"We…"
Staring at the terrifying mark on Greyback's arm, the frail Vampire couldn't help but shudder.
On the werewolf's arm was a green brand. Its core was a skull, with a massive serpent emerging from its mouth and coiling around it.
"Fenrir, has the Dark Lord bestowed this honor upon you?" one werewolf couldn't help but ask.
The other werewolves gazed at the branded arm with reverent eyes.
"The Dark Lord never shortchanges those loyal to him," Greyback declared smugly, then rolled back the sleeve of his right arm.
Within the crowd, Remus Lupin frowned slightly, but he quickly lowered his head, concealing his reaction from the other werewolves.
"So you were the ones who sided with that master…" The vampire's voice trembled. "Did he send you? Did he tell you we still live here?"
"Indeed, the Dark Lord knows all!" Greyback nodded, pleased with the vampire's reaction. "Now, lead us to your lair, Bat!"
"This way… please follow me," the vampire nodded repeatedly.
...
The werewolves followed the frail vampire as they began their journey.
However, their path led not toward the castle, but in the exact opposite direction.
They grew farther and farther from Dracula's Castle, the voices of travelers from the castle fading into the distance. Soon they emerged from the woods, walked another mile or so, and finally seemed to arrive at a foul-smelling, open area.
It resembled an abandoned town, or perhaps a makeshift garbage dump. Piles of all manner of refuse surrounded them. Though werewolves lived at the very bottom of the wizard world's social ladder, most had never set foot in a place this dreadful.
Several female werewolves covered their noses, glaring angrily at the vampire.
"My apologies, my lords… Bear with it a moment," the vampire hastened to say with a forced smile.
After walking a short distance further, he led the group to a broken bridge.
He led the way, leaping off the bridge. The river below had long since dried up.
A desolate place like this probably wouldn't see a Muggle for years.
Beneath the bridge, hidden in an inconspicuous patch of grass, lay a manhole cover. The vampire jogged over and strained every muscle to pry it open.
"My lords, our lair…" His words trailed off as his expression abruptly changed.
Then, with lightning speed, he dashed toward the other side of the broken bridge.
Several werewolves, thinking the vampire intended harm toward their group, immediately took a few cautious steps back.
However, the vampire's target was clearly not them, but a field mouse that had just scurried out from a pile of trash on the other side of the broken bridge.
He scampered back, clutching the plump field mouse between his bony fingers.
He grinned, revealing two sharp canine teeth, then sank his jaws into the creature without hesitation.
Ignoring the werewolves beside him, he greedily sucked the field mouse's blood, not wasting a single drop. Only when the mouse's body had shriveled completely did he reluctantly toss it aside.
The vampire lifted his head again, grinning obsequiously.
"My apologies, masters… it's been two weeks since I last tasted such fresh blood…"
Greyback frowned.
"Hurry! Take us down. Take me to your leader!"
...
Beneath the manhole cover lay a long-abandoned sewer.
Everywhere lay mud that had rotted for who knew how long, along with the scattered carcasses of various animals—evidently left behind after the vampires had fed. Yet they saw no human (Muggle) remains.
The sewer was narrow, and from every adjacent compartment, several pairs of crimson eyes peered out.
Yet these gazes lacked the vitality the werewolves had imagined, instead carrying a certain lifelessness.
Judging by the number of eyes, this highly concealed yet compact sewer housed at least a hundred vampires.
The vampire leading them occasionally growled toward one of the adjacent compartments. Evidently, he held some standing among the vampires.
They finally reached the innermost compartment of the sewer, its entrance draped with a tattered curtain. He halted, his expression humble, and spoke:
"Esteemed Countess Iliana, visitors have arrived."
After a moment, a hoarse female voice echoed from within.
"Let them in!"
...
The leader of the Transylvanian vampires was a young-looking female vampire.
Of course, one cannot judge the age of a vampire by appearance, given their long lifespans and eternal youth. Her actual age might well exceed a hundred years.
Countess Iliana had changed into a white princess dress. However, it was stained and tattered, utterly lacking in beauty.
Her figure wasn't deformed like other vampires', but her face appeared somewhat puffy, still hardly attractive. At her feet lay the corpse of a stray dog, blood still oozing from its body.
"Did that master send you?"
The countess eyed the werewolves warily.
Her voice carried a palpable hostility.
"I've heard since childhood that werewolves and vampires are mortal enemies?" A female werewolf couldn't help but ask.
"Why have you become like this… living in such misery, worse off than even the most destitute Muggles?"
"It's all that nobleman's doing," the female vampire replied, a wretched smile curling her lips.
"Fifty years ago… during that terrible catastrophe, he stormed the castle. He murdered my father, severed his head, and slaughtered nearly all our adult kin. He spared our lives, yet cursed us with an eternal curse…"
As she spoke, she raised her right hand feebly, revealing a distinct, clearly visible scar on her wrist.
"I act under the command of that Lord… under the command of the Dark Lord," Greyback declared coldly.
"He can grant you forgiveness, he can grant you freedom… provided you swear allegiance to him!"
"Is that true?" Countess Iliana raised her trembling head. "Lord Gaunt has decided to pardon us?"
Without further ado, Greyback drew a scroll from his pocket.
"Alongside freedom, he has also bestowed upon you a mission!"