From the Diary of the Watcher of Justine, Claire Silver: January 7th, 1817 (from Blooded)

The Doctor has just left, taking with him all my hopes for Justine. The poor girl lies senseless upon her pillow, her wounds grievous and many, and there seems nought that I can do. I must face it, but I cannot: she is dying. As I look upon her pale form, I know that somewhere on this vast planet, another Watcher has been alerted, and readies his young lady for her debut (if I may be so macabre) into the terrible world that shall be her secret domain: the world of the Vampire Slayer. As my young miss escapes at last this most unholy and unwholesome life, another soon shall find her existence irrevocably transformed- shall I say what I am thinking, that this new Slayer's life will be ruined? All that shall then remain of my dear Justine and her many battles, victories, and this ultimate defeat, will be these words that I write, and her monument in the churchyard. I cannot bear it. I cannot face the notion that the forces of darkness have beaten us at last, not after all that Justine has suffered and endured. And I - if I can bear to think for one moment of myself - I shall become what Justine and I have so often scoffed at: a genteel English lady, gowned and ribboned like a useless bisque figurine. I shall fill my days with teas and dances and gossip. I shall pretend I know nothing of weaponry and fighting and beheadings and the proper way to stake a vampire through the heart. All that I have learned in order to serve as Justine's Watcher I shall lay aside. I shall be as useless as a retired governess. But who comes? For upon the window clinks a pebble. Does someone come to pay his respects? Someone who knows that Justine, the Slayer, lies dying after a vicious attack? In our society, it has not been possible for Justine to accept suitors, knowing as she does what her life is, and what society requires of young ladies. Imagine explaining to a young man that you must of a night cudgel demons to death, or that the lady posing as your aunt last Tuesday sent a warlock to a fiery death in another dimension! And yet, of what use have all our efforts been, and to what benefit our sacrifices? Will this visitor be someone to whom I can utter these thoughts? The maid knocks now, and waits for my permission to enter, I lay my pen aside, and shall return ... I do not know whether to cry in triumph or in fear, but my hands tremble so I can scarcely put pen to paper. Our visitor was none other than Lord Byron, that infamous poet and ladies' man. He was impeccably, if eccentrically, dressed, wearing a brocade vest of Italian design and affecting some sort of large, floppy hat. I was much amazed, for he has not been seen in England in five years. I was also much frightened, I must admit, for as I have written before, Justin and I have often wondered if Byron himself is a vampire. So much points to it - his pale complexion, his strange hold over numerous persons, and his extreme passions. In any case, Justine has never met Byron before, and I only once, at a party Midsummer last, yet here he arrives on what may well be the last night of her life, giving me certain books as well as fragments of ancient Oriental scrolls! With a strange smile, he told me of his high regard for "our work" and made several veiled references to Justine's"special talents." Thus I may conclude that he knows All, though I cannot swear to it. But hush! Justine awakes, and requests some water. My girl, my Slayer! I would give my life would it save her own.