The 12th Precinct felt smaller lately. Or perhaps it was just that Alucard’s world was getting more crowded.
He sat at his desk, staring at a small vial of clear liquid Carmela had "gifted" him earlier that morning. It was a synthetic stabilizer—something to keep his instincts from fraying. He hadn't touched it. Instead, he took a long, bitter swig of his lukewarm tomato juice.
Across from him, Anne Jones was obsessed. She had three different maps of the city’s subway system pinned to the corkboard behind her. Red string connected five different stations: Grand Central, Canal Street, Wall Street, and two abandoned stops.
"Five attacks in seven days, Al," Anne said, her voice tight with caffeine and frustration. "The MTA is calling them 'structural failures' or 'stray dogs,' but look at these crime scene photos. Dogs don't rip steel doors off their hinges."
Alucard stood up, his movement so smooth it looked like a frame-rate glitch. He leaned over the photos. His eyes didn't look at the carnage; they looked at the residue. A faint, oily sheen on the subway tiles.
"It’s not a dog, Anne," Alucard murmured. "And it’s not a structural failure."
"Then what is it? I went down to the morgue this morning. The ME said the puncture wounds are three inches deep. Whatever this is, it has a jaw pressure that shouldn't exist in nature."
"Nature had nothing to do with this," Alucard said. He caught a familiar scent on the file—the ozone-and-chemical tang of Sanguine Medical. Carmela’s fingerprints were all over this, literally or metaphorically.
Before he could elaborate, the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened. A man in a tailored, silver-grey suit stepped out. He looked like old money and new anxiety.
"Detective Alucard? Detective Jones?" the man asked, his voice trembling. "My name is Henry Baskerville. I was told... I was told you were the only ones who wouldn't laugh at me."
The Legend of the Black Shuck
Henry Baskerville sat in the interrogation room, his hands shaking as he clutched a paper cup of water.
"My family has built the city’s infrastructure for a hundred years," Henry began. "But there’s a story—a curse. They say that when a Baskerville grows too greedy, the 'Black Shuck' comes to claim the debt. A hound of fire and shadow."
Anne glanced at Alucard, expecting a sarcastic Sherlockian rebuttal. Instead, Alucard was leaning forward, his gaze intense.
"You don't believe in ghosts, Mr. Baskerville," Alucard said. "You believe in science. So tell us why you’re really here."
Henry swallowed hard. "My brother was the first victim in the tunnels. I saw it, Alucard. I was in the maintenance car with him. It wasn't just an animal. Its eyes... they glowed like dying stars. And it looked at me. It recognized me."
"And now you think you're next," Anne said softly.
"I know I am. I heard the whistling in my vents this morning. The same sound from the hospital reports."
Alucard’s jaw tightened. The "whistling"—the calling card of Victor Hesse’s failed experiments. But Victor was ash. That meant someone had taken the serum and perfected it.
"Anne," Alucard said, standing up. "Get your gear. We’re going to the Ghost Station at 42nd Street."
"The abandoned one?" Anne asked. "Al, that’s been sealed since the 1950s."
"Exactly," Alucard replied, his eyes flashing a dangerous shade of blue. "It’s the only place in the city where a monster can feel like a king."
Into the Throat of the City
Two hours later, they were descending a rusted iron ladder into the bowels of the city. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, rust, and something else—something predatory.
"Stay behind me, Anne," Alucard whispered.
"I’m the one with the flashlight, Al," she reminded him, clicking the beam on. "And the gun."
"Your gun is loaded with lead. Lead only slows down things that are already dead." Alucard reached into his coat and handed her a magazine of silver-tipped rounds. "Use these. Don't ask where I got them."
"Your cousin?" Anne asked, sliding the clip into her Glock with a practiced click.
"Let's just say she owes me for the 'gas leak' at her office."
As they moved deeper into the tunnel, the temperature began to drop. The fog—a strange, unnatural mist—began to roll in from the darkness ahead. It wasn't white; it was a sickly, pale yellow.
Alucard stopped. His ears twitched. Deep in the darkness, he heard it.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. But it was too fast. It sounded like a drum being beaten by a madman. And beneath it, a low, guttural vibration that made the marrow in Alucard's bones ache.
"It’s here," Alucard breathed.
"I don't see anything," Anne said, sweeping her light across the tunnel.
Suddenly, the light caught two twin orbs of fire reflecting back from the shadows. They were ten feet off the ground.
Growl.
The sound didn't come from the beast. It came from Alucard.
Anne looked at him, her heart skipping a beat. Alucard was crouched on all fours, his coat flaring out like wings. His teeth were bared, and his fangs were fully extended, gleaming in the reflected light of her torch.
"Alucard?" she whispered, fear finally lacing her voice. "What are you doing?"
"The fog," Alucard rasped, his voice barely human. "It’s a pheromone, Anne. It... it wakes up the hunger. Run. Get to the ladder."
"I'm not leaving you!"
From the darkness, the Hound emerged. It was a massive, nightmarish creature—half wolf, half shadow, with skin that looked like molten lava cooling in patches. It let out a roar that shook the very foundation of the tunnel.
Alucard didn't wait. He launched himself forward, a blur of black and silver, colliding with the beast in mid-air.
"Close your eyes, Anne!" Alucard screamed as he slammed the beast into the concrete wall. "DON'T LOOK AT ME!"
But Anne didn't close her eyes. She watched as Alucard—her cold, brilliant, "tomato juice" drinking partner—tore into the beast with a strength that was nothing short of demonic.
She saw the monster. And for the first time, she wasn't sure which one it was.
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