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Victor knew perfectly well that there were morning services, noon services and evening services every day - and he also knew he was early. But he'd been watching the punks that had decided to loiter outside of the church, and they had been about to torment Elenore, just like he'd watched them do to a few other early morning passers-by. He'd stopped them because he felt somewhat sorry for Elenore. She reminded him of a rabbit, who had just discovered that people have built a road right next to its burrow, but who was unable to move. The dark man had to wonder what was it that this gang wanted, anyway.

Father McKenzie sat on the edge of his bed, fully clothed. He hadn't slept much that night, for a gang had decided to party in the small garden behind the parish. He'd stayed up a silent, lightless vigil at the window, staring out at the youths as they wrecked his garden, and the graveyard attached to it. There was nothing he could do. It made him feel helpless, not a good feeling. But he was just one man, and not a very strong one at that. Finally, he stood up, and moved to go down to the church proper. No matter how empty and useless he felt, there was still services. As he passed a window, he heard the sounds of a fight, and paused to look down, wondering if someone would die on the steps of his church again today.

There he saw the pale young man who he'd noticed in the church yesterday, dancing almost with the gang, hands in pockets, deftly avoiding the knifeblade that was being slashed in his face. As Father McKenzie watched, the slim dark man took his hands out of his pockets, and continued the violent dance, moving swiftly from combatant to combatant, fists flashing briefly, bringing tough after tough down. After a few moments, the gang fled and with a self satisfied smile that the Father could see from the window, the slim pale man bushed off his hands, and sat down out of the way, on the steps of the church. Now that was something that one man could do. Father McKenzie realized. The youth had been one against many, and yet, he'd won. Perhaps he too could do something.

Victor smiled to himself, arching an eyebrow. There was something new in his voice tonight. It was almost as if something new had been added. Halfway through the sermon, Victor figured it out - yesterday, Father McKenzie had sounded defeated. Today, he sounded as if he was trying to give others hope - and Victor knew that if they listened he could help. But first they had to listen.

Over the next few weeks, Father McKenzie tried to reach out to the community, though no one but Elenore and Victor heard. And Elenore's mind was mostly on Victor. It was a kind of obsession - a mild one, but obsession nonetheless - perhaps because Victor was the only man who'd ever been more than passing nice to her. Maybe it was simply the age old fascination with mysterious dark men who saved people. Victor showed up quite regularly for both morning and evening services now. Hadn't missed one since he'd first shown up - and sometimes he'd come in the middle of the day and... well, it might have been meditation, and it might have been prayer - from the outside, Elenore had no way to tell the difference. The dark haired man simply sat quietly, sometimes with his eyes closed, and sometimes with his eyes open, staring at the cross over the altar. But Elenore kept doing her job, cleaning the church - but out of the corner of her eye, she watched Victor, somewhat afraid that if she ever said anything to him, he'd stop coming. And then all she'd be left with would be memories. Again.

"Now let me get this straight," said Damian. "First, you were beaten up by a small teenaged man, then an elderly priest beat you over the head with a baseball bat, and kicked you out of the cemetery behind St. Patrick's?"

"Yeah," said the punk nervously.

Damian settled back in his chair and let his eyes look over the grimy young man. "And you thought this would interest me why?"

"Uh... 'cause everyone says you're the king of the dark world here about."

"Ah," said Damian, and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "That is because crime is a night pursuit, and I am the lord of the night in Neo York." He paused. "Do you know why that is?"

"No," said the punk in a small voice, color draining from his face at the sound of Damian's voice.

"Because I am the most powerful vampire here," he purred. "I am the night. And you are just a snot-nosed punk who has gotten the snot beaten out of him." Damian stood - he overshadowed the punk in power, though not in size. "And I do so love it when my meals get delivered - " There wasn't even a scream.

Afterwards, Damian left the mess to be cleaned up by his servants, and retired to his study. The punk's news had interested him. St. Patrick¹s was rising again was it. It had taken years of quiet, painstaking work to pick the once great church to the dilapidated state it was in now. He'd thought Father McKenzie would be perfect - the man was so despondent, Damian had been sure that he would crawl into a bottle within the first few years of taking control of what could now only be called a parish. But he hadn't, against all odds. And now he was rearing his head, and turning to the community.

Why? It wasn't the church's place to care, really, it was the church's place to just be there, to offer the millions of squalling humans some hope for a better place. Not that there was, mind you, but that was the church's job. Most of the city were private worshipers, of the Lifebringer. And Damian didn't mind that. The Lifebringer didn't give a damn about vampires either in practice or what passed as writ and rule around here. Oh, good lifers weren¹t supposed to seek out the dark ways, because it interrupted the cycle of lives/lessons, but it was regarded as just another lesson. The people in the religion didn't think much of them, but as long as they weren¹t affected by the vampires, they didn't much care if anyone else was. And The Guild of Vampire Hunters - well, they stuck to the street crimes in the popular areas, and didn't say much about anything. In Neo York, they like everyone else, had their own agenda. So what was this priest¹s agenda? And who was the black boy? Because clearly, they both had to be stopped.

Victor smiled, and clapped his hands in time with the music. He wished his Mother could come out of her lab to see this - this is what a community was supposed to do. Well, maybe street fairs weren¹t all of it, but there was definitely something here that made him feel happy, in a homeish sort of way, which his... room did not.

"I want to thank you all," Father McKenzie was saying on the stage as the band lowered its instruments, "For renewing my faith in this community." There was a cheer at large. "Together, we aren't just people - " he said with a large smile. "Together we are the world."

Beyond the flood lights that turned the night to day in front of the cathedral, Damian's right hand man, uhhh, fang, spat into the alley. Fred didn't like what he was seeing. This was their herd. These were their cattle. And the cattle was forming a workers collective. With a god who was just as much of a blood drinker as they were to it up. He hoped Damian had a plan, because when men started talking about God, and their People, and their World, it generally went much the worse for the vampires in the area. There was the black boy that the gangs had been talking about - though he wasn't back, really, he was as white as Fred was, but he was dressed all in black, with the stringiest, spikiest head of black hair that Fred had ever seen. It kind of matched his body. But that wasn't why he stood out to Fred. What Fred saw was the unmistakable line of a shoulder holster under the boy's jacket. Quick supernatural eyes actually caught a glimpse of the gun as a girl pulled the black boy to his feet and onto the dance floor, to dance in the way of those totally inept at having a good time, but determined to do it. They didn't seem dangerous, but somehow, deep in Fred's brain the entire scene struck a chord entitled "not a good thing." And things that weren¹t good needed to be gotten rid of.

Victor panted and leaned against the wall, confused and scared. His sister - what was the Guild doing with her? He covered his face with his hands, and took a deep breath. Then he took out a clove and lit it, his hands shaking so badly it took almost twice the time it usually did. He needed someplace where he could be safe. His muscles had tensed wrong, and his fangs were out again. Victor took a few more deep breaths. The Church, St. Patrick¹s, it should be empty this time of night. He could go there.

Father McKenzie woke up - something was happening. Well, if those punks were back, he'd give them more of the same. He picked up his bat, and headed down the stairs into the church proper.

Victor huddled against the wall, head covered by his arms. He took deep breaths. His sister - his sweet sister they'd been making her kill - not just vampires, humans too that's what he'd seen. A light came on behind the altar as Father McKenzie entered.

"Who's there?" he called, raising the lantern above his head. After a moment, he saw Victor huddled in a mass of black leather and blue jeans. "Who are you...? I've seen you around before."

Victor raised his face, brown-grey eyes fixing on the father's face. "Victor," he said.

"Well, what are you doing here Victor?"

"I wanted to be someplace safe."

Father McKenzie smiled softly. "Well this may just be the place."

"It may."

"How did you get in?"

Victor sighed, and looked away. The Father sighed and shook his head.

"Very well, don't tell me." He rose and brushed off his night shirt.

"Where are you going?" Victor asked.

"Back to bed."

He smiled again at Victor's bewildered expression.

"If you leave before dawn, lock up behind you."

The lamp moved away. "May God be with you, my son."

And Victor was alone in the dark.

Victor was uncertain what to do. The Guild was getting funny. The tests were increasing, and getting more odd by the day. He was sure that they were trying to determine how his mother had made him, as if he were some sort of homunculus that studying could recreate. He was equally sure that just studying him was not going to give them the answer. But what was he going to do about Mary? She was in many ways younger than him, even though she'd woken up years ago. He couldn't just let them twist her mind. But his mother had forbidden him to contact Mary. He didn't know why, but he figured that it was a good idea. Too many questions not enough answers. He closed his eyes in the darkness and began to pray. If he could just reach peace, maybe he could sleep. Sleep. Where he didn't have to think about anything.

"Victor?" came a woman's voice - a hand touched his shoulder.

"Mother?" he muttered, drawing his arm away from his head. "Is that you?"

"Victor?"

The dark haired man cleared his eyes and saw Elenore standing over him, broom in one hand and bucket of other cleaning supplies by her feet.

"Wha?" he muttered, blinking sleep stuff from his eyes, and rubbing at them with gloved fingers.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, confused.

"I... I didn't want to be alone."

"Ahh..." Elenore and Victor looked up to the cross above the altar at the same time. She didn't ask how he got in.

"Sorry," he said simply and unfolded himself from where he'd been sleeping on the rug before the altar. "I... I gotta go." Victor slunk down the aisle and out of the doors into the sunlight.

Outside he lit a clove and took a deep draw before starting down the streets. By now his mother would have checked on his room, and found him gone, with no note, because he intended to return. He'd better go straight to her lab.

The lab was in ruins, vials smashed and notebooks torn to shreds, with acids, and other fluids bubbling in strange interactions on the floor.

"Mother?" called Victor looking around, confused. "Mother are you here?"

"Victor?" A woman in her later thirties with a short cap of wispy blonde hair, ghostly lavender eyes, and one lab coat arm pinned up to her shoulder entered. She gasped. "Victor what happened here?"

"I don't know Mother I just got here, looking for you."

"What a mess!" she exclaimed moving towards the small closet where she kept a broom. Suddenly she noticed Victor's eyes moving to a note pinned to the wall.

"NO MORE," read the note.

"No more what?" wondered Victor aurally, hands going of their own accord to his jacket pocket, pulling out the brown and gold package of cloves.

"No Victor. Not right now," Dr. Shelly said shaking her head. "I'm not sure how these things will react to open flame."

"Yes Mother," Victor obediently put his smokes away. Then he helped her clean up. "Mother?" he said quietly. "About Mary...?"

"No," Dr. Shelly said sharply. "You are not to talk to Mary. Not until you're sure I'm dead."

"But..." he looked away at the fierce expression on her face. "Yes mother."

"So where were you last night. I presume since you didn't do this, you didn't make similar mayhem of your room."

"They trashed my room?" Victor said, with only a trace of anger.

"Yes well, I'm sure the Guild would refer to it as 'reappropriation of storage space.'"

Victor winced a little.

"Mother...?"

"Yes?"

"I don't know how much longer I can live like this."

"I know Victor, I know."

Damian steepled his fingers in front of his face and thought, staring at the elegant, sculptured nails that tipped each finger. They were each as strong as iron and as deadly as a werewolf's claws. His hands, though fine boned were strong, and he could hold a million lives in them, and with one motion, extinguish them all. But the one life, the black boy, he could not get those strong fingers around. There were no records of him, at town hall, or the Guild hall, or anywhere. He had appeared in a vacuum. The only lead was his appearance, and minions had been sent about with photos of him to try and discover who he was.