As it turned out, the police lied. On Seras's fifth day of insistent asking, the hospital confirmed that the bodies of Laura and Charles Fergus, residents of Manchester, England, had been identified amongst the deceased. They had yet to ID the grandmother, but Seras knew it would only be a matter of time. A woman of that age trying to move through a crowd of nearly 8,000 people while bullets were whizzing around and said crowd was stampeding—well, in short, the odds were astronomical against her survival.

So came the next step— inform the family. The hospital assured Seras they would do so within the next two days, and that Seras would be contacted as soon as one of Greta's relatives called to claim her.

Wonderful, thought Seras. More waiting.

Nate had been smug in pointing out that Greta had yet to uncover their dreaded secret and that in all they'd probably survive for the week or so it would take for Greta's relatives to collect her. But Seras wasn't fooled by Greta's dainty ways or her soft periwinkle eyes. There was a keen mind trying to peek through her cloud of grief, and it worried Seras.

After all, hadn't Greta already given her dubious looks at her responses to her prodding questions? It had taken Seras quite a bit of work to explain why she slept in the basement when there were two perfectly good bedrooms upstairs. And to avoid more comments on the window issue, she'd given Nate permission to raise the blinds during the day. Now she spent most of her time in her second floor study, which she could keep as dark as she liked and where the vague but constant sting of sunlight wouldn't bother her.

She was there now, in fact, tapping her pen against the mahogany desktop while Audrey, "New York's favorite digital newscaster!" cheerfully rattled off the rising death toll from Sunday's attacks, then went live to her British counterpart, Ella, who in equally pleasant tones answered questions about the amateur video of a bomb-strapped suicide sky diver landing in the packed grounds of Westminster Abbey.

"They simply weren't expecting an attack of this kind," Ella chirped. "Though there is a no-fly zone over the Abbey, the planes used for sky diving haven't been manufactured since the Space Renaissance in 2050. It's actually remarkable that the Freaks were able to find one in working condition. Authorities suspect that this latest attack is connected with the No Life Kings group, or the NLK as they are commonly called. Investigations are being launched at the plants of the only two known manufactures of parts for antique airplanes, as police search for leads as to who purchased—"

Seras turned off the TV hologram in disgust. If there was one phrase she never wanted to hear again, it was No Life Kings. As far as she was concerned, the terrorist group was a bunch of upstart Freaks who were ruining a respectable and exclusive name. Besides, she had a more pressing matter to attend to—Greta's aunt had contacted Seras through the hospital and scheduled a phone meeting with her. With luck, the two of them could have Greta's situation sorted by lunchtime.

"Seras. A Miss—Evie Fairbrooks—is on the line. Shall I take her call?"

The phone spoke so suddenly that Seras jumped in her chair. She recovered quickly, glared at the offending piece of technology, then asked:

"Where is she calling from?"

"Miss—Evie Fairbrooks—is calling from –London, England. Shall I take her call?"

"Ah, that will be the aunt. Yes, please take it. Oh, and make it speakerphone."

The video screen clicked on.

Evie Fairbrooks was a woman who appeared to be anywhere from her late fifties to early sixties, a rarity given that most women got full-body skin smoothing surgery at the first hint of a wrinkle. Her face was egg shaped and ended in a small, barely rounded chin. She had a squared off, jutting nose; wide, thin lips surrounded by frown lines, and caramel eyes that were narrowed in perpetual irritation. She reminded Seras of every stereotypical evil librarian she'd ever seen, minus the glasses and the grey hair.

Seras bowed her head in acknowledgement, then said: "Mrs. Fairbrooks, I presume?"

"Yes. You are Seras Victoria, correct? You have custody of my niece."

Seras decided that a librarian wasn't the right description for Mrs. Fairbrooks after all; her voice had the tight, clipped rhythm of a high-strung, high ranking business woman.

"Oh, so you're Greta's aunt? It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fairbrooks, though these are unfortunate circumstances. I'm sorry about your brother and his family."

"Edward and I did not have a relationship, so please save your condolensces."

Seras's mouth drooped open for a second, then she fumbled for a response.

"I…oh, alright—"

"I've called to discuss who will take possession of Greta."

"Yes, of course."

"We don't want her."

"I—what?" She stared at the screen, an uneasy smile working its way onto her face.

"I…I'm sorry, I don't think I…would you mind repeating that for me?"

The corner of Ms. Fairbrook's mouth crooked into a frown.

"I said, 'we don't want her.' No one in the Fairbrooks family is interested in the child."

"Y—you're joking, right? I mean…how could you not… she's your niece!"

"My brother made a decision many years ago to throw his lot in with that American chit. He has severed his ties with us, and we aren't going to come swooping in to clean up his mess now."

"Mess, what mess? She's a little girl!"

"I'm sure she's a wonderful child. A good home will be found for her."

"What, you're making her a ward of the state?"

"That is the logical course of action, yes."

"Forget logic, the girl's your niece. And I'm sure she's someone's cousin, someone's granddaughter, someone's…something. How could your family refuse to take her? Better yet, how can you presume to speak for your entire family?"

"I am the current head of this family," Mrs. Fairbrooks said. Her voice, which had simply been jarring before, was now approaching a tone that could conjure knives and stab people with them. "There is no one in this family I am not in contact with, and the decision about the girl was unanimous. As for why we refuse to take her, it is not our way to accept strays. My brother married out of class, and he suffered as a result."

"Out of class? It's the 23rd century! Who pays attention to that sort of thing anymore?"

"We do. As I said, the girl will be taken care of. My secretary has already begun making arrangements with the orphanage that will take her."

Seras shook her head. "This is madness. I'm not sending her back if all you're going to do is pawn her off to the state."

"Is that so? From what the hospital said, I was under the impression you were quite eager to be rid of the girl. But if you insist on keeping her, by all means, do so. I will be in contact later to see if you have changed your mind."

Click then dial tone, before Seras could another word in.

It took three minutes for Seras's thoughts to untangle themselves from the writhing, roaring ball they'd formed over the course of the conversation. It took another four minutes for her to mull over each thought, until something in the back of her mind gently hinted that perhaps her very expensive mahogany desk didn't appreciate its edge being squeezed like a sponge. She extracted her splinter-filled palm from the hardwood, frowned at it, and with a flick of her wrist banished all the splinters to the garbage can next to the desk. There was no helping the damage to the wood; she'd have to call someone about it.

The main door slammed, followed by the clomping of two pairs of shoes against the hall rug. Nate laughed and responded to a statement Seras hadn't heard. Greta shrieked her denial and soon both of them were giggling.

A tired smile creaked onto Seras's face. Nate was good with children. It had as much to do with his personality as it did with his unpleasant beginnings. It was a pity that he would never find—

The door opened and Nate's head peeked in. Seras swallowed the rest of her thought and the guilt that accompanied it.

"Well, it sounds like you two had fun." She said as he slipped inside the room.

"Yeah, we did! I took her out to buy a bunch of clothes and stuff. I don't think that kid's got much money at home. You should've seen her eyes bug when she saw the price tag on that Burberry coat I got her."

Seras sighed. "Well, I wanted her to have something— that would last."

"That would last." A nice way of saying hey, Greta, sorry your folks died, but here's a designer coat to cheer you up! Perhaps Seras had lost her sensitivity over her long life. But the slow decay of her humanity was a subject Seras was not willing to confront. Least of all now, when her relationship with Nate, the last anchor she had to the world she'd left behind, balanced on her sympathetic handling of this situation.

Nate licked his lips.

"Speaking of—well, of nothing, really, but have you thought of telling her about her folks yet?"

Ah, yes. Straight to the point. It was what she loved about her little urchin, and the exact reason why she'd forbidden him from talking to Greta about her parent's death. Tact was an art lost on that boy.

"I've thought about it, yes."

"I mean, you said you were going to tell her once you got the stuff with the aunt worked out."

"Yes, I did."

"So…?" He gestured helplessly.

"Her family doesn't want her."

"What?"

"Exactly what I said. I'll spare you the grisly details, but to say that they're a bunch of self-centered prats ought to suffice. I'd sooner give Greta to a pack of lions. At least you know the lions would devour her out of necessity, but her family would do it out of spite."

"Nice analogy. So she's going to be staying with us for a while?"

"In all likelihood," Seras said, but it came out as more of a groan.

"Come on, Seras, give her a chance! She's not terrible, I mean, it's not like she pees the bed or anything."

"It's not that, Nate. A nine-year-old girl should not be living with a bunch of vampires. If you'd talked to me a few decades ago I would've been all for it, but now…I don't think I have the energy anymore."

"You've got plenty of energy! You're just lazy as hell."

"Excuse me?"

"Seras, what have you been doing the last few years, honestly?"

He continued, cutting off her indignant response. "When was the last time you went Freak hunting at night? When was the last time you drank straight from the tap instead of that pre-packaged crap I bring you? When was the last time you—I, I don't know, did some of the cool stuff you did before you found me?"

"My life before you wasn't 'cool', Nate. I was simply passing the time."

"But you were enjoying it. I remember the look on your face the second time you saved me, after I ran away. You loved killing that Freak. Don't try and deny it. I think it's a part of everyone's nature; vampire, Freak, or otherwise."

"Attempting to raise a fifteen-year-old half-Freak who steals your silverware on a weekly basis tends to take the fight out of most people."

He frowned. "I apologized for that, you know."

"Yes. But I still won't let you forget it."

"You're changing the topic."

"Me? You're the one who always—arg!"

They spent fifteen minutes arguing, until the soft creak of the floorboards outside the study door alerted them to the fact that they had an audience. Seras sneered at Nate and threw open the door. Greta yelped and backed off as Seras stormed past her and into the main hall. She snatched her coat and keys from the wall peg and made to leave the house.

"Ms. Seras?" A voice piped from behind her.

"What?"

"Ah…where are you going?"

"Out."

Greta wilted. Seras winced, cursing herself silently, and eased her tone.

"I'll be back in a bit, sweetie. Don't worry."

"Why are you and Mr. Nate fighting?"

"Oh, big people things. It's alright. We do this every so often."

"Are you sure you want to go out? It's getting dark. Isn't it dangerous to be out after dark?"

"Not for me."

She said it without thinking, and she quickly searched Greta's face for any signs of enlightenment. But Greta just stared back at her with eyes that were wide and sad.

"Ms. Seras? Be careful. I don't want you to get hurt."

Seras nodded. "Thanks, hon."

She left.

- -

Ah, an ode to blood banks.

In the Webster's sense of the word, they were storing facilities for blood and plasma intended for medical use. In the street sense, however, they were the ugly babies of drug cartels and old fashioned capitalism. See a need, fill a need. In this case, New York City's seven million some-odd thousand Freaks needed a way to get a blood fix that didn't always involve first degree murder. And what better way to do that than to pinch a few cases of the red stuff from the blood banks' more illustrious namesake and sell it at ridiculous prices for the week or two it took before cops raided the place?

God bless America, Seras thought.

As intended by the owners, it was Seras's sense of smell that led her to Barbraidy's Irish Pub, nestled in a convenient location behind an eight-foot brick wall and a vomit-inducing trail of filth that would deter most casual walkers, dogs, and potentially some of Barbraidy's customers. The only thing announcing the existence of the place was a poster tacked onto a balcony facing the street, with a font size too small for humans to read.

Seras debated walking through the mucky alley and hopping the wall. Then she rolled her eyes, snorted, and solidified in the shadows on the other side of it.

The blood scent on the mantle of the Barbraidy's archway was fresh, less than an hour old. This was how the banks got their business—if word of mouth didn't do the trick, they relied on the feeding frenzy technique to lure every Freak within five miles. And it worked too.

She descended the staircase to the pub entrance and jiggled the door handle. It didn't budge. She checked her watch. Six fifty-five. Even though it was dark out, it was still too early for most Freaks' dinner. But they wouldn't have painted the mantle unless they were ready for customers. Perhaps it was a set-up…?

There was the sound of heavy chains falling and the clink of thick padlocks opening. The door swung inward of its own accord, for, now that Seras looked at it, the entrance was in serious disrepair. There was no shortage of abandoned places to establish a blood bank, but maintenance was another matter.

A black man filled the doorframe, his pale red eyes reflecting a light that didn't exist.

"You want something?"

Seras pulled a wad of cash from her pocket. She'd stopped at an ATM on the way over.

"Whatever this will buy me." She said.

"You really a Freak? Why your eyes ain't red?"

"Surgery. It's hard to be inconspicuous when you take off your sunglasses and people start running and screaming."

The man grinned, revealing teeth as sharp as pencil points. "I like it when they scream."

"I'm sure you do. Can I get a drink or not?"

The man grunted and moved aside.

The inside of the bank was understandably bleak. Without access to a decorator, a city engineer, an architect, or anything that would make the whole blood bank business even vaguely legal, it was hard to establish ambiance. The only light came from four halogen floor lamps that had been dimmed and set up in various places in the room. Raunchy jazz music flowed from the free-floating speakers that shifted every so often through the air, automatically adjusting their position to obtain the best sound quality. There was a bar to her right, complete with cabinets, shelving and stools, so perhaps the reason for the bank's peculiar name was that at some point it had been a real pub.

At least the place had been cleaned, and drink menus had been made and presented at all seating areas to create the illusion of an actual bar. There was even a bartender; a large man in his forties who Seras could tell right off was human. He was pouring blood from packets with the ease of one who'd been doing the same thing for years. In that way, she supposed he was like Walter. Even in the midst of chaos, Walter could still make a perfect cup of—

No, no, no. Not Hellsing. Hellsing was done. Get a drink, girl, and move on.

She sat on a barstool and paid no attention to the three men arranged around the bar, eyeing her like wolves sizing up a lone sheep. She ordered one el muerte dulce— A+ mixed with Belladonna wine and a bit of cherry juice— and nursed it absently until one of the men dared to test her frayed nerves and fragile patience by sitting next to her.

"Good evening, dear lady."

His accent took her by surprise. It was clearly European, but in those few words it seemed to glide through several different countries.

"Hm." She said, without looking up.

"I'm surprised to find such a lovely and elegant woman drinking at a bank. What brings you to this dreary place?"

"The same thing that brings everyone else. I came to drink— alone."

He held up his hands in defense. "Forgive me, madam. I did not mean to intrude. But I could not help approaching another of my kind."

"'Of your kind?'"

She examined him closely and for the first time noticed the bleached mocha of his skin and energy in his eyes that could not have come from a factory. He bore the defined yet modest muscles of young adulthood rather than the bodybuilder figure associated with the majority of modern Freaks. Even his face was soft and youthful, but his cheekbones and the proud jut of his nose placed him in his late teens. This boy—man—did not appeal as a candidate for induction into Freakdom, and that left one option.

The thing that had been niggling at the back of Seras's mind since she entered the pub leapt forward and screamed for attention. She cast out feelers from her long dormant senses, and could've slapped herself for not detecting the heightened power of the man on the adjacent stool.

"Renise Bristow." He flashed pearly fangs and extended a sturdy hand.

"Seras Victoria. I had no idea there were others living here!"

"I did not know, either. I have not been in the city long, however. I arrived Saturday evening, on business."

"Well it's a crappy time for business. The whole city's under lockdown after the attacks; they've even reinstated the semi-mandatory eight o' clock curfew."

"Semi-mandatory?"

"Technically they can't enforce it, but people are terrified enough to get on all fours and bark if they think it will prevent another attack. Not thatanyone wanders around after dark that much, anyway. It's more of astrongreminder than an actual warning."

"People should know better than to be about when the vampires are out."

"I think it's a damn shame when a person can't even walk down their own street without having to worry about being mauled. It's getting to the point where people hardly ever leave their houses after five o' clock, and the businesses shut down at six. I was alive when New York was 'The city that never sleeps,' but it's hard to believe that that slogan ever applied to this place."

She took a deep gulp of blood.

"Anyway," She said, "What business are you here for? If you don't mind me asking."

As she turned to face him she thought his eyebrows were lowered in irritation, but when she blinked his face held nothing but ambivalence. She blamed it on the faulty lighting and listened to him speak.

"I am a…team leader at a company. I will not bore you with the details, but my job demands that I travel frequently with no deference to holidays."

"I've never heard of a—well, one of us working in the human world. Most of the others I've come across have decided to sequester themselves in stuffy mansions for eternity."

"I tried that for a while, but sedentary life has never agreed with me. I am too driven by causes."

"What sorts of causes?"

He twirled the neck of his B+eer between thumb and forefinger. "I am very interested in civil matters, actually. Again, I do not wish to tire you with explanations, but I will say that my interests in combination with my work have sent me across Europe. England, Germany, Scotland, India, Mongolia, Russia— there are few places there I have not lived."

"Is this your first time in the U.S.?"

"No, no. I have been here on several occasions, but it grates on my nerves. I can't stand Americans. Present company excluded, of course," He added quickly.

She waved a hand. "I don't take offense, and I can't blame you. I used to be from London myself, and I thought all the Yankees were a bunch of idiots when I first came over."

"You lived in London? During what year?"

"2000, the same year I was turned. I—"

She stopped. Renise's face had morphed from polite attention to reverent awe. She shied back and said, "What's wrong?"

" London in 2000? You were there when He was around."

"He?"

"Alucard."

And with a single word, Seras's rising mood collapsed.

"Alucard? I've never heard of him."

"Never? He's a legend among our kind—well, not everyone appreciates him the way I do, but the man was—is, is!—incredible. He, he—his powers, they were like a god's."

She bent over her drink and stared into its pinkish depths as though it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

"You don't say? How…interesting."

"He worked for Hellsing during that time. Have you ever—? Well of course you have, they're all over the news when it comes time to honor their demise or whatever crap the media tries to feed the world about them. Anyway, they enslaved him."

"Hm."

"Filthy bunch of pigs."

"Mhm."

"They killed many of our kind. When I think of all the friends I lost—!"

The other Freaks in the bar who had been listening to his brief tirade slurred agreements. Not that any of them were old enough to have had any personal dealings with Hellsing or any of the "Big Three" vampire hunting agencies; still, together with Renise they toasted to the demise of Hellsing and its fellows. Seras curled her lip. This was not the relaxing escape she had been hoping for.

"If you'll excuse me, Renise, I must be going now." She handed forty dollars to the bartender. Renise snatched it from the man and replaced it with his own cash, then returned Seras's to her.

"Please, allow me. Have I done something to offend you, Seras? I'm sorry."

"No, I'm just…tired. I need to get home."

"Home at nine thirty? It's barely hunting hour!"

"I don't hunt. My blood comes from the hospital."

"Oh. Well, then—"

She moved to leave. "Goodnight."

"Wait, take this, please!"

He extended a business card bearing his name in large silver letters and a phone number and address in much smaller print on the bottom. She took it and stuffed it into her wallet.

"Perhaps now was not the best time, but call me again when you are feeling better. I enjoyed our chat, Seras, and I hope we can speak again."

Not likely, she thought, not if it meant an hour of Alucard worship or the re-shredding of Hellsing's good name.

"Sure."

She swept out into the alleyway, leapt to the rooftop of the warehouse across from the bank and crossed three buildings to reach her car. Once inside she floored it, but slowed as she re-entered the city proper. No sense in adding to a miserable evening with a speeding ticket.

She was still too miffed to head home, so she opted for driving around the Manhattan instead. Her Gravita weaved through the maze of New York City streets uninhibited by the traffic and nighttime strollers that had characterized city life once upon a time. There were humans about to be sure, but they were either drunk, overconfident, or a fatal combination of the two. And always hovering just beyond their sight were the beings that would rush forward in a moment and take their lives— Freaks that had grown too fast for bullets, too strong for restraints and too clever and organized to bear even a passing resemblance to their awkward ancestors.

Years ago, before she took in Nate, she would've parked her car by now. She would have pulled on a thick leather coat to disguise the Harbinger Automatic Machine Gun strapped securely across her chest, then she would've slinked through the alleyways until she found what she was looking for—some Freak drunk on Belladona wine pinning a hapless human against the wall and eyeing them with equal parts wanton lust and insatiable hunger. It was so easy, so gratifying, to pull the trigger and watch Freaks dissolve under the ceaseless rage of her gun. She could do it now if…

…If she hadn't forgotten her gun. No, the pistol stored in the dashboard—the one registered weapon she owned—didn't count. And besides, her wanderings had already brought her within a block of Central Park. It would be too much trouble to go home, get her gun, load it and leave again.And she would nevergive Nate that satisfaction.

She parked her car in the driveway rack and entered her house, where she was immediately greeted by the slamming of a door upstairsmingled withshrill screams and Nate's desperate pleadings. Seras closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She removed her coat and hung it on the door peg, then she pried off her shoes and set them down with their fellows in a neat row against the wall. Finally she put her fingers against the front door and closed it loudly. Then she waited.

Seconds later Nate bounded down the stairs into the living room. He stopped halfway across the floor and stared at Seras like a gazelle that had just caught sight of a lion on the open plains. His right eye swelled with the beginnings of a bruise. His muscles bunched and twitched in fight-or-flight mode, but already he was edging away having clearly chosen the latter.

He waggled his fingers at her. "Hey…Seras."

"Nathaniel." She said calmly.

"Er…yeah?"

"I've been gone for two hours. What happened in two hours?"

"Nothing at first…"

"Nathaniel."

"I was refilling your fridge in the basement."

"Yes?"

"And I was bringing the last case down."

"Yes?"

"And Greta called from here and said she needed something."

He paused.

"And?" She prodded.

"And I was going to lock the door, really, but she just ran in there without so much as a knock, and I told her not to come down but she just went right on down the stairs and she saw all the blood, and the coffin, and well—"

Seras spoke like she was issuing a death sentence. "She knows."

"Just a little. She knows that, well, you're the vampire, and that I'm a half-Freak, but you know how kids are and they just don't want to listen to reason and that kind of thing so…"

He trailed off. Seras's face was stern as stone save for the malice crackling behind her purpled eyes.

"I think I'll leave now." Nate said, and he wheeled around and fled through the dining room and out the back door.

The cogs of her brain struggled to grind past the gravity of what had occurred while she was out. And when they couldn't, the part of her she preferred to ignore pierced through her weakened defenses and pointed out that the perfect way to alleviate stress was with dinner, whose frenetic heartbeat called to her from above. She bared her fangs and ran her tongue along their backs and points then shook her head and slapped herself, hard. What the hell was she thinking? There was a fridge full of dinner downstairs, poor substitute that it was for—

Nothing, nothing at all. She didn't have time to deal with this crap. She forced her will onto the bloodlust until it grumbled and subsided. It took more effort than it usually did, but attempts at blocking some of her vampiric traits were rarely easy.

"One can not pick and choose as a nosferatu," He had told her once. "If you do not fully embrace your nature, Police Girl, then you can never expect to join the high ranks of our kind."

Well, what the hell did he know? She'd gotten the hang of shadow walking, flying, transformation and even that horrid summoning bit all by herself without having to run around tearing people's heads off. And furthermore—

Seras realized that she was arguing with herself.

She took several deep breaths to clear her thoughts, then she smoothed out her jeans and mounted the stairs. There was still a terrified little girl cowering up there, and the futures of herself and Nate--provided that Seras let Nate live after this incident-- hinged onSeras's ability to calm her down.Mental tirades against the ghouls of her past could wait.