With four wolves at my side, there was little that transpired in the city that I did not know about from that point on, but those were early days. I did not trust in the twins – Isaac and Ishtar – so greatly as you, but then you have always had insight and empathy into your fellow man, I do not doubt that this increased tenfold when it came to other wolves.

But what of the rest of our pack? It was Lestrade, poor Lestrade, who suffered the most, I think. His mind has never been all that strong, and what he saw that night must have pushed him almost to breaking point…

Inspector Lestrade did not get very far. He had searched all of the streets and back alleys around the old pub, but had found no sign of Mr Holmes or Dr Watson. He was also thoroughly lost, and it was getting dark. He paused, for a long moment, to get his bearings – if he could just find his way to the West India Dock rail station, from there he might be able to find a cab to take him home to his wife and away from the mad, pointless search for Sherlock Holmes.

Irritably, shivering a little, he dug his hands into his trouser pockets and retraced his steps. If he could find the pub, he could find a pint, and then find someone to give him directions to the station… now that seemed a more acceptable proposal.

Lestrade had therefore just turned to go back the way he had come from, when a dark-clad figure ran straight into him.

"What the f-?" he exclaimed, the last word muffled as he fell, knocked flat on his back by a perfumed figure, who swore in a very unladylike manner as she landed on top of him. "Uh… madam?" Lestrade muttered, trying to help her up but not awfully certain where to put his hands and acutely aware of her breath, extremely cold, on his bare neck… he managed to get hold of her shoulders, and pushed her up off his chest so that he could try to get a look at her face in the dim light.

The woman – it was the woman from the guest house! She scrambled back to her feet, bared her teeth, hissed at him wordlessly, and ran off into the darkness. Lestrade gaped after her, his mind reeling with surprise, and the first coherent thought that crossed his consciousness was: My, what incredibly sharp teeth you have…

He staggered to his feet, staring after the fleeing woman, wondering whether he should pursue her – she had appeared in some distress, but the image of those… those… fangs… lingered unpleasantly in his immediate memory. He turned, hearing another sound rapidly approaching, and dread rose in his throat when he saw what was running towards him. He flung up a defensive arm, shielding his face for all the good it would do, as he was bowled over by the woman's two large hounds.

Lestrade hugged the dirty floor as the two beasts bounded over him, heading in the direction of the running woman. He stared after them, wondering what the hell was going on. He certainly wasn't going to chase after those monsters – after all, they were probably only following their mistress… Lestrade, pushing himself into a sitting position, leaned against a wall, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying to gather his wits. It was then that he heard voices.

After reassuring himself that he wasn't going slowly crazy, as Gregson had been taunting him for the last couple of days, Lestrade looked up. In the darkness, he could see very little, but there was a shadowy shape approaching him.

"Are you sure it was this way, Watson?"

"Quite sure, Holmes – the trail is quite distinctive…"

"Then what the… I say! Who the devil are you, sir?"

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade squinted into the darkness, cursing the lack of lamp-light down this stretch of street, "Dr Watson?"

Suddenly, a massive, canine face with sharp teeth and deep brown eyes materialised from the shadows in front of him, illuminated by the light cast from a window of the building Lestrade was currently slumped against. Lestrade gasped, his eyes widening in terror, as he shrank bag.

"Nice… nice doggy…" he murmured, weakly, "uh, Mr Holmes? Is this your dog? Please, Mr Holmes…! Dr Watson? Nice Doggy! Oh, dear God…"

The dog suddenly disappeared back into the shadows as Lestrade called the two names. Lestrade thought he heard a muttered curse from the doctor, even as Holmes stepped forwards, leaning over him; "Lestrade! What the deuce are you doing here?"

"There was a woman," Lestrade replied, distantly, "she had the most amazing teeth… and, and there were two dogs… bloody big dogs… but not as bloody big as your bloody big dog…"

"I think he's in shock, Holmes," murmured Dr Watson's voice, an odd, low growl, sounding for all the world as if he were crouching down somewhere behind Holmes.

Lestrade glanced down, and saw that evil-looking hound at Holmes's side again, and he groaned; "Holmes, I've got to tell you – I'm bloody sick of bloody big dogs!"

"He's not my dog," Holmes muttered. Lestrade peered at him blearily. Goodness, but that was one hell of a bruise on the detective's face…

The hound stepped back behind Holmes and was hidden by shadows. From somewhere behind that, Dr. Watson spoke up, his voice still sounding slightly strange… a little bit hoarse, perhaps… "Holmes, it looks like the Inspector is in shock – we should take him somewhere warm and safe."

"But Watson – the Countess…"

"Will have to wait," Watson replied, enigmatically, "we will wait for a report from our… agents… who are acting on the matter."

Holmes sighed, and took Lestrade's arm, looping it over his own thin shoulders, lifting and supporting much of the Inspector's weight. Lestrade was glad of this – between the cold and the shock of what he thought he had seen his legs seemed to be refusing to support him.

"Are you alright, doctor?" he said, weakly, "You sound a little, uh, hoarse…"

"Just a cold, Lestrade," the voice from behind assured him, "and don't worry – the dog is back here with me. He won't hurt you."

Holmes led them through several dark alleys, until they reached the station. Here, he hesitated, despite seeing a waiting hansom cab, illuminated in the gas lights of the station.

"Watson, ah, your, um, your…"

"Ah! Yes, my patient – thank you, Holmes, I had almost forgotten," Watson interrupted, "I will, um… go to him immediately… if you will take the, ah, the dog home with you?"

"Of course, my dear fellow… I will see you back at Baker Street when you are finished."

"Thank you, Holmes. Oh, and Lestrade? There really is no need to call him a 'nice doggy', alright, old chap?"

Lestrade found himself being bundled into the carriage, as Holmes got in next to him, holding the door open. The huge dog he had seen accompanying Holmes earlier leapt aboard, gave him a placid look, and lay down on the other seat. The horse whinnied in obvious fright on sight of the beast, and Lestrade closed his eyes in dismay.

It was a very fast, very bumpy ride back to Baker Street.

Lestrade was sitting on the settee, wrapped in a blanket and nursing a cup of hot, sweet tea, both supplied by Mrs Hudson, as Holmes stood, leaning on the fireplace, smoking his pipe. The dog was nowhere to be seen – when Lestrade had timidly asked about it, Holmes had simply announced that it had "gone home of his own accord", whatever that meant.

"What were you doing out there, Lestrade?" Holmes demanded, at length, startling the Inspector out of his trance, "It was miles from the Yard and it is not even your duty shift. I should very much like to know why you saw fit to follow myself and Dr Watson out there…"

Lestrade was saved from replying by the arrival of Dr Watson – funny, he had not heard the front door go. He half rose, in greeting, but the doctor waved him back down, as he crossed to his armchair by the fire, and collapsed into it with an exhausted sigh. Lestrade noticed how pale and shaky the doctor looked – no doubt symptomatic of the cold he had previously alluded to.

"How was your patient, doctor?" Lestrade asked, politely, in an effort to defer the interrogation he knew he was about to be subjected to.

"My…? Oh, yes. Fine, thank you, Lestrade," Watson offered him a wan smile, "And how are you feeling now, old chap? You looked like you'd seen a ghost in that alleyway."

"I don't believe in ghosts," Lestrade replied, too quickly, defensively, "or…or… werewolves, or vampires, or any of that rubbish!"

"Calm yourself, Inspector," Holmes told him, in a low voice, "clearly, something assaulted you – no doubt one of the large dogs Watson and I were tracking. You are lucky we came along when we did."

"There was a woman…" Lestrade shook his head, "You should have seen her teeth!"

Watson traded a worried glance with Holmes, who gave him a minute shake of his head. Lestrade ignored them, and finished his tea. In the warmth of the sitting room, with the fire blazing brilliantly, it was hard to recall the terror he had inexplicably felt in the darkened alley… he took a deep breath.

"Gentlemen," he said, in as steady a voice as he could manage, "I apologise for my following you earlier today, but I had suspected that your lives were in danger. I was attempting to warn you. It appears that I was incorrect, and I am sorry for my imposition. Thank you and Mrs Hudson for your hospitality, but I really should get home to my wife…"

Lestrade quickly snatched up his hat and coat, muttering and receiving in return polite, if slightly surprised, farewells. He stumbled down the stairs, bade Mrs Hudson a goodnight, and went to find the welcome sanctuary of home, his wife's embrace, and maybe that bottle of Scotch he had been saving…

Holmes took a deep inhalation of smoke from his pipe, savoured it, and blew it out again, deep in thought. He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapped the bowl on the mantel, and then rubbed his brow with his thumb.

"Lestrade suspects something," he commented, at last, "he is observant, but he does not deduce well from his observations, thankfully."

"Or maybe he does not credit the deductions he has made," Watson corrected him.

Holmes glanced at him sharply, wondering how accurate that statement might be. Watson still looked horribly pale, and even as the doctor reached to retrieve the blanket the Inspector had dropped, Holmes observed the pained stiffness of his actions. Holmes snatched up the blanket, tossing it to him easily. Watson caught it gratefully, wrapping it around his shoulders with a shiver. Holmes watched him for a long moment.

"Oh, do stop staring at me, Holmes," Watson told him, irritably, "I am not some specimen under your microscope!"

Holmes suppressed a quirk of amusement as the doctor leaned closer to the fire, shivering. Sitting down in his own chair, Holmes continued to smoke. With shaking hands, Watson lit a cigarette of his own, smoking it pensively.

"Yes," Holmes said, at last, turning away, "I am curious as to how you survived the silver net as well, old chap, though I am, of course, grateful that you did."

Watson did not reply directly, but stared into the fire. "I am nothing like the other wolves we have met, Holmes. I feel no compunction to hunt and kill… well, except for at full moon, but we can control that. I have no territorial instinct. I wish no harm on other wolves… I admit, vampires do give me some difficulties, though I find this a fairly unremarkable human reaction. What am I, Holmes? What the hell is it that I've become?"

"I do not know, Watson," Holmes answered, softly, hearing the quiet frustration in his friend's voice, "but I am sure that we will, eventually, find out."

There was another long moment of silence. Watson got up and poured each of them a drink, knocking his back in one and immediately pouring another. Holmes raised an eyebrow, and Watson levelled a warning finger at him.

"Say nothing, Holmes. I am frozen to the bone by that deuced net; I feel as if I shall never be warm again!"

Holmes remained diplomatically silent, sipping carefully at his own drink, savouring the scorching feeling as it burned the back of his throat and sent a fiery glow throughout his limbs.

"And what of the Countess?" Holmes asked, as last, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling, "What are we to do about that pretty little problem, hmm?"

He glanced across at Watson, but the other man did not appear to have heard him. Holmes needed only a moment of scrutiny to see how drawn his friend now appeared; gaunt and pale, with dark shadows underneath his eyes. Changing from human to wolf was, apparently, somewhat painful but otherwise effortless – changing back, however, seemed exhausting, and Watson had done it several times in the past couple of days.

"Watson," Holmes said, softly, and then, when he got no response; "Watson!"

The doctor started slightly, and fixed Holmes with a baleful glare. The detective softened his words with a slight smile; "Do go to bed, my dear fellow – you are exhausted, and rightly so."

"You need to sleep as well, Holmes," Watson shot back, a spark of defiance in his eyes despite his haggard appearance, "And how are we meant to sleep, in any case? We have a supernatural opponent who wants to turn you into a vampire, turn me into a hearth-rug, and can turn herself into a cloud of smoke!"

Watson leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his jaw in the palm of his hand as he scowled into the fire. Holmes tapped the clay stem of his pipe against his teeth.

"You can relax, Watson – the Countess will not come here tonight," Holmes told him, assuredly, "I made many observations tonight, but the most glaring one is this. She waited until the last possible moment to dissipate and escape – she was waiting for any alternative to present itself. I would wager that the effort cost her dearly, and, like yourself after an episode of transformation, she will be exhausted. She will also be more than occupied in keeping out of reach of her own poor offspring – in a weakened state, she will be no match for them. We are quite safe."

Watson gave him a dubious look, but said nothing. However, despite Holmes's reassurances, neither of them made any move towards their beds that night.

I recall how we stayed up all that night – if one of us fell into a doze, it seemed that the other would make the greater effort to stay awake. During my own conscious moments, I knew that we could not keep this up; my ability to go without sleep is remarkable, but, alas, not infinite. I have never experienced such fear of a foe since the Countess.

Until I realised the nature of the hitherto unnamed player in the game we found ourselves embroiled in.

Inspector Lestrade went to work at Scotland Yard as usual the next morning. He returned the greetings of his men half-heartedly, avoided going anywhere near the Superintendent, and closed the door to his office. He sat down at his desk, and stared in vague trepidation at the paperwork strewn haphazardly all over its surface. There, on the top of the pile, was a memo from the Chief Inspector saying that he was being pressed for results on the Sir Bryce case, which meant Lestrade had better get his finger out and send him a report, and this time, to make it one that did not cast libellous assertions against a powerful and popular political figure.

Lestrade filed it appropriately in the bin. If the Chief wanted a decent outcome on the report, he could investigate the bloody man himself – Lestrade was satisfied with Holmes's explanation and would not provoke the detective's ire by attempting to prove otherwise. He was not a politician, or a diplomat, and at the moment he didn't care very much for being an Inspector. They could all go hang...

Suitably steeled by the foul mood he had successfully worked himself into, Lestrade bellowed for a constable and demanded that the man bring him all of the information pertaining to the massive dog found dead in the alley that awful day. The constable had, either bravely or stupidly, pointed out that this was Inspector Gregson's case, and wouldn't Inspector Lestrade prefer to work on his own matters and get the Chief Inspector off all of their backs?

No, Inspector Lestrade had replied, in less than polite tones, he would not, and if the constable knew what was good for him he would go and get the bloody file or spend the rest of his career patrolling the bloody sewers. The constable, unsurprisingly, obeyed, and Lestrade soon had the files, and an offering of a cup of tea – with biscuits – to appease his wrath.

Drinking the tea and mumbling curses, Lestrade opened the file. There was, as he had hoped, a photograph of the dead beast, although the file recorded that the body had been cremated. There were no witness statements, save for a brief report in Gregson's sloppy handwriting. Really, how had the man passed his exams with a scrawl like that?

Lestrade reviewed the report. Essentially, Gregson's report – rather smugly, Lestrade thought – concluded that the beast had, indeed, been responsible for the violent death of a homeless beggar down by the docks, and had been shot by a citizen seeking to defend themselves. Gregson also postulated that it was the same giant dog that had been seen in the vicinity of another recent murder, but the perpetrator of that killing was still at large. Gregson had concluded this death the result of a drunken brawl and had already written the case off as unsolvable given the "transient nature of the deceased". It was a line Lestrade had written once or twice himself; essentially, as a homeless beggar, there was no one to miss the poor decedent and as such it was simply not worth investigating the matter further. It was one of many things he hated about his job.

He picked up the photograph, and stared at it for a long time. He put it down, and tried to work on something else. He ended up picking up the photograph again.

"A few months ago, I'd never seen a dog this size before," he said, aloud, irritation and wonder creeping into his tone, "and now, everywhere I look, there are bloody… huge… dogs…"

He lowered the picture, and stared at the fireplace. There was no fire burning in the grate, yet the room seemed oddly smoky. Lestrade sighed, feeling suddenly extremely cold.

"I swear to God; that woman had fangs…" he murmured to himself, shivering.

The smoke curled lazily down the chimney. Lestrade blinked – surely smoke should go up the chimney…? The room was suddenly thick with it… Lestrade leapt to his feet – was the chimney on fire? How, with no fire in the grate…?

The impossible happened – the smoke curled suddenly into a very solid fist, which connected hard with Lestrade's jaw and sent him crashing to the floor.

Mrs Hudson sighed with age-old irritation at finding the sitting room floor covered in books, papers, maps and assorted paraphernalia. Knowing better than to try to tidy the mess, she simply picked her way through it, and flung open the heavy curtains that covered the windows, allowing bright sunshine to come streaming into the room. A muffled groan from the armchair made her fold her arms, pursing her lips in disapproval.

"Gentlemen," she said, firmly, "it may have escaped your attention, but I wash your bedding and keep your beds made for the purposes of sleeping in, not simply to make the rooms look presentable… which would make a change. Look at this mess!"

Holmes growled something wordlessly, and then leaning over the arm of his chair he flapped a hand at her in irritation; "Coffee, woman, for God's sake, coffee!"

Mrs Hudson snorted at her lodger's terrible manners, as she opened another set of curtains. Holmes gave a theatrical moan and buried his face in his hands; Dr Watson shielded his eyes, yawning widely. Eventually deciding to take pity on them, Mrs Hudson swept out of the room and went to prepare her largest coffee pot.

As she left, Watson yawned and stretched, cramped from spending an uncomfortable night in the chair.

"Well, we're still alive, at least," he grumbled, scrubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Such as it is," Holmes replied, stretching with feline grace, until his back clicked and he gave a sigh of relief, "How do you feel this morning?"

"Greatly recovered… you, Holmes? That is a remarkable bruise the Countess gave you…"

"If it is the worst that she will wreck upon my person, I shall be glad of it. No, Watson, do not trouble yourself – it is a mere trifle. Now… let us to coffee, and then on with our hunt!"

"Our hunt? Holmes… I am not sure about this… she may be a vampire, but I draw the line at hunting the wretched woman down and killing her!"

"I said nothing of killing the woman, Watson," Holmes replied, "she knows that she has lost, and I think that she will leave quietly. However, there is something I need to know before she leaves…"

"Her daughter," Watson finished, quietly, "Yes, I had thought about that… Isaac and Ishtar seemed terrified of her…"

"Those poor creatures are terrified of everyone," Holmes sighed, "I need to know the nature of this third child. I need to know what she is, and whether she is a threat."

"She travelled with the Count – perhaps her allegiance is against her mother?" Watson suggested, "Or perhaps she had already left the city?"

"I am not so sure that is the case."

"Well, if you are sure, it should not be difficult to locate the Countess."

"My dear Watson. If you are thinking of going out in broad daylight in the form of a…"

Holmes broke off quickly at a knock at the door as Mrs Hudson swept in quickly.

"Inspector Gregson to see you, Mr Holmes," she said, placing a tray of coffee and toast on the dining table, "he is most insistent that it is urgent."

"If it's another of his big dog stories, tell him to go away – I'm busy," Holmes growled, already heading for the coffee pot. It was a beautiful china one – Watson had purchased it as a gift for Mrs Hudson after her previous silver one had mysteriously disappeared one day…

"It isn't," the burly Inspector stepped into the room uninvited, his face flushed, his speech rushed; "Holmes, we need you down at the yard – it's Lestrade. He's disappeared!"

"The poor fool probably over-slept," Holmes replied, pouring coffee for himself and pointedly not offering a cup to the agitated Inspector, "he had a rather trying time last night with a pair of large stray dogs."

"Is someone breeding the bloody brutes?" Gregson exclaimed, "No, sorry – that's irrelevant. He was seen at the yard this morning – I mean he's vanished from his office, into thin air. Several people saw him go in, a constable took him some tea and a file. There was a noise, like an explosion, and a handful of people rushed in. Lestrade was gone, and nobody saw him leave."

"I hardly think it would be difficult to avoid being observed by a few policemen," Holmes said, dismissively, "even you and Lestrade could manage that…"

Gregson bristled; "Just listen to me, Holmes! Enough of your damned jibes – Giles is missing. We heard sounds of a scuffle in the office, within seconds there were three constables and a sergeant in the room, and the place was empty. There's one door, no windows, and I doubt he went up the bloody chimney, so get off your high horse and help us find the poor sod!"

"Easy, Inspector," Watson said, soothingly, getting to his feet, interrupting before Holmes had the chance to argue, "was anything taken from the office?"

"We don't know," Gregson looked deflated, an edge of worry creeping into his tone, "it looked like a demon had ripped through the place – it's going to take days to sort through everything…"

"Sounds like Lestrade's usual filing system," Holmes responded, dryly.

"Oh, you're a one to talk," Watson snorted, "Inspector – you had better call a cab to take us to the yard."

"The Station Wagon is outside," Gregson responded, jerking his head towards the window.

Holmes sighed, and downed his coffee.

"Very well – lead the way, Inspector."

Isaac and Ishtar had alluded to a sister who terrified them, apparently even more so than their mother. The fact that they were not allowed to talk of her was significant, and I knew, with all the certainty of a well-made deduction, that this was the female companion who had travelled with the Count on the first day that we had met him.

I thought deeply as to her nature; half-bred of lycanthrope and vampire. The Countess had indicated that Ishtar and Isaac could not take on human form, and as you had seen a very human figure in the carriage, I assumed the Countess's other daughter, the third of her triplets, to be more vampire than lycanthrope. I took it that she, like her siblings, had all of the weaknesses and none of the strengths, a bastard child of two genetically incompatible species.

One should never make assumptions, Watson.

I am so sorry…