Two Iscariots propped Anderson into a half-sitting position again. He stared around, eyes still glassy. Blood had trickled down from under his hair, making his face look like a macabre red lañquer mask.

"Is it Zion?" - he murmured.

"It's England, Brother. - Buffonard's voice was soothing and sweet as a Sunday morning yawn. - Sisters Heinkel and Yumiko were dispatched to Israel instead of you. Do you remember?"

Saying so, the old man released Anderson's shoulder and rose to make a sneak check of the Holy Paladin's cranial department. Maxwell, whose supporting task became twice more difficult, blessed his aide with a dirty look. Buffonard didn't seem to care. He was watching the edges of the giant wound to twitch and slowly crawl to the center. Too slow. Too chaotic. He had never witnessed a regenerator damaged so badly. The bloodsucking bastard had used explosive bullets... He glanced at the vampire, who leaned against a wall in a relaxed pose and watched the scene with vivid curiosity. His fangs glistened in a lazy smile.

"A weapon is a tool for making your enemy change his mind, some humans say. Looks like this point has just been proved."

The deep voice of the vampire made Anderson jerk his head towards the sound. His gaze became more sober and he even swayed forward in an attempt to stand up. A futile attempt. Maxwell hardly managed to prevent another meeting of the long-suffering head of his subordinate with the damp stone of the pavement. Mixing sotto voce obscenities with appeals to various saints, he placed the still bleeding head on his lap. Settling this, he wiped blood off his right palm.

"How many fingers do you see?" - inquired the Iscariots leader with businesslike air, holding his index finger in front of his subordinate's nose.

The injured priest blinked sheepishly: "Th... Three?"

Enrico sighed. Having picked Anderson's glasses, he observed the twisted and lensless frame for awhile and tossed it away. Then he stared at the slowly regenerating wound amidst yellowish-blond hair and scratched the same place on his own head.

"Three... Three... - meanwhile mumbled Anderson. - Three... Trinity! Where's Trinity?!"

"In the Heaven, of course. Where all they belong." - muttered Enrico absentmindedly, brooding over an uneasy problem of transporting the log-like body of the Holy Paladin back to the headquarters a block away. The next second he was seized by a strand of hair and pulled down. He saw Anderson's eyes from the distance of a couple of inches and suppressed an indignant yowl. These bulging green eyes were absolutely insane.

"How did it happen?!" - a furious roar shook the neighborhood.

"Eh?" - was all Maxwell could manage, combining his forces with Buffonard in unclenching Anderson's fingers.

"What happened to her?! When?! Oh no... Agents?! Tell me the truth!"

"Her? When? Agents?! - after a few moments of dumbfound filtering Enrico finally snapped. - What the hell is he talking about?!"

"Apparently, he's talking about Agents. Who supposedly killed Trinity." - helpfully interfered Alucard, grinning.

"Who are you? - Anderson's attention switched, allowing Maxwell free himself from the grip and carefully crawl aside. - What do you know about this?"

A nasty gleam flashed in the eyes of the nosferatu. He pushed himself off the wall and strode to the group of Iscariots.

"So, you want to know the truth, Mr. Anderson? - his tone became silky as he bent to his confused rival. - I'll tell it to you... Although you wouldn't believe it."

A police car, winding around the corner, cancelled Alucard's revelations. The siren was silent, but the lights strobed the vicinity with splashes of red and blue. Blinded with their brightness, Anderson softly groaned, slumped back on the ground and closed his eyes with a painful expression on his face. Headlights snatched the group from the darkness, meticulously demonstrating all the peculiar details. A body of a man with a broken head, a gruesome crimson puddle on the pavement and a man, stooping to the victim. Two gloomy ruffled figures in stained bathrobes and pajamas beside, hands and feet covered with blood. Torn paper and lots of strangely looking knives scattered here and there.

"Oh, shit... - muttered Maxwell miserably. - We're too late... A fresh problem. I don't feel like getting into what has happened here. And when they look at Brother Alexander closer..."

"Oh, shit... - muttered Andrew, turning to his partner in the driver seat. - We're too late... A fresh corpse. I don't feel like looking at the poor chap over there. Look at all that blood! He's probably..."

"...butchered. Shit happens. - concluded Paul melancholically. - The night's just getting better and better." His fifteen year long experience in London Met made his stomach successfully resistant to all kinds of startling sights. And smells. And fast food snacks... He glanced at the nervously gulping rookie and shrugged. Ten days in police, hah. Usually it took some practice to develop the helpful kind of jaded indifference at crime scenes, so... Either lose your cherry and get used to this mess or get the hell out of the force and start looking for another job, kid.

"Out." - he said plainly. The kid made a face and started to climb out of the car, clumsily unfolding his six-foot-six. Paul sighed and followed, spitting away a cigarette end and dreaming of a vacation far, far, far away from this place. Hot beach, cold drinks, hot women... And not even one cold corpse, dumb witness or bumbling rookie in the vicinity. Not a single friggin' one. Jee-zus... Paradise, indeed.

"Well, gentlemen, can you tell what has happened here?" - Andrew began, standing by car and looking at the group around the body. Hah. Making the witnesses walk up to you and leaving the primary examination to me? Smartass.

The two in bed time outfit looked at the constables with notable reluctance and didn't hurry to walk up to them or even speak. So much for witness cooperation. The man by the body rose and turned to the patrol. Paul softly whistled. Ye gods. The fellow was really tall, much taller than his lanky new partner... And looked odd. Sunglasses in the dark foggy street at 3 a.m.?! And his clothes... Indeed. London's ass deep of weirdos. Well, at least, he wasn't in drag, he wasn't in hysterics or shock and he was the only one without blood or gore on him. Even the white gloves. The man made a step forward and smiled. There was something odd in this smile too... Something wrong... Strange... The policeman hadn't enough time to catch the tail of this sudden thought and realize the reason of the strangeness. When he passed by the still silent witnesses and bemusedly squatted by the body, eyes of the motionless corpse opened and looked at him. Shocked, Paul uttered a short hiccuping sound, flinched back and fell on his butt. Having felt dampness of the blood puddle under his buttocks, he chokingly grunted and strained to rise, but the dead man did it faster. Eh... Surprise, surprise. The ex-dead man. The former corpse stood straight, having performed his spectacular resurrection in an instant. His right hand held Paul by his neck. "Agent... - hissed the regenerator. - Do you think this dumb disguise could fool me even for a second?" The policeman felt the cold fingers to stretch his skin, go deeper, shift aside muscles on their way down... Now an artery was throbbing right under this merciless iron grip. Paul's fingers clawed the gloved wrist to keep it from further squeezing. He fought like a fish on a hook, but it was useless. Everything was getting pitch dark. Air started to ring, muffling all the other noises.

Andrew looked at the people in front of him, wondering if their silence was a result of shock. Had they seen something so hideous that it trapped their vocal boxes? He hesitated and walked up to them, making his best not to look at his partner stooping over the corpse. It was harder than it sounded. The body sort of stole the spotlight. He couldn't help it. But still... He was never afraid of blood, but a sight of a human face framed with split bones and bloody pulp... It was too... unnatural. That's the word. He felt his stomach to wrap uncomfortably around the two hours old remnants of a heavily ketchuped hot dog. If Christine tried to talk me into vegetarianism now, she might get a chance. All of a sudden a young man with an untidy ponytail looked over Andrew's shoulder and swore. Feeling like falling for the oldest trick on the Earth but still not able to resist, Andrew started to turn. At this moment a furious roar swept over the place, triggering an instant wave of activity. The ponytailed guy swore again and dashed forward. The old man beside caught his arm and jerked him back, standing between him and whatever was going on behind Andrew's back.

"He might go berserk any moment, Your Grace. - He flung a gun from his pajamas' pocket with a very quick, experienced and obviously automatic gesture. - And he doesn't seem to recognize us now."

The tall dude in a red trench coat... Andrew's heart flinched. He didn't see him run. He didn't see him move. It was like a missed frame of a film... Just a backwash of night air and slow dance of disturbed fog hinted at what'd just happened. The young policeman swirled back and stared.

The man he'd assumed dead stood straight, his face was distorted with rage. Paul's body was hanging in his grip, feet dangling in a foot from the ground. Andrew felt creeps crawling up his skin. Paul was of medium height, but built like a brick outhouse. Even if some muscle melted into general bulk via too many hours in his favorite pub or in front of TV he could crush a hand in a handshake if he wanted to. His weight should hit the scale over 200 pounds mark, for Pete's sake. The ex-corpse held the weakly wiggling body of the policeman in an outstretched hand as effortlessly as anyone else would hold a bunch of daisies. The man in the red trench coat was in front of him.

"You are harming this human, Anderson. - his voice was calm and casual. - Let him go."

The man in front of him shook his head. Only now Andrew noticed that he was dressed like a priest. A Catholic priest. Jesus H. Christ, what the hell is going on?

"He's an Agent. He's evil. He must die."

"Looks like you're returning to your normal self. At least, the attitude is achingly familiar. - the taller man chuckled. - Fine. Pray, believe me at the point that the only Agent here is me. Happy?"

Whatever the idea was, it worked not quite the way it'd been planned. The yellow-haired man only frowned and stepped back, still holding Paul's body in front of himself like a shield. His left hand slid under his clothes and reappeared with a big, nasty-looking blade. Paul froze, still and speechless, fascinated with the unfolding horror as a bird, fascinated with a snake's gaze. It looked like a bad hostage situation and he had neither enough experience to make a bargain nor a weapon to make a threat. Met police wasn't allowed to carry guns routinely. Traditions, damn them.

"If you're an Agent, and he isn't, then why are you protecting this man?"

"Because that's what I'm always ordered to do. - the tone was strangely sarcastic, with a tinge of bitterness. - A century worth of repeats." Andrew's eyes flicked at him and it was one of those moments when time seems both to stretch painfully slow and fly too fast. A blur of speed and motion hit the priest hard enough to throw him a few yards back. Paul's limp body slid to the ground, resting there in an unconscious heap. The priest rolled over and got up. He was staggering and he'd lost his blade, but it didn't stop him.

"I know kung fu!" - he stated, balled his fists and took a fighting stance, glaring at his attacker. The latter took his shades off and looked back.

"Whoa." - he drawled.

He dove under the first swing and grabbed the priest's jacket with one arm. The next moment the priest was flying high above the ground, his black clothes making him looking like a monstrous crow. Having made a near perfect arc in the air, he fell on his back. For a second he lay still, gasping for air, then started to rise. The man in the red trench coat glided to him, stooped and lightly touched the blood-covered forehead of the lying man with his hand. Their eyes met and the priest twitched. Then he visibly relaxed and closed his eyes. Deja vu. A time loop of the scene, this man looked dead again. His tamer rose and brought his arm close to his eyes. Blood stained his glove up to an unclear pattern on the back of his palm. His tongue flicked, licking away the blood. He put his head on one side and lingered as if getting a first taste of a rare wine. Then he smiled.

"Bizarre. But yummy."

"Stay away from him, you fucking monster!!!" - the ponytailed young man made a step forward, the elder man moved to be between him and the red-clad man, his gun in a firm two-handed grip. A bodyguard or something in that ballpark... Great. Andrew inched back towards the car. Distance, distance. Calling reinforcements while this creepy company was distracted and busy quarreling looked like the goal. Getting away would be a hell better solution, but... Paul was still out there, helpless and maybe injured. Andrew just couldn't leave him like that.

"Easy, Maxwell, I won't munch him away. Just a bit of curiosity." - the tall man licked his lips and his smile widened. He laughed and Andrew looked at him and felt a chill, running down his spine. The laughter was arrogant and cold and somewhat crazy but that wasn't the point. The point was an almost palpable wave of power, lashing out of the man with his laughter. The power was waking the most ancient instincts, the ones, buried under the gloss of civilization, the ones that screamed of a predator closing. The fear that was raw and pure, drove Andrew's muscles into knots and he broke.

Andrew dove into the car, slammed the door behind him and quickly locked it with a shaking hand. That's too much... What's the hell... He should have listened to Mom and settled on some other career instead... Shit. He gulped and reached for the crackling and squeaking radio. Something softly tapped at the window and he swirled in the seat looking for the source of the sound. A pale face was inches from the window, knuckles of a gloved hand delicately knocked at the glass again. Not distracted enough, apparently. Andrew bared his teeth and gripped the key with the other hand. The car's engine roared into life. At this moment the hand in white glove returned, smashing the window in pieces. The young cop uttered a squeezed whimpering and instinctively drew back, closing his eyes to protect them from a stream of tiny glass cubes. When he opened them, he looked right into the eyes of the stranger. He couldn't take his stare away. His hand froze on the radio, feeling coolness of plastic, a tiny scratch on its surface, pliant softness of buttons, feeling it in all and every detail, but unable to move even a fraction. The eyes of the stranger held him. Under the reflected glint of the dashboard there was their own red glow, as if coming from inside of his head. Then something changed. There was a long black tunnel and Andrew was falling into it, reaching toward the end of it. Once reached, it would wash away all the worries, all the sorrows, all the uncertainty... There was nobody in the street when you two came. No traces. Tell them. Andrew just craved to obey. The ultimate pleasure of following the order dawned at him. Wide-eyed, shining with an ecstatic smile on half-parted lips, he started to talk into the microphone.

"What... have you just done?" - asked Maxwell. His voice was low and coarse.

"Mind control. - Alucard turned to look at Enrico. The priest quickly slid his glance down to avoid the vampire's gaze. It didn't pass unnoticed and Alucard chuckled softly. - Quite a parlor trick."

"With the constable - yes. - Enrico's jaw tightened. - But it can't be possible with Brother Anderson. But nevertheless, you managed. You... abused his mind. I swear, some day you'll pay for that."

Vampire's brow rose. He looked amused.

"Abuse suits seem to be oh-so-popular among you, Catholics, these days. - his grin widened and got nastier. - Well, hallelujah. Common questions, are they leather? Do they have straps? Do they come in big sizes?"

If looks could have killed, Maxwell's one richly deserved the title of WMD. He opened his mouth to say something, but Buffonard stepped forward, laying his hand on the shoulder of his boss in a mute warning.

"How long will Brother Anderson be in this state? - he asked in a calm businesslike tone. - He's catatonic now. Is the damage... permanent?"

Maxwell flinched and looked at the prostrate body of his best operative. The vampire looked at Anderson too, then shrugged.

"The effect will wear up in a few hours."

"Can we take him back to his room before anyone else show up?"

"Yes."

Buffonard looked at Alucard's face, as if searching for something. The face of the nosferatu was blank and unreadable. The old man shook his head and asked softly:

"Why are you doing this?"

The vampire gave him a bright smile with fangs peeking out and said: "Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth."

Both Iscariots stared at him, not even trying to keep incredulity off their faces.

Finally Maxwell stepped forward, ignoring his aide's fingers digging deep into his shoulder.

"I wouldn't trust you quoting 'love thine enemy' even if you were sitting on a stack of Bibles and kissing a crucifix."

Alucard laughed.

"So true, Maxwell, so true. Maybe I just don't want to kill him when he's like this."

"Honor involved? - usual arrogance found its way into Maxwell's tone. - You have many names, abomination, but Sir Lancelot isn't one of them."

"You are very close to using up all my good will, Maxwell. Honor or plain lack of fun, any reason to keep your psychotic crusader alive should be just fine for you." - he turned and walked to the older policeman, who started to make small noises and turned on his side, staring at the tall figure above him. The vampire bent to him and repeated the drill, brushing the forehead of the cop with his fingertips and looking into his eyes. The policeman immediately got on his hands and knees and crawled to the car. The happy smile on his face was a twin of his younger colleague's facial expression. Hovering silence was suddenly broken with soft purring of a cell phone. Alucard frowned and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Alucard." - Integra's voice was crisp and sharp, tension barely contained under the cool tone.

"My Master."

"What the hell have you been doing in the city all night?"

"Nothing special. Had a walk, met Iscariots, had a little... discussion."

Integra drew a deep breath. "Are they alive?"

"Sure, but Anderson might need some rest and repair. - Alucard chuckled. – He's been trying too hard to impress me."

"Cut the macho crap, Alucard, we do not have time for that. Come back immediately."

"What's happened?"

"Shit hit the fan again."

She hang up. The tall figure of the vampire shrugged and silently vanished in the air.

"Got his chain yanked at last. - muttered Enrico through clenched teeth. - So, let me test my understanding. He hasn't killed Brother Anderson now just because it was 'plain lack of fun'? Sick bastard."

"I've got this impression too, Your Grace. A vampire's idea of fun can get more than a little odd."

"After we take Brother Anderson into the house, someone should come here and fetch all the blessed blades."

"I'll see to that, Your Grace."

The two men got a hold of the still body and strained to lift it from the pavement.

"He's damn heavy."

"Oh yes, Your Grace. You're absolutely correct."