Richter finally turned. The vampire’s son was dressed in black and silver, his long platinum hair damp with the false rain. He held his father's sword, its blade etched with runes that wept light.
Alucard drew his sword, the runes flaring to life, casting his pale face in a ghastly glow. He looked less like a savior and more like a ghost who had forgotten he was dead.
Richter grinned—a sharp, desperate, stupidly brave grin. "No promises, vampire."
And the night screamed back.
"No," Alucard said quietly. "She fears what you represent. A lineage of spite. A family that would rather burn the world down than let the night win. That is a terrible, beautiful thing."
(A short story / character sketch)
Annette had felt it first—a pulse of absolute zero radiating from the south. The Vampire Messiah, Erzsebet Báthory, had not just seized the night; she was devouring the concept of dawn itself. She was raising a fortress of frozen blood and screaming souls, and with every peasant she drained, another star winked out of existence.
"You could have helped us in Machecoul," Richter said, the accusation flat, devoid of heat. He was too tired for anger.