#andertegra

Thursday, 21 September 2000

“A visitor for you, Sir Hellsing.”

Integra glanced up as a distant cathedral bell marked the five o’ clock hour; it was a solemn sound that did little to break the endless, muted hush of life beyond the bulletproof plexiglass of her cell window. Her fork, poised above her evening meal, lingered only a moment before dipping into the stewed potatoes currently oozing across the left side of her plate.

“Very well,” she replied, taking a bite of the admittedly bland food as she waited for the cell door to open. Sir Irons had undoubtedly pulled some strings in order to afford her a room with a view, as well as the small creature comforts she’d been afforded during her stay as a prisoner of the Crown. She did not even have to wear restraints, so long as she behaved herself. And—in return for these oh-so-small kindnesses— she had behaved herself, for eleven long months.

However, her patience was quickly drawing to an end with this string of weekly visits from dear old Italia. Now that they were in possession of a royal stamp of approval for “peaceful questioning”, Bishop Maxwell and his cronies had taken full advantage of the fact that she was sequestered to a single room with no means of escape. Unfortunately for her, they didn’t seem to believe that she had no information regarding the Tower incident beyond what little Walter had gleaned from the aftermath.

Week after week, agents of Iscariot made regular visits to her cell; these visits ranged from borderline cordial to downright embarrassing. Repeating her answers had quickly grown both tedious and tiresome, so she instead took to seeing how quickly she could make them retreat. Often she was able to undo them with a single harsh glare, the sort she usually reserved for Alucard alone. Within two months she had managed to deplete their ranks, leaving Maxwell with no choice but to call in the reserve guard: Paladin Anderson.

Very quickly, Integra had surmised that the monstrous Regenerator was not one to flee with his tail between his legs. The man seemed unflappable, taking both stony silences and scathing insults in their stride. He even managed to amuse her, when he was feeling gregarious enough to match wits. Although it was entirely possible that the lack of society had left her touched in the head, at times she almost found herself enjoying his company… almost. Then again, perhaps it was a Pavlovian response, as through quid pro quo measures she’d bullied him into bringing something that Sir Irons’ concessions had neglected to provide: the paper. 

“Hellsing.” The Thursday edition of the Times landed beside her water glass.

“Anderson.” She watched as he took his usual seat across the table, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slight grimace at the sight of her meal. She could see the thoughts running through his mind as easily as if they’d been written on his forehead: Bloody Protestants can’t even get a meal right. To his credit, the food was undeniably atrocious: the steak was an overcooked peace of dry meat, the stewed potatoes were nearly soup, and the carrots suffered from a lack of salt… or any spice, for that matter.

“So.” She speared a carrot, her free hand flipping the Times over to find the daily quiz. “Anything new to add? Or shall we begin with the usual questions?”

“Neither, for once.” His thick accent pulled at the words, adding a rougher edge to what was an otherwise polite sentence.

“Neither? I’m surprised. After all, if you’ve taken the time for an unsolicited visit—?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He shifted comfortably in the flimsy chair, fingers laced together on his crossed knees. “I just thought I’d drop by to share the good news: I leave England at the end o’ the week.”

“Good news indeed.” She turned the Times back to the front column, scanning it without really seeing the words. In her current situation, each paper was a jewel waiting to be admired in its own time; she had no intentions of ruining the experience by reading everything at once, especially if this was to be the last. “I take it my answers have finally had time to sink into Maxwell’s thick skull?”

“Hmph. Not exactly.” He smiled, catching her curious glance. “He still believes you to be hiding something, but there’s more pressing matters to attend to right now, and not nearly enough Iscariots to go around. It’s unfortunate,” he sighed, “but the job does come with a shortened lifespan.” The thought was enough to tear her eyes from her paper.

“Dead?” In her mind, she held the memory of every Iscariot face she’d seen during the past few months. Their shapes and features were different, but behind the dark lenses of their spectacles their eyes held the same sense of grim determination. Were some of those people gone now? Their soul’s flame snuffed out in its prime?

Such things happened all the time, of course. In any case, this was the enemy. Whether one or one hundred, the thought of dead Iscariots should not have bothered her in the slightest. Why, then, did she feel a sense of regret? Was it because she had seen them, heard their voices? Like Anderson, they had all made their disdain for her clear from the first. But if they had not spoken to her with kindness, some of them had at least attempted to treat her with barest civility.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The only thing more surprising than the words was the honesty that accompanied them. If Alucard had been here, he would have probably dismissed her emotion as human weakness. Anderson didn’t seem to hold the same view; he nodded, accepting her sentiment without comment. Sensing an opening, she added, “You said Maxwell still believes I’m hiding something. You don’t?”

“Aye. You’re not lying. I can tell.”

“It’s certainly news to me.” He arched his brows, the expression twisting the scar on his cheek.

“That you’re not lying?”

“That you can tell.” She put the fork down, crossing her legs beneath the table as she sat back to regard him. “How, exactly, do you take such measure? After all, a dedicated liar could easily repeat the same story time and time again.”

“True. But everyone has their own tells. Watch someone enough, and you’ll learn them.”

“Is that so?” she scoffed. “Well, then. You’ve managed to pique my curiosity. What are mine?”

“I’m in no mood to give away my secrets.” He chuckled. “No, lass: you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

“Lass?” A smirk tilted one corner of her mouth. “Is that where we’re at? Terms of endearment? You must admit, it’s a far cry from an English sow.”

“Maxwell called you that, not me.” Anderson shifted in his seat, head tilting thoughtfully. “Don’t mistake me. I don’t like you any more than I like your thrice-damned vampires. If I had the chance, I’d raze your Organization to the ground and scatters the ashes to the four winds. That being said,” he admitted, “that’s not to say that I don’t respect you. It’s not easy, accomplishing what you have at your age.”

“At my age?” she parroted, pushing her plate to the side with a snide laugh. “As compared to— who, exactly? You’re not exactly ancient yourself.” This earned her a sidelong glance.

“Just how old do you think I am, Hellsing?” Anderson removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose before leveling her with a solemn gaze. She searched his features for the telltale signs of aging, finding nothing that suggested he had passed beyond his forties—if that. The stubble on his jaws made him looked ragged, unkempt even, and the gash on his cheek didn’t help matters. But aside from a few faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he looked as hale and hearty as any other man approaching middle-age. She shook her head after a moment, tossing out what she thought might be a close approximation.

“Forty-four.” He grimaced, brows gathering over his nose. “Too old?”

“Too young.” He slid the spectacles back up his nose. “Believe it or no: I’ll turn ninety-three years old April next.”

What?! Integra barely managed to stop her jaw from dropping. That’s… that’s impossible, he couldn’t have—

“It’s because I’m a Regenerator,” he explained, seeing the incredulity written in her expression. “The nature of the process slows ageing. Physically, I look as though I’ve only aged five or six years since joining the Vatican Special Forces. In reality, it’s been nearly sixty.”

“If that’s true… if you’re ninety-three years old….” Integra frowned, doing the math in her head. “You were born in 1907?”

“I suppose you might say I’ve seen more than my fair share o’ life.” He sighed.

“Two world wars, if nothing else.”

“Aye. Fought in one o’ them,” he mentioned offhandedly. “In a roundabout way, it’s what landed me here in the first place.” She knew better than to pry any deeper, despite wanting to know more. Anderson was the Vatican’s best kept secret; nearly everything about him was a mystery. Even Walter, with the help of the government’s finest informants, weren’t able to ascertain the man’s age. Now, she’d just been handed it on a silver platter. What else might she learn, if she only had the time and patience to draw it out?

“Is that where the scar comes from?” she asked, tapping her cheek for emphasis. “Going toe-to-toe with a German soldier?”

“No. That….” His fingers brushed absently along the edge of the raised skin. “That was the mistake of a much younger man. A fool. In any case,” he said quickly, “I’ve been hunting heathens and heretics longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve seen more faces come and go than I care to admit—raised over half o’ them myself.”

“And what sort of life is that, Paladin Anderson?” she countered easily. “Would you deem it a worthy existence? Living outside of time sounds rather lonesome.”

“It can be. But I’ve had ample time to prepare for it. The world passeth away, and the lust thereof—”

“—but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever,” Integra finished for him. “John 2:17.”

“Amen.” He crossed his arms. “But it’s only to be expected. The Devil quotes his Scripture as glibly as any mortal man.”

“Do you consider me the Devil now? I suppose I should be flattered.” Anderson made to reply, stopping himself at the last moment with a scowl.

“Your pet vampire is better deserving of the name. Even so, he’s not half as fearsome as the agent of darkness. He’s a man, naught more, and I aim to prove as much when I drive my blade through his black heart.” He paused, eyes lighting as if something had just occurred to him. “I’ve lived nigh on a century now, and even that is only one sixth of his unholy existence.”

“You’d do well to pity him for it,” Integra pointed out. “He abhors pity of any sort, so that would rankle him enough to make the next battle more interesting.”

“Hmph. I’d hope so. I enjoy a good hunt.” Anderson stood, cracking his neck before glancing down with a sort of cautious optimism. “This is goodbye, then. I don’t plan on meeting you again in this life, Hellsing, unless it’s on orders to end it. We’ll have all eternity to battle it out in Hell.”

“The feeling is mutual, I grant you.” She stood as well, offering her hand across the table. “Farewell, Paladin Anderson. If you wash up on English soil again, I’ll be sure you never make it back to sea.”

“Aye. I’ll show the same courtesy, should you find yourself on Catholic grounds.” He took her hand, his large fingers enveloping hers easily. She could sense power in the touch, the knowledge that he could easily grind her bones to dust if he so chose. He shook it once, professionally. “God keep you, Hellsing, even if you are a damned soul.”

“Give Maxwell my best,” she replied blithely, smirking as he left the room. Her last view of him was through the narrow threshold; he turned back, green eyes scanning over the room as though committing it to memory. Then the door closed without another word, leaving her alone with her cold food.

Integra sighed as she scooped up another forkful of congealed potatoes, resigned to the loss of her newspaper. Everything said, Anderson was not the worst conversational partner—if there was none other to be had. A thought occurred to her, amusing enough that it quirked the corner of her mouth in an involuntary smile. 

In another life, we might have been allies.

“It’s impossible.” Anderson took a voracious bite of his sandwich, breath steaming in the cool night air. Years of practice had helped him to perfect the art of blending in with a crowd; even with his stature and the outward signs of his profession, no one seemed to notice him as he leaned against a large wall skirting the edge of a park. “There’s no way—” He paused long enough to swallow, cradling the phone against his ear with one shoulder. “No way a siren could be in Białystok. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You think you’re the first to say that?” Maxwell sounded far away. Anderson could imagine him leaning back in his chair, twirling the phone’s cord in his fingers as he spoke. “I didn’t believe the reports at first, either. There weren’t enough pieces left of the bodies to get a clear reading, so it wasn’t immediately clear what was tearing the victims apart. However….”  

“Go on.” Static erupted along the line as Maxwell shuffled through the paperwork.

“Two days ago, a group of agents from Section XII stumbled across the Siren. Due to its nature, they mistook it for a wayward member of the terrorist organization they’ve been tracking. Luckily, one of their bullets managed to pierce the creature’s heart before anyone was harmed. Of course, once they had dispatched of it—”

“—its true form became visible.” Anderson nodded. “I’m sure the Simons were thrilled.” Maxwell made an exasperated sound in his throat.

“In any case,” he continued pointedly, “once they realized they were beyond their jurisdiction, they immediately turned full custody of the body over to Section XIII. An hour ago we received video evidence of the preliminary autopsy from Sister Górczyńska at the Archdiocese. There’s no denying it. It’s a Siren.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Anderson took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as he spoke. “Sirens need a warm climate to breed in. They rarely travel north, and certainly not across land. Not unless they were being driven by something.”

“We’re looking into it now. The Archdiocese has mentioned that a string of similar crimes have been breaking out in unprecedented numbers across the countryside. Too much to be the work of any one Siren. To make matters worse, in the same areas there have been countless reports of missing persons. All women.”

“Sirens don’t take hostages, and they can’t increase their ranks in that way. Do you think something’s traveling alongside them?”

“I think it’s worth keeping an eye on. These creatures may be compelled by something else, or they may be working on their own. There’s always the possibility that they’ve evolved past what we know.”

“Aye.” Anderson crumpled the sandwich paper in his hands. Looking around for a bin and finding none, he shoved the paper deep into his coat pocket. “What would you have me do? Join them in Białystok?”

“No. Stay where you are.” He felt his heart sink, a grim smile on his face as he consigned himself to more weeks of bleak autumn. “Judging by the information we’re gathering, these creatures—if they are indeed all Sirens—are headed north. I want you on standby in case we start to hear of attacks on Vatican controlled soil. I don’t want another Badrick on our hands.”

Friday, 29 September 2000

“And then I said, “That makes two of us!” which—in all fairness—I don’t think he particularly enjoyed hearing.” Seras lifted the clasps on the case that housed her Harkonnen canon, hissing under her breath when her nail caught the edge of the metal. “Damn,” she whispered, biting at the jagged edge with a grimace.

“Dunno why you’re surprised.” Captain Corey Barkley, her second-in-command, knelt beside her as he affixed the scope to his own firearm. Seras enjoyed his company, and ultimately preferred it to most of the soldiers in the Organization’s employ. He had been transferred from the Johannesburg auxiliary following the Valentine Incident, and the two of them had grown close while bringing the new recruits up to speed. Barkley was one of the rare few who didn’t seem to mind that Seras was a vampire, nor did he resent being in the command of someone at least ten years his junior.

“From the way you talk about him, the man’s one loose screw away from going completely mental.” Barkley scratched the day-old stubble on his jaw, lifting the rifle to his shoulder and adjusting the focus with a pensive hum. “You’re probably better off avoiding him.”

“You say that like it’s easy.” Seras rolled her eyes, lifting the cannon to her shoulder. “I just don’t see—” She paused as, with a deafening roar, the first volley burst through the target at the other end of the firing range. “—what the bloody problem is!” Barkley watched in silence as she reloaded her next round. Her hands worked on autopilot as she continued her tirade.

“He complains that I don’t drink enough blood, that refraining makes me less of a vampire or something. Fine: I drink the damn blood. But that’s not good enough either! Now he’s complaining that I don’t drink his blood specifically. And then, when I finally stand my ground and argue my point—a very logical point, mind you—he gives me this… this look and vanishes without another word!”

“Like I said: one loose screw away.” Barkley fired his own round, growling under his breath when the bullet missed the center of the target. “Maybe he needs a good wank.”

“Oh, grow up.” She glared at him over her shoulder. “That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah? And?” He adjusted his scope before trying again, only to curse aloud when the bullet neatly severed the line between the first and middle rings. “I bet he hasn’t had a good stroke in over a century. Go ask him, I bet he’d tell you.”

“You go ask, if you’re so curious.”

“What, and get a bullet in my head for the trouble? No thank you! Besides, I’m not the one he’s jealous over.”

“Alucard is not jealous.” Seras sat the butt of the canon on the ground, one hand on her hip.

“Isn’t he, though?”

“Definitely not.” She stretched her neck, looking up to where the clouds floated lazily overhead. It was almost too nice of a night to be stuck with target practice. She wanted nothing more than to take a long walk in the moonlight, counting the fluffy clouds as they sailed towards the distant horizon. “And anyway, he’s not trying to get me into a new relationship. He’s too busy ruining the ones I already have.”

“All the more reason for me to avoid him like the plague. Otherwise it’ll be my head on the chopping block next.” Barkley looked over at her, wagging his brows with an ostentatious flair. “Then who would you wile away the midnight hours with?” He let out a sigh when she didn’t respond. “You’re really taking this to heart, aren’t you?” Scratching the back of his head, he looked around the firing range as if searching for inspiration. “Listen, if he didn’t make me want to go n’ piss myself, I’d march right down to the basement and give him what-for. I mean, why invite you down there just to turn around and assault you?”

“That wasn’t an assault.”

“So putting his hands on you without your consent no longer qualifies?”

“That’s—! Okay, maybe it was assault.” Seras frowned. “I just wish I knew what his deal was. It’s like he’s never heard of communication.”

“Has anyone in this place heard of a healthy relationship dynamic?” he chuckled. “Besides you and me, of course.”

“Walter… maybe.”

“Maybe.” Barkley mirrored her stance, loosely gripping the rifle as he turned to face her. “Here, why don’t you tell me again what you said before he went all berserk? I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with something.”

“Well…” Seras closed her eyes, letting the memory of the night play out in the forefront of her mind. “He was asking about Walter, mostly. If I spent a lot of time with him, I think? And I do, to be quite honest. It’s just that he was injured after the whole Tower thing, and I felt bad for him, so I offered to do whatever I could to help. After that, things just sort of… transpired, I guess. Is it so wrong of me to enjoy spending time with an old man?” 

“Not necessarily, but do you remember how you said it? Ignore my saying so, ma’am, but you’re not exactly glib.” He averted his eyes as she leveled him with a death glare. “Even you have to admit that sometimes you say things in a way that’s rather… easy to misinterpret.”

“I said—” Her nose wrinkled as she screwed her face in thought, ruffling her fluffy bangs with her fingertips. “I said that I only spent one night a week with Walter, since I didn’t think he could handle more than that. And then he made this off-color joke about testing Walter’s stamina, and I said that I—”

“Tch… hahaha!” Her frown became more pronounced as Barkley burst into peals of helpless laughter. “You did not!”

“What!? I don’t see what’s so funny! It wasn’t even that good a joke,” she added sullenly. “You’re not taking his side now, are you?” Barkley saw the flash in her eyes and immediately sobered, jaw shutting with an audible snap of teeth. He swallowed heavily, looking away as his innate human senses went into high alert mode. Seras took a deep breath, willing herself to calm as her undead heart began to ache with the urge to race in anger.

“It’s just that, well: when you put it that way, it seems like you and Walter are, erm…”

“What is it?”

“No offense, but you act so damn innocent! No, you are innocent,” he amended. “Do you not even realize what it sounds like you’re implying?”

“No? Clearly not. Why don’t you spell it out for me?” she ground out between clenched teeth. “Since you’re so worldly and wise.”

“If you insist.” Barkley heaved a breath. “Frankly, when you say it like that, it sounds like you and Walter are fucking.”

“Fucking—what?”

“One another?” He shrugged. “He’s old, but he’s not that old. He can probably still get it up, and no one would bat their eyes at the idea of a friends with benefits—”

“Come off it!” Seras fumbled the canon, her cheeks stained a deep red. “That’s disgusting! Walter is like a grandfather to me!”

“Hey, hey! Don’t bite my head off! You’re the one who told me to set it straight for you! Besides, shouldn’t you be more worried about that weird master of yours? He’s the one that decided that’s what you meant.”

“Oh… fucking hell!” Seras wasn’t often one to swear, but it seemed to be happening more and more the longer she stayed in the manor. “That annoying, infuriating old… bat!” She turned on her heel, sprinting towards the manor with a speed that nearly blew Barkley sideways. He staggered, regaining his balance and still somehow managing to keep a tight hold on the loaded rifle in his hands.

“You really are something else, ma’am.” He watched her leave, a pained smile on his face as he shook his head. Turning back to the firing range, he blanched at the sight of the Harkonnen and its equally heavy ammunition lying where she had dropped it. Both would need to be back inside the armory before the dew fell. “Oh, fuck it all.”

 “Master Alucard!”

If Alucard had been the sort of man to startle easily, he would have jolted at the sound of his chamber door crashing against the stone wall in an echoing symphony of rotting wood and hammered metal. Somehow it miraculously held, wobbling precariously on rusted hinges before being blown back once more as Seras charged in with the righteous fury of a Valkyrie and the unparalleled bloodlust of—well, of a vampire.

“Wake up, you miserable, motheaten pile of—!” Any further insults to his person were left smothered in her throat, drowned by the grinding of her jaw and forgotten entirely when he caught sight of the hellfire blazing in her eyes. The presentation did not alarm him; it was not the first time a fuming blonde had roused him from dozing dreams of days long gone, and it was certainly not the last. Intrigued, he straightened up in his chair to face this would-be adversary head on.

“Is there something you need, Police Girl?” he inquired with all the blithe disregard he could muster, looking his little protégé up and down with a sneer. Seras was practically frothing at the mouth, hands fisted and ample bosom heaving with each unnecessary breath. She let out a new barrage of muttered curses at his smug dismissal, nostrils flaring as she advanced even closer to where he sat.

“Let’s get one thing straight right now,” she hissed, leaning in so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. “I. Am. Not. Fucking. Walter.”  

“Is that so?” How… interesting. Only a week or so prior, Seras had been nervous at the thought of entering his room, much less remaining there for any amount of time. At the time, she’d managed to hide her emotions well. But now it seemed that anger was more than enough of a catalyst to push aside her wariness, and belay any qualms she had about not only entering into his space uninvited, but facing him on her own terms.

A part of him did wonder if he ought to be more incensed that she’d given up the subservient attitude. On the whole, however, he found himself rather… pleased.

“Is there any particular reason for this little outburst?” he asked, further drawing out the amusing diversion. “Or should I brace myself for more mundane facts about your night?”    

“What—that—you know bloody well the reason why!” she screeched, throwing up her hands. “Ugh! Honestly, I don’t even know why you’d come to that sort of conclusion in the first place! Walter is probably five times my age, and that’s including the vampire bits! He’s certainly old enough to be my grandfather at best, and anything we have is strictly platonic! Furthermore:  and I don’t say this lightly, mind you—”

Alucard watched as she paced the length of his chamber, boots echoing off the stone tile and hands gesticulating wildly to punctuate her breathless tirade. Her cheeks were flushed, rosy with agitation, her brows wrinkled thin lips twisted in a grimace. It was a far cry from his master’s lectures, which were often rife with threats of punishment and calls to action in the face of backlash from her own superiors. Seras had a certain energy in her anger that directly mirrored her usual cheer. It lent a spark of honesty to her emotions that was… striking, though he felt that humans might have called it endearing.

“Earth to Alucard? Are you even listening?”

“Believe me, my dear: the sound of your voice could wake the dead.”

“That’s not an answer!” She was standing before him again, vexation melting into a wounded expression. Her brows furrowed so that a small wrinkle appeared above the bridge of her nose, chin ducking into the collar of her uniform as the corners of her mouth dropped in her distress. “Master Alucard, do… do you hate me?”

“What?” He was not quick enough to hide his surprise, eyes widening behind the round lenses. Nor was he able to completely mask his displeasure at such a question, lips pursed in a small frown that was somewhat different from his normal scowl.

“I meant what I said, you know. I don’t regret choosing any of this.” Seras waved her hand at the room, as though the shadowy corners and dusty furniture could somehow encapsulate her experience as a vampire. “It’s just that sometimes I think maybe you regret choosing me. And maybe… maybe that’s why you’re in such a hurry to be rid of me.”  The same hand fell to her side, fingers flexing nervously against her stockings.

“And how, pray tell, did you manage to arrive at such a ridiculous conclusion?”

“Ridiculous!?” Her mouth dropped open, shoulders sagging. “What’s so ridiculous about it? According to you, I’m a terrible vampire. I don’t make you proud; I don’t give you anything to boast about. I don’t even make decent company.” Her eyes darted to the chest nearby his chair, where it had remained following her impromptu escape.

“You’ve taught me so much already, and in such a short amount of time,” she admitted. “But you also seem to think that it’s improper to want any sort of companionship at all. Don’t you get lonely sometimes?” Seras tilted her head, gazing imploringly at him through her bangs. “I know I do.”

Why should I be lonely? The thought occurred to him before he had time to process her question. I have you. His frown deepened as he met her gaze, bitterness eating a hole in the place where his heart used to beat. How on earth had she managed to convince herself of such a bizarre, human notion? Seras was a fast learner, true, and in her time at the organization she had already learned a great deal. But there was so much more still to cover; they had barely scratched the surface of what it meant to be a vampire! Did the teacher naturally resent the pupil for their ignorance?

“Suffice to say, you’re once again wrong on all accounts.” He shifted in his chair, lacing his fingers and squeezing until he felt his knuckles start to buckle beneath the pressure. It served to regulate his temper, keeping his voice calm as he spoke. “The act of turning you into a vampire is one of the few choices I have no reason to regret.” A strange lump arose in the base of his throat at the admission, the familiar echo of some past emotion. It was not regret, not anger. Soft, poignant… fondness, perhaps? Affection? He brushed the thought away for another time.

“You are more than my student. You are an apprentice, a disciple that I have chosen to take under my wing. You may live in my master’s home and work beneath her watchful eye, but until you partake of my blood, you remain under my jurisdiction. As for your failings, many as they are… why should I resent you for them? They are steppingstones, a broken path that can only lead you to your true calling as a sovereign of the night.”

“Stumble though you will, you only fail me the moment you cease to try, Seras Victoria. Thankfully for us both, you are obstinate to a fault.”

“Master, I don’t know whether I should be insulted or not.” Her brow wrinkled again, this time in mirth. “I think that’s actually the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. It’s honest, at least.”

“A simple observation, nothing more. Make of it what you will.”

“Well… maybe I am obstinate. Because I’m not going to avoid Walter,” she declared with an expression that dared him to protest. “We listen to the radio together, he and I, and it’s the most entertainment I have around this dusty old manor. You can spare me that much.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s so. What’s more: the next time you get the bright idea that I’m fooling around with someone behind the scenes, just ask me.” She winked. “Unless you want to try changing my mind.” Something in his expression must have spooked her; she took a step back, laughing nervously.

“It’s just a joke! You don’t have to glare at me like that…. L-Look, I’ll just see myself out. Sorry about your door, by the way. I can fix it.” She awkwardly tried to bend the hammered metal frame back into place, blanching when it broke apart in her hand. “Erm… okay, I’ll get Walter to fix it,” she muttered, tossing the ancient chunk of splintered wood aside. “Either way, it’ll be fixed by morning, I promise!”

“Police Girl….”

“Right! Sorry! I’m going, bye!” He listened to her scurrying footfalls, mapping her course through the manor as she went in search of the man he’d told her to avoid. Insubordinate… churlish, defiant little thing, isn’t she? He tipped his head, eyeing the partially full bottle of wine at his side.