The icy rain rattled its fingers against the windows as a chilling, numbing wind swept through the upper floors of the house, knocking expensive ornaments from tables and shaking the countless ancient portraits that lined the corridors – their faded, peeling paint cracking beneath the wind's frozen touch. The wind howled through the rooms, over a grey carpet, worn and threadbare, past damp, grey wallpaper, around mouldering pieces of grey furniture. It shrieked along a hallway lined with grey doors, each one firmly locked and bolted shut – all but one. A single door was ajar. The light from under it cast its luminescence across the hall; its pale amber glow the only colour in the crumbling, grey ruin of a house.

The wind howled and screamed at the door, finally forcing it to open with a creak of rusted hinges. The room within was as grey as the rest of the house, but at least showed some signs of repair. The holes in the large window had been boarded up to keep out the wind and rain, the gaps in the wall had been clumsily plastered over, the blue carpet looked as if it had been intended to add some colour to the room – but the thick layer of dust had turned it grey, as grey as the storm clouds that churned outside the windows, as grey as everything else in the house.

There was the chair. A luxurious, high-backed armchair that sat in the centre of the room, facing the fire, turned away from the door. Resting against it was a long, thin cane sword.

A dusty grey marble fireplace stood in one corner of the room, the glow of its dying embers adding a hint of orange to the grey moonlight that filtered through the moth-eaten curtains. Above the fireplace hung a large portrait - a picture that had been turned to face the wall so the house's occupant would not have to look upon it. Thick dust – or was it ash? - had settled on its grey frame.

And below it, on the mantelpiece, stood a small, grey urn.

The wind picked up, sending dust particles spiralling round the room, dancing in the grey light from the window. The portrait rattled against the wall as the wind became stronger, whistling, howling, moaning through the gaps in the woodwork. It spun round the room, rattling the portrait yet again.

There was a dull rumble of distant thunder as a sudden gust of wind swept the portrait from the wall to land with a dull thud, face up on the dusty carpet.

It was the portrait of a young man with dark eyes.

The wind howled again, once more, briefly.

It knocked the grey urn from its place.

Grey ashes spilled over the painting.

The thief pushed his damp hair out of his eyes and squinted at the name on the letterbox, just above the corroded door handle. It was no good: years of rust had turned the once-bright lettering into an illegible mess. He frantically rattled the door handle, flakes of rust sticking to his gloves and falling to the floor. A screech made him spin around, panic spread across his dripping features – but it was only the wind, only the wind… or was it? The man tugged at the door handle with renewed vigour, realised that the door must be locked, bent down and set to work with a lock pick, the thin piece of metal shaking in his trembling, terrified fingers. A flock of bats whirred past overhead. The thief let out a faint whimper. He had dropped the handbag in the last alley – so why was it still pursuing him?

There was a click and the door swung open. The man stuffed the lock pick back into his pocket and jumped inside, catching his foot in a rip in the carpet. He fell face forward into the thick dust and arose, choking, spinning around –

Nothing. Nothing ripping through the doorway in pursuit. Had he outsmarted it? It was doubtful, but maybe…

His eyes growing used to the gloom, he could make out a staircase leading upwards into the pitch darkness, its walls lined with various dusty portraits.

There was a sudden whirring noise. The thief sprang forwards, sprinting up the stairs as the flock of bats shot through the doorway, the flapping of their wings sending dust spiralling into the air, forming an asphyxiating dust cloud. Momentarily confused, the bats flew round in circles before regaining their bearings and whirring off once again in pursuit of the thief, their wings knocking portraits from walls and sending them clattering to the floor.

The thief, wide-eyed and shaking with unspoken terror, sprinted down a grey hallway lined with doors as the bats turned the corner behind him. Biting his lip to stifle a scream, the man slipped through the wide-open door at the end of the hall and locked it from the inside, sliding bolt over heavy bolt into its place. Breathing heavily, his heart pounding, he leaned against the door.

They can smell your fear…

There was a knock at the door. The thief jumped backwards, collided with the chair and fell heavily to the ground once again.

The knock sounded again, louder this time.

The thief desperately tried to scuttle backwards on his hands and knees.

The knock sounded a third time, before the door was forcibly ripped from its hinges. There was a shower of tiny wooden splinters as the swarm of bats shot through the doorway. The thief sat rooted to the spot as the bats whirred past overhead. The fire went out. The breeze became a whirlwind. He screwed up his eyes and curled up into a tight ball on the carpet. Dust surged into the room, into his face, making him cough and wheeze –

And then it was over.

The wind died down. There was total silence. After a while the thief gingerly opened his eyes as the dust began to settle. He sat up.

And Mina Harker sunk her fangs deep into his neck.

Mina wandered over to the cracked, dusty mirror and proceeded to wipe the blood from her face with a handkerchief. She smiled at her reflection. She remembered this house. She'd last been here eight years ago, when the League had met for the first time. The place had changed. Oh, yes. Its previous occupant would never have let it get into this state. But, as far as she knew, its previous occupant was a now a desiccated corpse pinned to a wall by its own sword somewhere in the frozen wastes of Mongolia…

They had been together once. The vampire and the immortal – some would say a perfect match. But… their love had died. Long ago…

After making sure that there was no trace of the red liquid left on her cheeks, she dropped the stained cloth on the floor.

It landed with a soft sound on the portrait, now buried beneath a thick layer of dust and ashes.

A drop of blood dripped from the cloth to the portrait, leaving a dark red stain on the canvas.

Unnoticed by Mina, the ashes began to move, slowly at first, but speeding up, the grey flecks beginning to form a shape. Mina turned away from the mirror and began to walk towards the splintered doorway. The wind picked up once again. Mina stood still, listening to the faint rustling sound as the dust motes crawled over the portrait's canvas. The dust began to spiral upwards, forming the shadowy, blurred shape of a man of medium height, with shoulder-length hair, as far as it could be determined from the dusty silhouette. Mina turned around. Her eyes widened in shock as she recognised the figure that stood before her, outlined in writhing dust motes. No, it couldn't be?

Meh, first ever proper fanfic. Please be nice..