Chapter 6- Detective Tom.

Charlie's gaze fixated on the stake, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Wait a second," He exclaimed, standing up. "There're vampires?"

Tom nonchalantly shrugged. "Yeah, of course there are."

"But—what—why didn't you tell me?" Charlie blurted out.

Tom shrugged once again. "Didn't see the point. Besides, the London vampires rarely act out."

Charlie felt as though his whole world was spinning, he hadn't felt this way since Tom had told him of the magical world. "London vampires?" He repeated, sinking back down into the sofa.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Tom rolled his eyes.

"How? How can I not?" Charlie blabbered. "You're telling me that this whole time, I've been surrounded by bloodsuckers."

"Because," Tom said, pulling out a gun and handing it to Charlie, "as scared of them as you might be, they are even more afraid of wizarding retribution."

"Many within the ministry and beyond rarely harbor kind thoughts when it comes to the bloodsuckers. There was even a heated argument about their classification as beings. The centaurs and merpeople opted out when they learned of the vampire inclusion."

Charlie examined the gun, recognizing it as a single-action military revolver, commonly referred to as the peacemaker. He deftly flicked open the chamber, revealing six carefully crafted cartridges.

"Silver bullets, pure as can be." Tom explained casually. "Made them myself. Use sparingly."

"Got it." Charlie said, placing it near himself, "So silver is a weakness, what else? Garlic?"

"This may surprise you, but yes," Tom admitted.

Charlie stared blankly. "Garlic," He whispered.

"Yep, the Bram Stoker guy must have been a vampire hunter in his time. Well..." Tom paused, pulling out a metal whip, "Perhaps a son of one at least. I seem to remember he was born after 1811."

"What happened then?"

"Minister of Magic Grogan Stump's classification of creatures was put into law," drawled Tom. "After that, most vampire hunting families, while not outright banned, were beginning to be discouraged from their practices."

Charlie's shocked expression prompted a smile from Tom. "A lot of the world's history has been concealed from your people. I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

Charlie squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah, well, make sure next time to tell me beforehand," He murmured.

"Will do."

"Now, where is he?" Tom asked.

"A few doors to the right, number 23," Charlie answered.

"Thanks, best you stay here and get some shut-eye." With that, Tom exited the room with the briefcase.

Their door bore the number 29; Tom moved silently in the darkness.

'One, two, four.' He counted until he stopped in front of the door he knew was 23.

With a tap of his wand, the lock clicked open; silently, he pushed the door open slightly. Snores filled the room as the man inside dreamt on heavily, oblivious to the intruder.

Tom walked to the man's side, pointed his wand, and a burst of red light struck the sleeping man. If possible, he seemed to look even more relaxed.

Tom pulled the man out of the bed, undressed him, leaving him in only his underwear, and piled the clothes on the bed. He then produced a large vial and a pair of scissors. The potion within the vial looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling sluggishly.

With the scissors, he clipped a few brown hairs from the man's head and poured them into the vial. The potion hissed loudly, resembling a boiling kettle, and frothed madly. After a moment, it turned into a minty green. Tom corked it and placed it on the nightstand beside the bed.

Next, he pulled out another vial and forced the man's head back, pouring three drops of the clear liquid inside. Brandishing his wand once more, he whispered, "Rennervate!"

The man's eyes shot open, his face slack, his gaze unfocused.

"Can you hear me?" Tom asked quietly.

The man's eyelids flickered.

"Yes," He muttered.

Seating himself down on the bed, he said, "I would like you to tell me about yourself, starting from birth."

The man took a deep, shuddering breath, then began to speak in a flat, expressionless voice. 

"I was born on the 27th of July, 1913..."

....

Hours passed, and daybreak came. Tom, now Fyodor Chelova, walked out of the room. He strolled down to the hotel's dining room and ordered a plate of Buckwheat Porridge. He was halfway through the plate when Charlie came down and ordered the same.

"May I sit here?" Charlie asked.

Tom swallowed. "Of course, good sir," he said, pointing to the chair on the other side.

Charlie smiled and sat down, extending an arm to Tom. "Name's Charlie."

Tom shook his hand. "Fyodor."

Taking a spoonful, Charlie asked, "Where're you from?"

"Hmm?" Tom raised a brow. "Ah, Moscow, my good man. And you?"

"London, thought I'd get away, visit someplace else," Charlie answered.

He then leaned in. "And besides, I heard rumors about this place."

Tom's lips quirked before he regained control. "Rumors, you say? What sort of rumors?"

"Well, mysterious deaths and so, nothing too crazy," Charlie remarked.

They finished their meals before shaking hands once more and parting ways. Charlie went back upstairs to his room, and Tom headed towards the receptionist, asking for the nearest gas station. He then headed out to Fyodor's parked car.

The car was old but quite functional—not what Tom would have preferred, but it was what Fyodor could afford under his wages as a detective. Tom checked the gas meter; it was running low. Fyodor's trip from St. Petersburg had been quite costly, but luckily, the people who wanted him brought here were willing to cover the costs.

He drove to the gas station and refueled the tank. Fyodor was known by his closer friends for being quite particular about things like that—never a hair out of place, a ticket not paid, or his tank low for too long. Although he wasn't near any of Fyodor's friends, Tom thought it would be best to act as he would.

And so, brown-haired and all, Tom arrived in front of the sponsor's home. A man of rich background and connections, he had hired Fyodor to help find out what happened to his missing daughter.

The doorbell rang, and Tom waited. The sound of feet made him step back as the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with frown lines on her face, dressed in a maid outfit.

"Hello, sir. What can I do for you?" she asked, looking him up and down.

Tom was wearing one of Fyodor's outfits—a brown tweed jacket with grey pants and a white shirt underneath. Altogether, he didn't look like someone who would find much place here.

"I am Fyodor Chelova. The Detective," He added at the woman's confused look. He continued, "Your employer called for me personally."

"Oh." She gasped. "Right this way."

Tom stepped through the doorway. The lavish interior greeted him coldly, with a double staircase leading upstairs in front of him. To his left and right were two closed doors leading to wherever.

"I'm sorry if I seemed rude," The maid said while leading him to the right. "It's just Mr. Kuznetsov has been under a lot of pressure these past months. From the added taxes to the deat— I mean, kidnapping of his daughter, I'm afraid he has very little time for company."

She opened the door and asked him to sit. "Mr. Kuznetsov will be with you in a minute."

Tom sat waiting, his eyes roaming the room, in search of... something?

He sighed, 'This better work.'

The doors opened again, and the maid and a man walked in this time. "Fyodor Chelova?" the man asked, holding his hand out.

Tom took it. "Yes, I assume you're Mr. Kuznetsov?"

"Please call me Ivan."

"Ivan." Tom nodded. "Can you tell me what happened, from the beginning?"

Ivan went through the story with practiced efficiency. From the death of his wife to the beginnings of his and his daughter's strained relationship, to her continuous defiance of his commands and her insistence on leaving the manor grounds, he continued to tell all the way up to her sudden disappearance.

"The police were no help, but I'd heard of you from an old acquaintance, so I decided why not," Ivan finished.

Tom had been nodding along this whole time, occasionally stopping Ivan's story for some clarification.

"Before we start this, Mr. Kuznetsov, I'll need to see her room," Tom said.

Mr. Kuznetsov sighed, "Yes, yes of course, I assumed so."

He turned to the maid. "Please take him upstairs and make sure whatever he needs is done, I'll be taking my leave."

The maid bowed, and Tom followed her upstairs.

"Here," She said, but before Tom could enter, she held his arm. "I truly hope you find her, but I know enough not to get my hopes up."

Tom stared at her. "I'll do my best, madam....?"

"Marina," She answered. "My name is Marina."

Tom nodded. "Thank you for your sincerity, Marina. It's important to approach these situations with a realistic mindset, but rest assured, I will explore every possible avenue to bring clarity to this mystery. Now, if you could show me the young miss's room, I'll begin my investigation."

Marina led Tom into the room, which was delicately furnished with pastel colors and adorned with various personal items. Tom observed the surroundings with a discerning eye, taking note of any details that might offer insights into the disappearance.

"Has anything been moved or changed since she went missing?" Tom inquired.

Marina shook her head. "No, we've left everything as it was. The police thoroughly searched the room, but they found nothing unusual."

Tom began examining the room meticulously, his gaze lingering on specific objects. As he moved about, he cast a few discreet spells to detect magical traces that might have been overlooked. He also checked for any signs of unauthorized entry or hidden compartments. Nothing.

"Did she have any unusual habits or interests?" Tom asked Marina as he continued his inspection.

Marina thought for a moment. "Well, she was always fond of reading. Loved spending hours in here with her books. Other than that, she had a fascination with the old family portraits, but I doubt that's relevant to her disappearance."

Tom, still focused on his examination, replied, "Every detail could be relevant, Marina. Let's not dismiss anything just yet."

Rifling through the books for anything out of the ordinary, "What about her life outside, did she ever talk about it?"

"No, Katya rarely spoke much about it, even when pressed about it."

Tom sighed, 'I really got my work cut out for me, don't I. No, no, don't think like that, find her and you find the vampire.'

"Was there any other place she liked to stay?"

"No..... Well, actually yes." Marina corrected, "The attic."

"What exactly was she doing there?" Tom inquired hands in pocket, like Fyodor would.

"Painting." Marina smiled wistfully, "She liked to paint."

"Is it possible for me to see these paintings?" questioned Tom .

She nodded, "Of course, search all you want."

She led Tom towards the attic. Tom's eyes wandered the room with curiosity, paintings of all colors and sizes filled the room, beautiful ones at that.

"She had quite the talent." admired Tom.

"Yes, she always talked about being a painter when she grew up." 

Tom scanned the room, his eyes landing on a painting on the far side—a woman with dark hair and dark eyes against a crimson background, her face was blurred though, like an old photograph that had been soaked in water.

"Her mother." Marina supplied, "She called it 'Remembrance'.

Tom stared at the painting, committing it to memory. Secretly he brandished his wand, then a ping or at least the magical equivalent of a ping.

"Marina." Tom called. "Was there a painting here?"

Marina looked to left where Tom was pointing, "Yes, I remember, Mr. Kuznetsov asked us to move it to his study, to remind himself of her."

"Was this after the police arrived?"

"No, before, he said he liked the painting and he didn't want it disturbed." She answered, "Is there a problem?"

Tom's expression remained calm, but his mind was piecing together the puzzle. The magical ping suggested that the painting might have some connection to the disappearance. Tom decided to investigate the study and the moved painting.

"Marina, could you show me Mr. Kuznetsov's study, please?" Tom requested.

She looked on apprehensively, "I don't think that would be advisable. Mr. Mr. Kuznetsov has many important documents hidden there and besides I don't have the key to the room."

Tom simply nodded. 

He spent some more time, detailing his search, every hour or so he'd drink from the vials in his pockets, before bidding farewell to Marina.

The car left the grounds and sped off into the distance, halfway through the drive Tom noticed in the rearview mirror, his features beginning to blur and regain their old looks.

He corked open another vial and downed the contents, his face began to shape back into the haggard looks of Fyodor. Parking in front of the hotel, he proceeded to his room.

Night came before Tom came out of the room, but this time, wearing his old face. He rapped twice on Charlie's door, and it swung open to welcome him inside.

"So, how was it?" Charlie asked.

Tom snorted, "Not as useful as I hoped to be honest."

"You read the man's mind?"

Tom shook his head. "Didn't see the point. I thought you hated it when I did that?"

"Well yeah of course, but you have to admit, it's pretty useful."

"Yeah it is." admitted Tom, "I'll probably have to anyways."

Tom proceeded to tell him about the paintings, and the one that had been moved.

"You're not saying he had something to do with it?" Charlie queried.

"Why not?" Tom shrugged.

"Er, maybe because she's his daughter, and who gets a private detective to solve a murder he committed?"

"Someone, who wanted no suspicions perhaps?" Tom clapped, "I'm breaking into his study, I want to see the painting myself."

Charlie rolled his eyes, "As if you needed a reason."

.....

The night, a familiar adversary of humanity, held mysterious threats that eluded the comprehension of most ordinary folks. Years of being pursued by unseen predators in the darkness had instilled in them an intuitive awareness, yet they grappled with the true understanding of this awareness. The teachings and ancestral lessons passed down through generations were gradually being transformed into mere folklore, dismissed by the foolish intellectuals as mere tales concocted to frighten children of a bygone era.

'But these stories were anything but tales,' Quinn thought, as he eagerly consumed the final drops of blood from the man, a sensation that left him somewhat disappointed.

The man was undeniably intoxicated, but Quinn had not yet experienced the anticipated buzz of warmth that typically accompanied the consumption of inebriated blood. He sighed, a familiar gesture from his days as a mere mortal, and tossed the lifeless form into the river. "Perhaps one more will do the trick," He mused.

It had just been recently; a decade ago when he'd been turned. All his life he'd been waiting for the moment, travelling from city to city to avoid suspicions. During this time, he had served his master diligently, trying not to explode with anticipation.

After years of servitude, the long-awaited curse was finally bestowed upon him. He had been exceptionally young when his master discovered him, unveiling a world beyond imagination and extending an invitation to join it. As his master neared the end of his vampire existence, he sought out the nearest living relative to pass on the vampire curse.

'Fortunately for me,' Quinn smirked, 'all other contenders had long since perished in the war.'

His vampire mentor practically raised him, imparting knowledge about vampires and their culture along the way. It wasn't until Quinn reached his early thirties that the old vampire relented and finally turned him. Another decade was spent grappling with the challenges of controlling his bloodlust. Now, Quinn took pride in considering himself a true vampire. In a few more decades, the renowned vampire strength would be bestowed upon him. However, as a fledgling, he had to contend with human-level strength for the time being.

Yet, impatience had taken root in him. Among the many lessons his master had conveyed, the significance of blood to a vampire stood out. Various types of blood yielded different results. Animal blood served for quick sustenance, though feline blood was deemed poisonous for any vampire daring enough to consume it. Human blood was deemed the finest, and certain types, like virgin blood, enabled vampires to go weeks without requiring another drop. Alcoholic blood, on the other hand, permitted fledglings to tap into their innate vampire strength.

That was why Quinn was out here, stalking the streets of the city, he stuck to the shadows as his master had taught him, quietly moving along in search of another prey. The city of Rostov presented ample opportunities for him. Just a few years prior, this city had endured bombardment and invasion; the process of rebuilding was underway, but it was a gradual one.

Vampires liked places like this, the air stank of dirt, sweat and depression, lives could be lost without there being much of an uproar. Quinn walked a bit more till he stumbled across another man. 

Fallen in a ditch and still gulping on the last drops of beer, the man muttered a song under his breath.

"Arise, vast country,

Arise for a fight to the death

Against the dark fascist force,

Against the cursed horde."

He took another swig and began again.

"We shall repulse the oppressors

Of all ardent ideas-"

"Let noble wrath

Boil over like a wave!

This is the people's war,

a Sacred war!"

Quinn missed whatever followed as the man succumbed to unconsciousness, and the bottle slipped from his grasp. Approaching the man, Quinn looped the man's arm around his shoulders and carried him to one of the abandoned buildings near the river.

The man briefly opened his eyes, only to be met with the visage of a pale figure with dagger-like teeth. His shout was stifled before it began as Quinn sank his teeth into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe.

Quinn savored the taste of the man's blood, his initial disappointment replaced by the rush of warmth that surged through his veins. 

As Quinn drained the man's life force, he felt the surge of energy coursing through him. The taste of alcoholic blood had triggered the latent vampire strength within him. It was a moment of empowerment, a glimpse of the formidable creature he would become in the decades to come.

Satisfied, Quinn released the lifeless body, letting it collapse on the cold floor of the abandoned building. His eyes glowed with a crimson hue, a manifestation of the power now flowing through his vampiric veins.

His mind soared in euphoric delight as he felt the warm buzz of alcohol run through him, with an effortless motion, he lifted the corpse once again and tossed it into the running water.

The lifeless form of the man floated down the river, carried away by the current, disappearing into the darkness. Quinn stood by the water's edge, his senses heightened by the recent feast. 

The night held a surreal beauty for Quinn as he gazed at the reflection of the moon in the flowing river. His mind, once tethered to human concerns, now soared in a freedom only a vampire would possess.

Like a human shaped spider, his claws dug into the walls and he began to climb. With a newfound sense of power, he flung himself of the roof of the building onto the other, he landed on the other side unharmed, the strength of ten men flowing through him.

His laughter echoed, a wild and predatory sound that melded the tones of a man's amusement with the hiss of a snake.