in such an unusual case. Our suspicions were immediately drawn to Albemarle because he was so hasty to show himself at the scene and express his sadness and.... 'regret'--his choice of words, not mine--for the events. It seemed a little strange to me that the son of an Earl from a town more than a few kilometers away would feel the need to do so.
"I had my colleague, Ms. Takagi, look into Julian Albemarle a little deeper. She was able to find out some about his interests. Apparently he is quite active in the animal rights community. For the past four years, he has donated more than half of his yearly stipend to the Animal Liberation Front--an organization that uses extreme means--I wouldn't hesitate to call them terrorist--to intimidate organizations into meeting their demands. Through cooperation with his ISP, we were able to track him to several online animal rights bulletin boards, where he is frequently found under the handle 'Oberon.' In particular, we found this message--on a thread about deforestation in Ireland and Celtic mythology--to be of interest." She clicked another button, and another slide appeared; this, the text of some sort of bulletin board post. Heinkel read outloud: " 'In response to the poster who asked about the "mythical" creatures of Ireland being exterminated by such cruel destruction of their habitat: let me rush to assure you that there is nothing mythical about the puka, the pixies, the brownies, or the other fay of Eire and beyond. Those who have eyes have always been able to see them. I think we need not fear for them, however. These are noble creatures, noble warriors, and let us not forget that in the oldest myths, fairies bite.' "
A silence came over the room.
"I don't see your reason for hesitation, Ms. Wolfe," Integra said. "Surely the local authorities will agree that all of this is reason enough for a warrant to be granted for Albemarle's arrest."
Heinkel shook her head. "I wish it were that simple. Ms. Takagi did transmit this information to the Shrewsbury police department. Not long after that she had a very... peculiar experience, however. Some of you may be aware that my colleague is.... afflicted. She related to me that the night afterward, while she slept--as Yumiko--she had the most peculiar dream, in which she was looking into the mirror in her bedroom and seeing not her own face, but the face of a man who looked much like Albemarle. He said to her, 'You have defied the fay. Your death is assured,' and reached up and made a motion as if drawing a finger along the vein of his left wrist. She awoke to find herself standing over the sink in her hotel room, razor in hand, ready to open the vein in, yes, her left wrist. She felt a strange compulsion to cut, which she only avoided by reverting to her darker personality, Yumie.
"The Shrewsbury police had been notified by this time, of course--and going to Ellesmere with their arrest warrant, they found his mother, Cecilia Albemarle, in tears, mourning the fact that her son had abandoned her on the evening of an important family affair. The house was searched--much aided by Mrs. Albemarle, I might note--and Julian was not found. His father, the earl, was out of the country on a diplomatic errand and couldn't be reached for comment." Heinkel stopped to clear her throat. "I'd also like to note that since this event many of the Shrewsbury officers involved in the arrest attempt have reported being haunted by disturbing nightmares. Several have sought psychiatric counseling. There was one reported suicide attempt, by the captain who led the arrest attempt at Ellesmere."
More murmuring followed. Integra ignored the din around her, concentrating on the issue at hand. It intrigued her intellectually, like few of her duties could these days. What was this man, Albemarle? How could he insinuate himself so effectively into the psyche of all people involved directly in this case?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the louvered doors behind her creaking open. Mrs. Harrigan stood in the doorway. Heinkel looked up, gestured at Mrs. Harrigan to go ahead. A conversation--it seemed a little frantic in its pace--ensued in sign.
"I see." Heinkel said. Turning back to her audience, she announced, "Well. I hope none of you have to catch evening trains to London. It appears that the icy weather has delayed the trains." As if to punctuate her announcement, the sharp crack of an icy branch hitting an outside window sounded throughout the room.
Integra cursed inwardly. One of the downfalls of the modern high-speed trains was that ice could easily coat the power lines, reducing conductance to almost nil--quite literally stopping the trains in their tracks. "Effectively, this means what?" she asked, a touch surly.
Heinkel continued. "King's Cross is announcing one hour delays on all trains headed into London from the north." She smiled. "I suppose you'll all be joining us for dinner, then."
Integra gritted her teeth. Yeeeeeees. Except for the one upstairs who is waiting for his dinner, and would like it fresh from the tap.
--
It was an unfortunate side effect of traveling with a vampire--like babies, they needed to be fed entirely too often. Unlike babies, what they required couldn't be bought at the cash and carry.
Packaged blood spoiled in a cooler after too long; and it would have been unseemly to ask their landlady to store it in her refrigerator. The only option left was to bleed for him.
Alucard was nowhere in evidence when Integra returned to the room, although she was sure he would make his entrace dramatically as soon as the possibility of his being fed arose. Truth be told, it couldn't hurt to renew their little master-servant bond, given his behavior today.
Integra sat down on the bed, putting her feet up on Alucard's coffin to remove her shoes. She hadn't even bothered to turn on the light. Reaching into her overnight bag, she found what she sought, right next to her toothbrush--a straight razor. It was cool tortoiseshell and cold metal, and she touched it to the skin of her face, briefly, as a measure of comfort. She dared to close her eyes in a moment of simple indulgence--she felt so very tired now!--and when she opened them, he was there, crouched in front of her on his coffin lid. Idly, Integra said, "I think Mrs. Harrigan left some tumblers in the common room, for drinks. If you go and fetch one-"
"The intermediaries are unnecessary," he said. His voice was a growl, with an undertone of desperation.
"You're not feeding from the vein," she said simply, matter-of-factly. "We've had this conversation before."
He was silent; his eyes still glowing in the dark.
She opened the blade, positioned it against the heel of her palm. "You'll just have to play catch." One swift move, and she had opened a wound several centimeters wide and several millimeters deep. She didn't even flinch at the pain anymore.
Inverting her hand, she let the drops of blood welling there fall into his mouth, a cavern decorated with deadly white stalactites. His eyes never left hers as he fed, licking back every single drop with the relish of a cat drinking milk. It was.... unnerving. She always felt how their wills fought every time she did this; how she was never sure if she would win in the end, if the bond would once again proclaim her the master and he the pet. She felt, too, his almost hypnotic mental buzz of pleasure, the clouding of his mind, the attenuation of his thoughts to a single point:
Your blood in my blood your blood in my blood your blood in my blood-
Enough.
She yanked her hand away, cradled it against her chest. She felt suddenly breathless. "The trains have been delayed. I think we'll have to go back to London tomorrow."Alucard shrugged.
When he had made no reply for a full thirty seconds, she went on. "I'm going to rest."
She slept, and she was falling, falling, into a bed of snow, cool and comforting and yet paralyzing. Around her she heard the crackling of fires, or torches, and she knew they were coming to claim her, her monster, her castle on the hill-
She awoke with a start to the ringing of her cell phone on the nightstand. The room was otherwise silent and cold; Alucard was no where to be seen. How long had she slept?
Tentatively, she hit the shoulder button marked "Answer." "Sir Hellsing here," she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.
The voice on the other hand breathed a sign of relief. "Oh, I'm so glad to reach you, Sir!" Seras Victoria's voice rang out on the other end of the line. Glumly, she added, "I tried to reach Master, but he's not listening to me."
"What's wrong, Captain Victoria?"
There was a pause, and in the background Integra could hear some sort of scrambling. Muted, she heard Seras say, "No, don't lift that! I said I'd do it!" Returning to the phone, Seras started, "Uh.... Walter and I were trying to help you out. With the trains running late due to the weather, he suggested we drive up there to pick you up. Unfortunately, we ran into a little bad weather ourselves." Again Seras seemed to be talking to someone in the background. "No, let the tow truck handle it, you silly old man!" Static crackled as Seras returned. "It was so strange, Sir. We were driving up to York--with the new car now; did I mention that?--and the roads were as clean as you could imagine. I was telling Walter that those weather forecasters had to be crazy! Then we turned a corner, and it was like.... all of a sudden.... the weather turned bad. This white cloud of hail came on us, and it was so heavy that one of the hail stones cracked the windshield! Well, I think I shrieked then, and Walter was so startled that he swerved, and the road--which oddly, now, was icy---well, we didn't stay on the road. And here we are." She added mournfully, "In a ditch. With a flat tire."
"In a ditch," Integra repeated flatly.
"A ditch just south of York."
"A Yorkshire ditch." Something about this exchange simply was not registering with Integra. Finally, she realized. "Hold on a second, Seras."
She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Beyond her window, the landscape glimmered like so many stars--the trees, the ground, the cars in the driveway, the road beyond, were all coated in almost three centimeters of ice. Even the tree that tapped at her window had been crystallized, and resembled nothing so much as a confection of spun ice.
She had heard of ice storms like this--didn't one like this strike the U.S. just last winter?--but to experience it was another thing entirely. Outside, she might as well have been looking at a fairy tale kingdom; a landscape rich with jewels of ice. It was at once beautiful and deadly.
Before she could return to Seras, a terrible screeching and cracking and grinding caught her attention. A tree in the garden--a young tree, no sapling, but one well on its way to becoming a sturdy oak--had just been cleft down the middle from the weight of the ice. "Seras," Integra said, perfectly calmly, "Once you get the car out of the ditch, turn around. Go back to London. There's nothing you can do here."