Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Stray Dog ❯ Confusion ( Chapter 8 )

Disclaimer: Hellsing and all of its characters belong to Kouta Hirano, not to me. I am not making any money off of this piece of fanfiction.

Author's notes: This chapter moves a bit fast, I think.

 

Chapter 8: Confusion

Seras kept her distance for the next week and a half, watching Anderson from afar, being careful not to make any contact. She stayed in the shadows and left all the fighting to the Mad Paladin, all the while dreading the moment that he might decide to call her out. Not only was she incredibly embarrassed at her own behaviour that night, she was also feeling a bit stung by his. Sodding son-of-a-bitch hadn't needed to be so mean about the whole thing! A simple, “You know, this isn't a great idea” or maybe, in Scottish-bastard, “Ye knoo, this isna a greet ideeeea”, she thought nastily, would have sufficed, but he'd acted as though she'd been the one to jump him! He'd been the one to kiss her, not the other way around, thank you!

Despite Seras' best efforts, Anderson knew the little midian was trailing him. Of course he did. How could he not, when his flesh was still smouldering from her touch, his ears still ringing from her moans? The precious few hours of sleep he managed to catch each dawn were consumed with images of her, leaving him tense and frustrated, more and more with each new day. He dreamt alternately of fucking her and killing her, sometimes of fucking her then killing her. Once, he'd dreamt of fucking her to death, but that had been strangely less satisfying than he'd thought it might be.

His waking hours were more manageable, so long as he managed to keep himself distracted. Two days ago, he'd bitten his tongue and had nearly come at the taste of it; a reminder of her blood-soaked lips. He'd been talking to an elderly nun at the time, and had been forced to make quick excuses so that he could hightail it to the washroom and take care of his shame. The Lord taught that self-abuse was a sin, but Father Alexander Anderson was willing to bet that the Lord had never gotten a hard-on in the presence of an eighty-two year old nun!

It was ridiculous, Anderson thought, as he turned into a dark alley, following the sound of screams. He was not some hormone-riddled sixteen year old! He was a grown man, much older than the thirty-five he appeared to be, and a priest with a vow of celibacy under his belt!

“Where are ye, ghoulies?” He snarled into the darkness. He had been patrolling the streets, as was his usual habit, for several hours, and had yet to come upon any supernatural evil. The promise of dispatching some undead souls was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment, and he had a precarious grip on that thread to begin with.

Ahh, finally, the source of the screams…Damn. Just some regular thugs. Gang shit. He toyed with the idea of killing them anyway, but turned away instead, frustration boiling in his core. Growling, he sent a volley of blades hurtling into the shadows, where he knew the source of his irritation sat, watching. Wait for it…wait for it…nothing. Damn her teeth, she'd managed to dodge them. Undead bitch was getting to know him too well.

…Much too well, he thought, batting away another mental image of the last time he'd actually seen her.

Fuck it all. It was time to call it a night.

***

Sunday morning came, and Anderson rolled out of bed, feeling sour and cranky. He was very glad that today was “Cathedral Day,” as the children called it. Normally, Father Anderson led the Sunday service himself, in the orphanage's own small chapel. The first Sunday of every month, however, the children all dressed extra carefully in their best, and were taken to Father Anthony's service in the big cathedral where he preached. This gave Anderson the opportunity to attend confession, as he could not very well absolve himself of sins… and boy, did he ever need it this month.

***

Father Anthony wrung his hands, nervously pacing the ornately decorated hallway. Father Anderson's confessions were oftentimes disturbing, due to the special nature of his position within the church, but never before had Father Anthony feared for the other priest like he did today. Cavorting with a busty, blonde, undead Protestant! It was too much.

The portly old priest blushed at the recalled detail, the husky taint to the other man's voice as he recounted his sins. The malice and lust were tangible in the air, stifling him in the closed off confessional. Father Anthony knew, as did every other Priest, that even those who pledged to serve God sometimes felt the desires of the flesh, but usually a nice, discreet prostitute solved that problem right away…or a willing nun, feeling as though the Lord had not lately been an adequately physical husband…but a Hellsing vampire? Anderson had always been a little…extreme, but even for him, this was shocking. Especially for him, actually, as he'd always seemed so content in his celibacy. To hear the Scot talk so intensely of fleshly desires had been a shock that had Father Anthony sweating, and not sure whether he needed a discreet liaison himself.

“Father Anthony?”

“Oh, Father Renaldo,” Anthony stopped his pacing, looking to the other priest with pleading eyes.

“Father Maxwell is ready to see you now.”

***

Seras read the missive in her hands one more time, and hung her head. Back to Britain, it said, so back to Britain she would go. Tonight would be her last chance to speak to Anderson, to try and convince him to come over to Hellsing's side. Fat chance, after what had happened last time they met.

Biting her lip, she began her return correspondence. Better to let them know now that chances of converting the priest were slim. `The priest and I have had' Oh lord, how to word this? `The priest and I have had a rather damaging argument that I feel may influence negatively his decision on whether or not to join the Hellsing Organization' she wrote, blushing madly. Well, she wasn't about to write to Integra that she'd compromised the mission by nearly compromising the Judas Priest's vows!

***

Anderson paced his room like a tiger in a cage, one hand fiddling with his rosary. Onehundred-fifty Hail Marys. That was it. That was all he was told to do, in order to atone for the multitude of sinful thoughts he'd been having after nearly breaking his vow of celibacy with an evil, undead, protestant, heathen whore, whom he was not married to.

Quite honestly, he was expecting a bit more.

Father Anthony was a man he respected, a man whose piety and conviction were to be admired, but Anderson couldn't help but to fault the other man for his lack of righteous judgement. For a normal man, the punishment was, perhaps, appropriate, if bordering on the softer side of things, but Anderson was no normal man! When a priest stepped afoul of His teachings, it was no time for leniency! If anything, that was a time for harsh reminders! What was the Church coming to when, here in Rome, at the very feet of the Pope himself, things were going lax?

A crash from outside scattered his thoughts, and he poked his head out the window to see that one of his young charges appeared to have fallen out of a tree, and was now clutching his arm, crying. His own problems forgotten, he hurried outside and across the yard to where a large group of children had gathered, some to lend their aid, and others to taunt the poor boy and his tears. The latter children scattered to see the tall priest coming toward them, not wanting to be lectured.

“Now, now, Ian,” Anderson cooed, crouching down next to the injured boy. “Have ye hurt yer arm? Ye'd best let me have a look.” He took the injured appendage in gentle hands, fingers softly prodding as the boy sniffled and hiccupped, tying to wipe away the evidence of his tears with his good hand. “I think it's maybe broken,” the priest said, after his touch drew a sharp gasp of pain from the child. “On yer feet then, can ye stand? Aye, that's a good lad. I'd best be getting ye tae the hospital.” He called for one of the nuns to come and watch the children, told her to let the others know what had happened, and drove off with little Ian, the old orphanage van disappearing just as a shiny black town car pulled up.

*

An hour later saw Anderson return with a newly cast-clad little boy. He frowned at the black Benz as he helped Ian from the van. “Off ye go now, show the others yer cast.” Anderson patted the boy's shoulder, “And don't be forgetting tae tell them how pretty the nurse who signed it was.” He winked, causing the little boy to blush with pleasure at the memory of the pretty lady who'd signed his cast and kissed his cheek farewell.

Turning away as the boy rounded a corner in search of the other children, Anderson was met with the sight of Sister Mary Robert, leading someone else out toward him. “Here he is, Father, and just as you were about to leave.” She smiled, pleasantly. “What luck.”

“Thank you, sister,” Enrico Maxwell smiled in return, looking like the cat who'd caught the canary, before extending a hand in greeting to Anderson. If they'd been alone, the Scottish priest might have ignored it, but good manners and his own sense of curiosity made him return the handshake and invite the other man back inside.

*

“I spoke to the council,” Enrico said, as soon as they were alone in Anderson's office, seated on either side of a paper laden old desk. “And we would like you to resume your duties under Iscariot.” He smiled, stirring the weak tea so graciously provided by Sister Mary Robert.

“Why?” Anderson asked simply. He'd known what was going to happen from the moment he saw the other man, and yet the sense of elation and vindication he'd expected was strangely absent.

“Why?” Enrico laughed, charmingly, “Because they've realized the grievous error they made in dismissing you.” And they're shitting their pants at the idea of you joining Hellsing, was what he refrained from adding.

What victory he'd felt, informing the council of Anderson's recent cooperation with a Hellsing agent. What shock on their faces at the knowledge of this pious man, so long under their thumb, lusting after a vampire to the point that he'd allowed her to feed upon him. What panic in their eyes, at the idea that their most rabid of holy warriors felt that the little protestant vampire sow's soul could be saved.

They'd been unanimous in their decision to allow him back into Iscariot, in order to re-establish their control over him. The fact that Paladin Alexander Anderson had let a vampire live, even aided her in doing so, was a deeply frightening thought for them. He'd been brainwashed by Hellsing somehow, must have been! They had to get him back, of course they did. The thought of having to face him on the battlefield was terrifying.

“I'll have tae think about it.” Anderson said, contemplatively scratching his stubble with one hand. He leaned back in his chair, crossing long arms over his chest and stretching his legs out under the desk. “Ye see, I'm not entirely confident in ye, Maxwell.” He studiously ignored the look of shocked outrage on the other man's face. “And lately I am finding that the Church lacks conviction. Tae hide our purpose and refrain from doling out His punishment, it doesn'a seem entirely right.” The lanky priest shrugged, finally meeting the other's eyes, pleased at the shock therein. “I'm no pawn of Iscariot, Maxwell. I'm a servant of God, and ye need tae understand that I canna follow ye blindly anymore.”

***

“Come here, baby girl.”

Isabelle's head snapped up, her gaze frantically searching the yard, squinting to see across the street. Where had that voice come from? She looked around at the other children, still playing their merry games, not disturbed in the slightest. Hadn't any of them heard it?

“Bella, come on!” Rosa's hand tugged her sleeve. “Jessica and Madeline are waiting for us in the playhouse!”

“Um…yeah, okay. You go ahead, and I'll be right there.”

***

Anderson felt panicked as he set out that night. Isabelle was missing again; she'd gone out to play after dinner with the other children, and had not returned with them at dusk, when called in for bed. None of the others could recall her going anywhere, not even Rosa, her constant companion. She was there, one minute, and gone the next. Anderson had the feeling that she had not simply gone wandering on her own. He'd looked into her case file to find her father dead, but her mother merely missing, presumably dead. In his line of work, missing and presumed dead often meant undead.

*

Seras had been scouring the streets, looking for signs of the Mad Paladin, when she first saw the familiar child, stumbling numbly through a puddle. Her little feet, in their pink sandals, sloshed through the water, splashing mud up onto legs and dress, but the little girl did not look down, even as she almost tripped on something unseen beneath the surface. She stared ahead, back straight, feet plodding stubbornly forward, and Seras knew that something was wrong.

It was when she saw a figure waiting in the shadows that she began to worry. The woman seemed familiar, and when she reached out, pale hand taking hold of the little girl's, Seras realized that she had seen the woman before; the same night that she had first saved Isabelle. That woman was the third vampire; the one who'd run from the scene and left her companions to fight.

“Baby girl,” the woman said, hugging the zombie-like child. “Mama's missed you. But now you're back and I'll make sure we're never apart again.” She squeezed the girl tightly, burying her face between small neck and shoulder.

“Oh God,” Seras moaned, jumping up from her crouched position. She had to stop this! She leapt from the rooftop, landing soundlessly in the alley. “Stop!” she shrieked, startling the woman, but they weren't alone in the alleyway. Three other vampires materialized out of the shadows, determined to stop this intrusion between mother and daughter. She whipped her pistol out and fired off three rounds into the nearest vampire, killing him instantly. The other two came at her, screaming vengeance for their fallen comrade.

She fired again, and snarled as they dodged. These two were faster , stronger than their fellow. True vampires, by the way they moved. No Freak was that graceful. They paused, all three, crouched and ready to tear each other limb from limb. Seras looked her opponents up and down, sensing them out, and they, in turn, assessed her. She was stronger than them; they knew it, she knew it. There were two of them, though, and that was going to make things difficult for her.

When Isabelle's mother grabbed the girl and ran, they blocked her attempt at following; came at her with a furious volley of attacks that ate up her full attention, so that she could not see where they ran.