Vampires and werewolves: natural enemies. It was a known fact that vampires couldn't stand mutts, while werewolves couldn't stand leaches.

As a vampire himself, Philip Graves agreed that werewolves were the worst– damn mutts always smelled like a wet dog or thick musk, were energetic like puppies and tiring to be around, and overall were nuisances.

So the fact he had to work with one had his carefully built control slipping away. His eyes were flashing red, his fangs were sticking out like a damn teenage vamp's upon smelling freshly spilt blood for the first time, and he kept hissing! Him!

The Shadows didn't like it either; his coven didn't like the thought of having a mutt help them tracking a target. But you were highly recommended, and Graves had liked your file the most out of all of them.

Graves smelled you before he saw you. A thick, musky forest-like scent; werewolves, why couldn't they ever wash?

Sneering, the vampire commander watched as you approached his base, his men watching from the shadows to make sure you didn't try anything with their leader.

"So, you're the werewolf that was so highly recommended, huh?" Graves drawled, looking you over. His expression was smug, arrogant, flashing his fangs at you. "Well, you best not disappoint, understood?"