Katerina’s hands trembled as she held out the scissors to him. Georg waved her away. He had contemplated asking her to help him, but abandoned that thought after one glance at the girl’s pale face.

It was for the best really. Georg pulled a handful of hair away from his neck and hacked at it. Better he do it himself than suffer an impostor.

Two minutes later, chunks of his greying strands littered the room. Georg ran his fingers through his now considerably shorter hair, feeling the uneven patches. Johanna, who had always trimmed his hair for him, would have assaulted him with a ladle if he had shown up at the doorstep looking as he did now. But he was not headed to church or a dinner party. His hair would not get into his eyes while he worked, that was the important thing.

Georg lifted the scissors once more and cut into his beard. He ought to have bought a new shaving kit by now. Something rudimentary, nothing as fine as the old one that had always so fascinated the boys. Georg stifled a grimace. He had looked forward to teaching his sons how to shave. But Andreas and Lucas were gone now, buried beside their mother. The shaving kit too had perished in the flames.

Only Hanno remained.

Perhaps.

He flung the scissors onto the bed and kicked the remnants of his hair into a single pile in the middle of the floor. A few extra coins for Katerina’s father would have to suffice as an apology for his abrupt departure. The time for stalking the godless shadows had passed. If things went well, he would flee the city at once. If not, then, it would be as the Lord ordained.

‘Saint Michael Archangel,’ Georg said, as he secured the two wooden stakes, which he had soaked in holy oil for the past two nights, into the loops on his belt, then reached for his father’s hand-axe. ‘Defend us in battle, be our protector against the wickedness and snares of the devil.’

He slipped on his wide-brimmed hat and slammed the door behind him. He hunched down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, then ducked through the doorway that lead out to the street. His eyes watered. Despite the six weeks he had now spent in Ansheim, he remained unaccustomed to the smell of the tanneries, which dominated this district. Nor was he accustomed to the midday sun.

The people on the street parted before him. Ansheim was a trading town open to strangers, but an ill-kempt man of Georg’s stature inspired dubious looks nevertheless. A wisp of a grin broached Georg’s face. Georg’s father had been even taller, though not as broad at the shoulders. When Georg had begun to assist on the hunt, the advantage of an intimidating presence was among the first lessons his father had impressed upon him.

The twins too had been at the start of their growth-spurt, each eating enough for three grown men and growing out of their clothes by the end of every month.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Georg shook his head. This was not the time. Andreas and Lucas were with the Lord; Hanno remained at the mercy of unholy beasts.

‘Oh, Prince of the Heavenly host,’ Georg chanted under his breath, ‘by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who prowl the world, seeking the ruin of souls.’

His prayer ended just as a familiar blue door came into view — the back door to an abandoned, half-burned storehouse. Houses on either side were hollowed-out shells. Georg slipped his axe into his belt and climbed over the half-collapsed wall of the neighbouring house. From there, he climbed over charred wood and rotted sacks of hay, until he found an opening into the den itself.

Even here the air was permeated with the stench of the tanneries, but there was an undercurrent of rot and stale blood. Unquestionably, a vampire den. Yet he found no vampires. When he had watched the storehouse, there had been at least two dozen. Aleander lorded over the largest den Georg had ever heard of. Yet every room Georg passed and every piece of wood he shifted revealed nothing save dirt and cockroaches.

‘Father?’

Georg spun around and his breath caught. Pale, still wearing the nightshirt Johanna had sewn for his eighth birthday, Hanno stood in the doorway. The mischievous grin he had inherited from his mother lit up his face and he sprinted over to Georg. Something broke in Georg, as Hanno wrapped his hands around his father’s waist. He had forgotten how small Hanno was — the only one of his children to have inherited his mother’s build. His only child now.

‘Where are Aleander and his beasts?’ Georg asked, smoothing his son’s mattered hair.

‘Gone.’

Georg took stock of the room and peered at the doorway Hanno had emerged from. ‘Are you certain?’

‘The master.’ Hanno made a face. ‘Aleander said to tell you he was bored of Ansheim and… of me. That he’d held onto me as a favour to you, but now he has other affairs to settle. He said you can’t follow him. I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t seen anyone here since yesterday.’

Georg took a step away back and clenched his jaw. Aleander was mocking him.

‘Father?’ Hanno’s voice shook.

‘Time to go.’ Georg forced a smile, although his thoughts were on how many pieces he would tear Aleander into when he found the vampire. Usually, Georg hid in his training room when such moods took him, a place Hanno was too young to enter. Hanno had never witnessed his father in such a state.

‘It’s not true though, is it? You’re a hunter. Why would Aleander —’

‘We’ll talk later.’

Taking Hanno’s hand, Georg retraced his steps. His heart beat faster with each one. Aleander’s vermin had to be somewhere, just waiting to make their move. Hanno, at least, was quiet. Despite his age, he had picked up enough from his father and grandfather to know how to behave when on a hunt.

They turned a corner and at last Georg caught sight of sunlight through a caved-in roof. Hanno squirmed out of his father’s grasp.

‘Hanno?’

But Georg knew before Hanno said a word. Aleander had already made his move. Hanno’s hands had always been as warm as a midwinter bath, but now Georg had found only cold, grimy skin. His own hand had barely warmed Hanno’s. Seven months had passed. Georg barely recognised his own reflection. How could a nine-year-old boy look unchanged? Children grow. Children need to eat. A vampire cannot cook; Hanno should have starved to death months ago.

‘It’s all right, Hanno,’ Georg said softly.

Hanno shook his head. ‘It hurts.’

‘Only a little, I promise. Come up here.’

Georg lifted his son off the ground and pressed the boy against his chest. At once, Hanno sunk his chin into his father’s shoulder, just as he had always done. Georg clenched his eyes in a futile attempt to stem the tears already dripping down his cheeks.

‘It’s all right, Hanno. Wherever we may go, the Lord watches over us.’

Georg stepped into the sunlight.