Ah, James Hunter, literally my oldest friend here.
I first met him in Germany during the war. I remember the first thing he said to me.
"My God, but you are a pretentious son of a bitch."
I had just been introduced to him by the then teenaged Walter. I had looked him over and said that he would be mildly amusing to have about, but if he fought like any of the Dhampirs I knew, we'd be better off carving him up now.
He took exception to that for some reason. He tossed that line out and I just wanted to reach out and slap the smug expression from his blonde face.
Oh, he looks different now. Every generation he alters his appearance slightly, so the truth of what he is doesn't get out. He trusts few with his secrets and what he really looks like. For the purpose of this story I'll relate how he truly looks.
He stands roughly one and three quarter meters high, and has a body that is completely non-intimidating. He looks as though he weighs a mere sixty-seven kilograms but in actuality he weighs a full ninety-one of pure muscle. His hair is a rust colour that would make you think he would be incredibly freckled, but his skin is a light tan most of the time. His eyes are normally a piercing grey-blue unless he is pulling upon his powers, during which they start to shade towards transparent. They are the first things to change when he shifts into fight mode, as they cease to reflect any light whatsoever.
Dhampirs are the offspring of a human-vampire pairing. Most of the time, it's a Vampire father and a human mother, though there have been the opposite cases. Most of them live their lives without knowledge of what they are, living and dying as humans. Should they die at the hands of a supernatural creature, however, the vampiric side is awakened and they come into their powers. The only way to escape the curse is to hunt down their Sire and defeat them in combat, drinking the blood of the fallen vampire. They are obstinate, independent, and notoriously malicious in most cases.
This one, for some reason, gave me a sense that he was more than he appeared. But, true to my nature, I had to rile him up.
Plus, I just didn't like him at first. Something about his seeming pacifistic nature rubbed me the wrong way.
Well, needless to say I had my pistol out and was going to plug him a few good ones, and he had brought out his gun as well. We were both about to pull the triggers when Walter stepped between us, garrotte wires looping about our bodies and threatening to slice us apart.
It wouldn't have stopped either of us for more than a few minutes, but the fact that the Angel of Death found some reason to try and stop my fun made me stop long enough to listen to why he had asked the half-breed to help us.
Ah, could he fight! We were set upon by a battalion of ghouls and the first generation of what would later be called FREAKS shortly after we had settled into an uneasy truce. He tore through them with as much zeal as a full blood vampire. His face held the same cocksure grin that I knew was on my face in combat.
Unlike me, however, he seemed to always try and grant his enemies quick and painless deaths, whereas I enjoyed drawing it out if I could.
This, of course, brought about his nickname: Thanatos, the Greek god of gentle death. It fit him just as the fact that someone so seemingly innocent and angelic as Walter was capable of such destruction.
He transferred into Hellsing with us, and for five years served under the guise of a normal human, only letting his true nature show when it was just him, me, and Walter.
The three of us made quite a team when we worked together.
He transferred out to an American group in the late fifties, training as a recon pilot and later as a fighter ace in the Viet Nam and Persian Gulf wars. He roamed across America, and I lost track of him for a good fifty years.
And now he's back with Hellsing, and the Police Girl is quite taken with him. I attribute most of her new backbone to him, his ability to draw people out and make them feel comfortable about themselves. I know that it has to have something to do with his time in the Orient. He spent two six year terms there, just trying to find peace: once after he had hunted down and killed four people and fifteen guards in an attempt at revenge against the perpetrators of the Inquisition and again shortly before the First World War for reasons that he still won't confide in me.
He is a philosopher, having deep thoughts about many topics and is an incredible conversationalist. He's only six hundred years old, but he has this thirst for knowledge that makes him my equal for experiences, and he might even surpass me in some since he was actually a victim of the Inquisition.
And we argue from time to time about which is the better wine, Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon.
He keeps accusing me of being biased because I owned a good portion of the Sauvignon fields once.
Bigot.
I enjoy having him about again, mainly because he has the same sense of honour and lust for combat that I have, so we understand each other quite well. And his effect on Draculina, his bolstering of her confidence and allowing her to feel comfortable in her new life. However, he has a sense of humour that grates on me at times.
He, like all of his kind and many of mine, can mask his voice and physical appearance. He delights in pulling pranks on me; sounding or appearing as Abraham Van Helsing is his favourite trick.
Damn him.
If I had known about this back in the Forties I would have called him Loki instead. I know he probably does it for the same reasons that I taunt Draculina, but it is annoying to be pestered all of the time and not be able to do anything about it.
I wonder if there is a lesson in that for me.
If there is, he's going to be sorely disappointed.
I'd rather learn to deal with his pranks than give up my sparring sessions with Seras.
Still though, damn him.
He's got Integra doing it too, now that she has similar abilities.