"Ranelle, we found it! It's here!" a voice echoed from the catacombs below.

From the stairwell to the dusty tombs of the secret passages beneath the ancient ruins of the library at Alexandria, a dark-haired man attired in black and charcoal grey clothing came up the ladder, a bag under his arm. His vision adjusted to the early morning starlight as he emerged from the catacombs. Dust and spatters of mud clung to his clothing. He was out of breath from climbing up the numerous ladders from the ancient pits below, and his lungs rushed to take in the fresh, cool desert air. He took off the satchel, handing it off to the woman who sat in a wooden chair, looking through a series of pictures.

She glanced up, pushing a lock of her auburn-brunette hair out of her deep blue eyes, the same color as stained glass and striking against her porcelain skin. "Let's have a look at it." She pulled on a pair of gloves, opened the bag and pulled out the frail scrolls, yellowed and tarnished with age. How old the page was exactly, no one was sure. But she knew being a couple hundred years in age didn't hold a candle to the delicate paper in her hands.

"'In the beginning,'" she began to read silently, her voice tainted with a British accent. She halted after continuing to read a few lines, looking up at the man. "This is it. Wonderful, Nathaniel. Thank you."

"Why is Hadrian asking for such antiques now? The prophecy has yet to come to pass, nor do we know its validity," Nathaniel Bartholomeu replied, looking down at the thick calligraphy. "I don't like knowing he's scheming without Thorne or Seren here to level his head."

"I know. He believes this piece of parchment will change the war, and the enemy mustn't find it first. I'll relay to Seren what we've uncovered before we return to England, I promise. Finish up down there so we may go back to the coven before the sun finds us," she answered, managing a smile.

"Done. Tonight, drinks are on me."

A cheer from the diggers and crew below reached the top of the shaft, causing both of them laugh.

The streets of London, once his home, had changed over the many centuries, and yet they were somehow exactly the same. What once had been a neighborhood market of cobblestones and gaslights had changed to pavement, punk rock bars, and gaudy neon lights that illuminated the streets. His instincts pressed at him, making his stomach feel heavy and tight with tension like a nagging pang. He wasn't supposed to be here.

He had never planned on being back on these familiar streets. His sire had commanded he leave before going back to the East centuries before. But he had broken that order once before; and this time, there was no choice. He wondered if the old allies and enemies he sought still occupied the dark places of the city.

Logan Mezdor was the last of his fledgling bloodline and the first to have been created. He was known throughout the world to both his sire's friends and rivals as a man not to be trifled with. Even the newest generations of his immortal species had heard the stories of what he had done to his sire's enemies, of what he had done to defy the Grand Elder...

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, his fingers touching the hilt of his favorite knife hidden there. He didn't ever go without it being close to him. He was tall for the era he was born into, a few inches over six feet in height. His light blonde hair was spiked in the front in an attempt to blend in with the new locals of his old city. His emerald green eyes flashed as he looked both ways across the street and headed into the adjunct alley. He found the fire escape and began to climb up to the roof. If he wanted to hunt down old acquaintances, he needed a better vantage point.

Are you still here?, he wondered silently.

Across the street, a single female form waited on the corner with her back to the road. She was shadowed over by the building in front of her, the neon blue of an alcohol sign in the window coloring her silhouette. She sighed softly to herself. Another night, another year, another century of the same. When the wind shifted, a few locks of her reddish-brown hair caught across her face and she pushed them free of her mouth and eyes. The gentle breeze brought a familiar scent to her nose and she turned around to face the rest of the avenue, her deep blue eyes searching for its source. Her lips pursed, wondering if old ghosts still haunted her.

The vampire sighed, her nose wrinkling when she didn't see whom she had expected to. "You're just being silly," she told herself, having a moment of déjà vu. Blowing a heavy exhale out of her mouth, she leaned against the lamp post, watching a group leave one of the bars further up the street.

She had dressed like a modern Eighties woman in her red leather jacket that was the latest fashion trend with its studded shoulders and paired with black cigarette-style jeans. Already, it wasn't her favorite decade of fashion, but keeping up with the times was part of her existence. She glanced down at the heels on her feet, making her petite height of only being over five-foot-four a little taller. No amount of time spent on them would cause her pain, unlike the drunken girls in their platform pumps. They seemed to roam the district with skinheads and cross-dressers, safety pins through their ears, while strolling and laughing down London streets as last call was shouted in the multiple bars and pubs in the neighborhood.

Logan walked the perimeter of the rooftop, glancing down into the streets as he went. A loud cackle of laughing drew his attention, and he stepped up to the edge and looked over. His gaze went immediately to the group leaving a building across the road. Then he picked up on the slight movement to their left on the opposite sidewalk. When she shifted again, he could make out her auburn hair and petite body.

So you do still walk these streets, he thought, his eyebrow rising slightly.

He watched her fidget for a moment and then settle. She was at an assigned post, keeping watch. Logan pulled the Mythril knife free from his pocket, glancing down at it. It had a wired leather hilt and a silver crosspiece studded with rubies and a single black diamond. Its blade was slightly curved, giving it a graceful look. He spun it around in his hand for a moment, contemplating. He could either continue his mission by himself, or he could ask for her help. If she was still in London, it meant the same coven ran the shadowed underground of the city.

The vampires here owed him no favors any longer, but perhaps some of the same members were willing to extend him some aid...

If he was lucky.

Ranelle Faire-Linhall inhaled slowly again, crossing her arms over her middle for a moment. While the cold only slightly affected her, she was getting tired. Running errands for her sire, patrolling the streets, and monitoring the fledgling additions to the coven had kept her going from sunset to sunrise for weeks. And she knew her maker wouldn't summon her home until the last minute. She wondered if he did that on purpose, to see how fast she would be willing to move in order to save herself from the sun. She was certain he did. It didn't matter that she had been his progeny for over three hundred years.

Logan glanced around, surveying the area for any others that could be her comrades. But she was alone, not another soul in sight. He looked down at his dagger again. The old command still applied: no contact, no talking, no being seen in the same vicinity.

It's different this time, he assured himself.

He pulled a blank business card from his back pocket and placed it between his teeth. He took the tip of the dagger and pressed it into the end of his thumb until a droplet of blood rose to the surface. He pulled the card free and smeared his initials in bloody cursive and then shoved the corners beneath the wires around the handle of the knife. His cut healed over as quickly as it had been made. He stepped back over to the edge of the rooftop, holding the end of the dagger's blade between his fingers carefully. With a quick flick of his elbow, he threw it.

The knife spun rapidly through the air until it lodged itself within the brick mortar right in front of the woman at her post.

Her eyes focused on the blade the second it hit the wall. A soft groan caught in her throat and she snatched it from the mortar with ease. She glanced at the paper tucked within its hilt and read the scarlet letters.

"Did you miss me, Ranelle?" Logan asked, his voice carrying over the empty space, as if he were merely standing beside her rather than hollering.

"It would depend upon whom you are, sir," Ranelle responded as she began to look around for the source. "Stop hiding your untouched face. Perhaps I'll give you your first scar, fledge," she added, saying the word as the deepest insult. "Then I could answer your question."

She'd had the feeling of being watched, and her instincts had been right. Ghosts still haunted these streets.

Logan chuckled as he darted from the rooftop to the street, as if appearing from nowhere, with his vampire speed. "I thought you would've recognized my knife and calling card," he said calmly.

The auburn-brunette turned to stare at him, surprised. "The Blood Warrior," she stated flatly rather than offer a greeting. "I had expected a watered-down bloodline fledge. They're the only ones foolish enough to cross into our territory."

"I would never send a progeny to do a man's job," Logan replied, smiling. She hadn't lost her wit.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not. Where in all these past decades have you been hiding? I had begun to think you've been dead for quite some time."

He smirked again, humored. "The Blood Warrior isn't killed easily," he answered. "I'm still here."

Her nose wrinkled at the mockery in his tone. "Then I guess it was only wishful thinking." She turned her back on him, stepping down into the street as she made for the opposite side. Even after decades and decades of distance, she couldn't stomach being so close to him.

"Where are you going?" Logan called.

"Away," she replied in monotone, unwilling to face him again. "You know the rules."

"I see you're still taking orders from Shadows."

His words were like a punch to the gut and she paused, stopping in her tracks. She whipped around to look at him again, spinning the knife in her hand for easier wielding. It wouldn't kill him, but she could at least make it hurt. "Why have you decided to come back again, Blood Warrior? I thought you were supposed to stay away from London," she shot back.

"'Why?'" he ridiculed. He shifted his weight and moved forward towards her, noticing how she took two steps back to keep her distance. "I'll keep my reasons to myself."

"Always so secretive. You haven't changed," Ranelle replied, her voice bitter. "You may be all that remains of your bloodline, but Dracula-blood isn't welcomed here." She scanned his nonchalant demeanor, making her bristle further when his smile turned smug. Her grip tightened on the hilt of the knife. "But I'm guessing I should still be choosing my words more carefully, yes?" she added sarcastically. "The Blood Warrior always had to prove his point before."

Logan's eyebrows rose slightly at her tone with him, but he chose to disregard her final statement. "I'm not under orders any longer. And business is business." He paused and took in her body language. She looked no different from his memories, but he could sense there was a change below the surface of her blue eyes. "I was considering going off for a bite. Would you care to join me?"

"Absolutely not," she answered. "I want nothing to do with whatever brings you back into Shadow Stalker territory."

"Perhaps I'll see you later then," Logan said, reaching forward to pull his blade from her hand in one smooth motion. He watched her fingers tremble before lowering back to her side. "He's still here, isn't he?" he asked, his voice quieter.

Her jaw clenched and she nodded slowly.

"One day, you will have to walk away. He can't control you for eternity."

She nodded again. "Don't go looking for trouble, no matter how long you're here, Logan," she answered. With that, she took in his appearance, committing it to memory. Then she pressed past him, careful not to get close enough to touch him. She glanced over her shoulder at him one more time and then hurried on her way.

He's wearing a wedding ring, her brain whispered, and she clenched her jaw. Things had changed over the past century.

She cut across the street and moved down the narrow, cracked sidewalk in even, measured steps. She refused to let him rattle her cage. Ranelle sidestepped a group exiting a bar and dodged into the alleyway, anger returning to the forefront of her mind. She inhaled slowly through her mouth and then sighed.

"That couldn't have been easy," a voice commented from further up the narrow walkway, and she looked up to see the outline of a male figure move out from beneath the fire escape.

"Don't sneak up on me, Vincent," she scolded, shaking her head.

"Him being here means Nathaniel's reports were right," the Italian native said calmly, ignoring her reprimanding. "You know he would've sought you out in a matter of time once setting foot back in the city."

"I know," she said through clenched teeth. "Doesn't mean that I like it."

He nodded, deciding not to needle her any further. "Come along then, we need to get back before it gets much later."

From the street, Logan waited until he couldn't hear the clicks of her heels any longer before following. If her sire was still in charge, then there would be a network of vampires keeping eyes on the comings and goings of London's supernatural citizens. And that included extensive resources to help him in his mission. He just needed a way in. He followed at a safe distance, watching from the corner as she exchanged words with another man. He watched her nod at something he said and then the two took off down the alley in silence.

He tracked the pair for a number of blocks before they had turned to enter the old warehouse section of the city near the shipping yards. When he moved around the corner, he ducked a coming right hook.

"Stop following me, Blood Warrior," Ranelle snapped, stepping back to get a safe distance away from any possible retaliation. "You're going to get yourself killed, and me right along with you if he finds out you're here."

The platinum-blonde man clenched his fists at his side, growing frustrated. "You would really take a shot at me?"

"I've had a long time to be angry with you. I thought if maybe I finally hit you across that smug face, I wouldn't be mad anymore. You're not welcomed here, and you are going to cause more problems than I'm willing to clean up," she answered him.

Logan looked from her to her companion, taking in the man's broad shoulders and thick legs and torso. The dark-haired Italian was familiar to his centuries-old memories. He was a brawler in centuries before and probably had weapons on him. And until he knew if the Italian was a threat, it would be wise not to provoke Ranelle.

"Why are you in the city, Blood Warrior?" Vincent asked calmly, his voice thick with his foreign accent. "Hadrian the Great does not like outsiders prowling about his streets without proper invitations."

Ranelle's jaw tightened as she watched Logan evaluate her coven mate again.

"I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm looking for someone," he said slowly, his eyes darting past the pair to check their surroundings for any others who might eavesdrop.

In truth, he was searching for his family. His son, Avalon, had been kidnapped from the cradle. His wife had disappeared a year later. It had been just over three years since his son had vanished and he had searched the world over for both of them. Avalon would now be three years old and still vulnerable. The Mezdor and Dracula names had plenty of enemies.

Vincent raised his eyebrows, his naturally curious mind kicking in. "And what is that, my friend? I'm afraid our master doesn't like secrets kept from him," he pointed out, keeping his hands in his pockets. He didn't anticipate any further fighting. "A little show of some good faith will go a long way with the Shadows, especially with this one," he added, gesturing to Ranelle with his elbow.

Logan looked at him with a wary smile. "We are concealed," he said, taking one last look around. "I'm searching for my son, Avalon. He was taken from me the night after his birth three years ago."

"We don't have many young vampire boys running about this city. It's not safe," Vincent commented.

Logan nodded, agreeing. "My wife, Loraine, disappeared a year later. Our son's abduction broke her heart. She left without a word or note. I think she left in hopes to find him when my efforts yielded nothing. Last I had heard, she was seen in the English territory."

Ranelle tightened her jaw again. "Are you positive of her presence here?" she asked in a monotone voice.

"Yes," Logan replied. "She was last seen in South London when I checked with my few local contacts."

The woman inhaled slowly, preparing herself for what she was about to ask. They shouldn't get involved in Dracula business. "Do you have identification?"

Logan's hand slid into his pocket and took out his wallet. He took out the fake, human ID from behind his own, handing it to her. "Loraine Mezdor," he said quietly.

She examined the picture, frowning. "Vincent, didn't your fledge spot a new face a couple weeks ago?" she asked, handing it over to him.

"Yes, a blonde... Ah, sure enough," his Italian accent chimed in reply. "Down on the South side, heading uptown and moving in a hurry. She was alone. I couldn't tell you where she was headed, though."

"Take me to Hadrian. I must speak with him," Logan said, his eyebrow twitching slightly.

"You know I can't allow that," Ranelle replied, pursing her lips.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone crisp and cold, as he took the identification card back from Vincent. He put it back into his wallet with care then shoved the billfold into his pocket.

"You know why. The feud is still alive for him and Hadrian is Coven Commander here," Ranelle said uneasily. "I cannot take you there. Don't ask this of us," the brunette said, her tone harder. Surely he didn't think he could waltz right into the Shadow Stalker coven and not cause a scene.

Logan growled irritably. "Can you deliver a message, at least?" he asked. "Tell him that I wish to speak with him."

"Fine," she retorted, bitter that he was asking anything of her. Surely he knew what would happen. Hadrian loathed Dracula-blood in his city.