Adiemus wasn't quite enough to drown the wailing of police sirens outside Seras's home, but combined with a mug of steaming AB-, it at least soothed her nerves.

The paisley-print, beige curtains at the windows were drawn. Seras lamented that the glass was only bulletproof, not soundproof, and that even if it was she would still be able to hear the crackling of walkie-talkies, the idle humming of a waiting ambulance and the whirring of the automatic stretcher as it rolled across the uneven, gum speckled New York City sidewalk.

"Seras."

She looked up, her face placid despite the phantom twangs in her long-stilled heart.

"Yes, Nate?"

People's first impression of Nate Cawlson was that he seemed off balance. He had a tapered frame beginning with broad, powerful shoulders and ending in spindly legs. His arms were thick and sculpted, but his hands were long and delicate. Spikes of black hair made his face look harsh and squared until one noticed the baby fat at his cheeks and his doe-like, vaguely Asiatic eyes. Now his mismatched bulk was tensed in the doorframe, and he'd leveled his bleary, fresh-from-a-nap gaze on Seras.

"I went across to have a look. It was a kid, four, maybe five years old. Cops wouldn't say anything of course, but you can tell what got him."

Her eyes closed, and she breathed out through her nose. She sipped blood from the mug she held.

He knitted his bushy eyebrows. "And to think, it happened right in front of the house—!"

Seras listened to the faint buzzing of the ambulance door sliding shut. Metal scraped pavement— they were moving the barriers around the scene, she assumed— and then several cars drove away in quick succession. Someone swore in Egyptian. Horns blared as more barriers were shifted aside. The gathered crowd dispersed in a noisy shuffle of clicking high heels and thick sneakers thumping the pavement.

"They're bold, attacking right before Salvation."

"What?"

"Salvation. It's tomorrow."

She stared at him.

"Salvation! Come on, Seras, you know— day of reckoning for vampires? Foretold by the Prophet Alexander? Been causing traffic jams around St. Patrick's Cathedral for the last week?"

Seras's breath caught. "That's tomorrow?"

Before he could answer she swept the papers from her desk, flipped the hatch on the wood and pressed the button within. The air shuddered, followed by a low whine, and a holographic screen and keypad materialized in front of her.

She navigated to the internet and opened her homepage. It was plastered with images of the aging pope, of people holding candlelit vigils and photographs from the burning of Vatican headquarters. Beneath them in bold blue letters was a heading: Vanquishing the Vampires- The Miracle Man's Waited 200 Years for. And in subtitles, Salvation Day Tomorrow.

"It's been two hundred years…" She trailed off, then took a deep gulp of blood.

Nate's rough, warm hand settled on her shoulder. His voice was gentle. "Were you there?"

"No, no. I wasn't. It's not that. Am I really that old? Has it been that long since—?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. She vaguely registered the nearing thud of Nate's heart as he settled himself on the desktop.

"Do you want to go?" He asked.

"To the ceremony?"

"Mhm."

"I'm not sure."

She chuckled. "I don't think my being there would be in the spirit of things."

He waved the comment away. "Come on, Seras, you've been raving forever about what a lot of bull the whole Salvation thing is. What better way to spite the humans than by showing up?"

"Well, it's certainly tempting."

"Of course it is. That's why we're going."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think of you as the religious sort, Nate."

"I'm not, but this ought to be quite the spectacle. Worth telling the grandkids about, if I ever had any." He shrugged one shoulder and smiled.

"I suppose there's no harm in it," She said. "Why not?"

"It could be the day you die."

She drained the lees of her drink.

"That day's been a long time coming." She said.

- -

"Charles, are you sure we're going the right way?"

"Yes."

"We turn left on fifty, Charles."

"Thank you, Glenda."

"Don't get snarky with me. It's not my fault you can't follow directions."

"Charles, she's just trying to help."

"I know where I'm going, Laura! Be quiet, both of you, and let me drive!"

"Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Oh for God's sake—"

Greta Fergus shrunk down into her seat. Outside, horns blared as their car inched its way down the street. The noise reminded her of her school band's first few practices, minus the chorus of arguments from the surrounding seats.

"Let's just get there, please." Laura, her mother, said.

"Pay attention to where you're going. It's the next turn!"

Greta had to duck to avoid her grandmother's long umbrella as she rapped it on the seatback. Her father turned with his face red and his eyes wide and quivering.

"I can see the bloody sign! There's cars in front of us, wait!"

"So that's how you talk to your mother in law, huh?"

"How dare you say that to her!"

Greta's mother slapped her husband hard on the arm.

"Laura—"

"Daddy, the light changed."

"Show my mother some respect, it's the first time I've seen her in years."

"And thank God for that! Dealing with you all year is enough!"

Greta looked out the back window. "Daddy, the other cars are honking at us."

"I heard you the first time!" He snapped, and the car lurched forward.

"God, have you gone mad?" Her mother asked, glowering at him.

"Oh, shut up."

Greta winced and leaned into the cushions.

"Head up, Greta, you're mussing your hair." Her grandmother said.

Greta groaned, then caught the look in her grandmother's eyes. She quickly straightened.

They circled the street several times looking for parking. Finally, her father followed a trickle of cars going through a side alley. At the opposite end was an empty lot in the shadow of a dingy sushi restaurant and a condemned apartment building.

"This is where we're parking?" Her grandmother asked.

"Yes," Said her father, and they swerved into the lot, nearly clipping two cars as they maneuvered to an empty spot.

"If we'd gotten here earlier we could've gotten a space in the car rack next to the cathedral."

"We could've gotten here earlier if someone wasn't trying to curl the piano wire they call hair ten minutes before the ceremony's due to begin."

"Are you hearing this, Laura? What did I tell you? He's a disrespectful, miserable little bastard— I warned you about the British!"

"Everyone, get out!" He roared, and threw open the door. Greta quickly followed suit, and she hopped out onto the tire treaded snow.

"Charles, hold her, I don't want her shoes getting dirty. God, is that a diaper? I forgot how filthy this place was."

"See? You should've come back to New York sooner. You're losing touch with your roots." Her grandmother croaked.

Greta's father swung Greta over his shoulder and tromped to the road. Her mother and grandmother trailed behind, grousing and giving her father unkind looks.

From her perch Greta stared up, up and up at the tips of skyscrapers stabbing the grey clouds.

"Papa, they're bigger than Big Ben!" She said.

"Yes dear, I know," He replied.

"And look at how shiny they are! They're all made of metal!"

"That's wonderful. Greta, be quiet. I need to concentrate."

She stuck out her bottom lip and looked down to see what had her father so busy. His hand was jammed in his coat pocket, and she could see the outline of his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the handgun he kept there. They were at the entrance to an alleyway. He peered into it, then, seeming satisfied, disregarded it. Others around them had done the same.

"It's too dark here," Someone murmured, and their companion agreed. Suddenly, Greta wasn't so enchanted with being in the shadow of the towering buildings.

Conversations tapered off into uneasy silence. At some point the people around them had drifted nearer and nearer, until the entire group was traveling in a huddle. More people had their hands stuffed into their jackets, clenching countless guns. Greta resisted the urge to bury herself against her father's shoulders, because experience told her he would drop her if she fidgeted. Her heart pounded with echoes of the same nameless fear that rose to claim her when she lay in bed at night, staring at the shadows in the corners of her room. The feeling melted into overwhelming relief when they finally reached the entrance to the church plaza.

Her father flashed his passport to one of six heavily armed guards standing on either side of the taser barrier separating the side road from the plaza. The guard squinted at them, nodded, then motioned them through a narrow doorway in the middle of the barrier.

Almost as soon as they set foot on the main street, a solid wall of people blocked their path. The air was full of shouting, laughing, coughing, grumbling and cheering, all mixed with the ever-present honking of car horns. The crowd was as varied as the sounds they made- as Greta's father pushed his way through the throng, she saw everyone from grizzled homeless men with skin pink and peeling to women stamping their feet in dangerous looking high-heels and expensive looking jackets.

"Hey, watch where you're going, jackass!" A man shouted as her father shouldered past him. Greta's foot tingled where it had accidentally thumped against the side of the man's head.

"Sorry!" She said.

"Greta, can't you stay out of trouble for a second? Get down!"

He unceremoniously plucked her from his shoulders and deposited her on the ground. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the center of the crowd. She yelped in pain and turned to look for her mother's support, but both she and her grandmother had disappeared. At the rate her father was going, they were probably still by the barrier.

Eventually she and her father came to a stop. Greta stood on tip toes to try and see what was going on in front, on the stage where the cardinal would be appearing. Of course, given that everyone else in the crowd was about a foot taller than her, the effort proved quite pointless.

The electronic bell carillon in the church tower started to chime noon. The high, tinny sound filled the air around the plaza, and slowly the noise level of the throng dropped. Vaguely, Greta heard the creak of a great door opening, presumably the one to the church. The air several meters above her "popped," and a large holo-screen appeared. A pair of free-floating speakers came from the direction of the stage, and they hovered on either side of the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Began the voice of the unknown announcer, "We are gathered here this afternoon, on the twenty-third of February, in the Year of Our Lord two thousand, two hundred and twenty-five, to celebrate a momentous occasion. It was on this day two hundred years ago that the Prophet Alexander, about to be killed on the ruins of the Old Vatican Headquarters, predicted the arrival of a savior, one who would descend from the heavens and bring an end to the vampires that have plagued us since the destruction of the great Iscariot organization-"

"Bullshit."

Greta turned. Standing to her right was a tallish woman with short blonde hair that was slicked flat against her head. She had on a long, pleated blue dress and matching flat shoes with a small, fur-collared denim jacket- a jacket much too light for snowy weather, Greta thought, but the lady didn't seem to notice the cold at all.

"Seras, you said you'd behave," Her companion hissed. He was about two inches taller than the lady, though Greta couldn't tell if he was actually that height or if it was just his hair. He seemed to be dressed warmer, though she couldn't really tell from where she was standing.

"Just listen to them fawning over him! 'The Prophet Alexander,' hah! They don't know anything about him!"

"Seras, be quiet! People are staring."

"Well I can't help it, you know, I can't stand it when people get their facts wrong on things like this-"

Greta saw her father glaring pointedly at the woman. The woman took no notice but her companion did, and he quickly flashed an apologetic smile and tried unsuccessfully to steer her away from the annoyed listeners. When he realized there was no where else to move to, he instead whispered something into her ear. She snorted and said,

"Oh, alright. I'll try." Then she settled into huffy silence.

"People shouldn't even come to the damn ceremony if they can't respect it- I tell you, we should've gone to Italy if anything, not flown all the way out here just to entertain that old bitch-"

Greta pulled back a little. She didn't want to hear what her father had to say about her grandmother. Then again, it could've been her mother he was talking about, too; the insults were so similar these days, it was hard to tell the difference.

The cardinal had since come up on the screen. He was wearing a green robe with olive leaves pinned to it, and on his head was a high green hat. Both were symbolic of regeneration and peace. The weeks they studied Salvation, at least, Greta had paid attention to in Religion last term.

He undid the locks on the yellowed Bible with one knobby hand, then looked to the crowd.

"Let us join in the Lord's prayer," He said, and the entire square began to mumble the familiar words. When they finished the cardinal crossed himself, then began to address the crowd. His introduction was like the one the announcer had given, except the cardinal used bigger words. Greta lost interest quickly and she started to fidget.

Her gaze returned to the lady and her friend. It was clear that the lady wasn't enjoying herself much. She fancied that the woman might be glaring at the cardinal, but she couldn't see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses she wore.

"Excuse us, excuse me!"

Greta practically leapt onto her mother's legs as she popped from between two people in the crowd with her grandmother trailing behind. Her mother patted her on the back then shooed her away, not that there was anywhere to go. Her father groaned and said something under his breath. Her mother scowled, then started hissing at him, and only the muttering and angry looks of the crowd kept them from fighting again.

"I can't believe today's the day," Her mother whispered excitedly, once she'd regained her composure.

"It's about time those blood-sucking bastards got what was coming to them," Her grandmother wheezed, "Let them burn in hell, all of them. Half-Freaks included."

The man standing next to the lady in blue gave Greta's grandmother a funny look. The woman looked at all four of them as if she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. She did, however, smile at Greta. Greta, unsettled by the unnatural, stiff quality of the woman's smile, neglected to return the gesture.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!

Five shots went off in rapid succession. On the screen, the entire left section of the cardinal's head dissolved into a fine pink mist. The guards on stage went for their guns. People in front started screaming. Three guards fell before they removed their guns from the holsters, the others were better armed and managed to pump four rounds into the Freak who was cheerfully firing into the crowd while flashing them the finger. He cackled, then crumbled to dust.

Those in the square were fleeing en masse. Almost from the first shot then entire front section of the audience had started scrambling for the back, and their force was felt within several moments throughout the entire plaza. Greta cried out as a very large woman tripped over her, knocking them both to the ground and pinning Greta's leg beneath the woman's breasts. Her father yanked her, hard, and he clutched her against his chest as he shouldered his way through the screaming crowd. Greta looked back and saw people running over the woman. She was making awful sounds as they did so, and blood had started to pool beneath her face. Greta shuddered and closed her eyes.

Her father started screaming, "Laura, Laura!" At the top of his lungs. Apparently her mother had gotten tangled in the initial sweep of the crowd; it was impossible to find her again in this, there were too many people, too much chaos. Her father had no choice but to start moving back, screaming for her mother all the way.

Their progress was halted as the thirty or so people ahead of them abruptly wheeled around and slammed into them like a fleet of trucks. Her father swayed dangerously, but somehow managed to regain his footing. Not that it did much good; the crowd behind them was still pressing forward, and now this lot had started running back toward the stage. Then, Greta realized why— machine gun fire sounded very close to them from the direction they'd just been running. They were attacking in groups! The Freaks were everywhere!

Greta's father must've reached the same conclusion, for he made a noise low in his throat. Now that she was listening, Greta heard guns going off everywhere. She didn't know how many were the police, how many were Freaks, how many were regular people trying to defend themselves—it didn't matter, the whole thing was mad. A man in front of her cried out and collapsed while clutching at the blossoming blood patch on his side. She saw the Freak with the gun clearly now, making his way towards them. He raised his gun, smirked, and fired. Greta started screaming, finally, when she felt something warm against her cheek and realized it was her father's blood.

He groaned and toppled backwards, and almost instantly someone kicked her in the chin. Another foot landed on his groin- she heard her father whimper, then someone tripped over them, swore, kicked her in the stomach and kept going. She was wailing now. She saw the gaping hole created by the shot, just below her father's chest. His face was pail and he was drooling blood and spit onto the cement. She buried her face against his warm, sticky stomach and started to cry for him, for her mother, for her grandmother, and God, she didn't want to die.

Five more people ran over her before a hand reached down and plucked her from atop her father's stomach. Greta looked up, terrified, thinking it was one of the Freaks who'd come to devour her or worse- but it was the woman from before, the one in blue. In her other hand was a laser firing machine gun. The woman aimed it at the Freak who'd shot Greta's father. The gun made a sound like a rubber band twanging, and the Freak dissolved. A gust of wind blew the dust in Greta's face. She coughed violently, and when she opened her eyes again she realized that they were moving over the heads of the crowd.

"Wh…what?" She said faintly.

"Nate!" The woman shouted.

The man, her companion, Nate, was beneath them. The woman tossed Greta to him, then yelled, "Take care of her, I'm busy!" She adjusted her arms to hold the cannon properly, then she jumped away.

"Hello little girl," Nate said, and calmly buried a dagger into the forehead of a Freak who was about to lunge at him. The Freak writhed in agony and clutched at the offending object, but Nate removed it and turned his back to avoid being smacked by a dust cloud. He winked at her, then he maneuvered his way through the crowd until they reached the stage.

"Here you go, girl," He said, and practically threw her under the green fabric skirt covering the stage.

"You'll be fine here, kid. Be quiet, be careful, we'll be back for you."

He ran off. What could she do? She curled into a ball and rested her head against a pile of snow. Her grandmother would be furious if she found out. If she was still alive.

She crossed both arms over her face and cried. Outside, the only thing she could hear was gunshots and screams, the wailing of police sirens, the crunch of feet in the snow, and the occasional thump of a body hitting the stage.

"Mommy, daddy where are you?" She whimpered.