Nayla, now a meek and exhausted human, rode back into Cairo under the same noon day sun that the mighty vampire Dracula hide from. Her guns were empty, and her blade's edge had dulled over the course of the last night. Now she made her way back to the House of the Blessed hunters with no success to report to her superiors, but the deaths of the men serving under her to account for. Her days as a leader of warriors were surely over, but she accepted this as the consequence for failure. But had it not been for those blasted ghouls, she would have returned with the werewolf's pelt. She had no idea, no matter how many times she tried to figure it out, where those monsters had come from. A purge two months ago had scattered the ghouls to the winds. The largest packs had been decimated, yet this one was the largest Nayla had ever seen. Somehow, she knew those creatures were protecting that damned werewolf. And because of them, the House had lost a number of its most able warriors. Damn that vagrant Tadros.
Elsewhere, Adam pulled a cart containing the unconscious werewolf trapped in his human form by the light of the sun through the desert behind the horses ridden by his master. The scorching desert sun only fueled his anger, his utter hatred for the human demon calling himself Victor Frankenstein. He had never asked that this man to bring him to life, never asked him to follow Adam to the Arctic circle, and never asked him to revive his dormant body. And now he was a slave, and unliving machine, to this lunatic Frankenstein. His dead heart pounded against his steel backed rib cage, every thud growing faster as he thought about his servitude. His dead hands tightened around the wooden poles he was dragging through the wastelands as he brooded on the matter. And now, he was being dragged deep into the wastelands in search of some desert valley only the equally insane Rafik Mrad knew how to reach. But what Victor sought there Adam didn't care. It could be Holy Grail for the mad scientist or the eerie professor, either way it would mean nothing to Adam. His servitude was bound to that infernal device. Damn that lunatic Frankenstein.
Renfield dashed down the streets of Cairo as the sun shined down on him. When he realized where Mrad and his party were traveling, he knew he could never hope to follow them and return by dusk to his master. He struggled against the caravan merchant who had sold transportation to Mrad's party, nearly beating the man to death to extract every bit of information he had. Now he was rushing to the museum Mrad worked at for more information to give his master, and after that he'd have to rush to the Strasbourg University's camp on the Giza plateau to find out what Frankenstein was up to. Stress and frustration ran high, but he was so dedicated to his undead liege that he could only direct his thoughts of anger at the city around. Damn this heathen city.
Far away from the Victorious City, far away from those that would seek the Valley of the Fallen Gods, in a place that had gone unviolated for thousands of years, something primordial and unknowable stirred beneath the sands. Above it was a mystical ward, the power of which was unknown in the modern age. No living being could hope to comprehend this darkness's thoughts, but it sensed that soon it would damn the world to darkness.