He opened his mouth to argue, only to turn and growl when a familiar figure strode behind Integra. Abraham. The man was older than Dracula recalled, gray liberally peppered through his hair, new, deep creases carved into his features. Abraham ignored his descendant, and Dracula himself. The reason why soon became apparent.
Abraham had no scent, no heartbeat. He was a phantom. "Come, Alucard," he called, and his summons was swiftly fulfilled by the appearance of Dracula's own ghost. He barely recognized himself. The creature slunk after Abraham as a hellhound, heavily collared, shoulders tight with displeasure.
It couldn't be. He could never be so thoroughly cowed by a mortal man. Not again. Not since his mortal soul had been exchanged for immortal life.