The Marquis sank to the among the ruins of an old cathedral. Above him, the moon burned yellow. He had been running for almost a month. Almost a month stranded away from his bodyguards without time to stop and drink, pursued across the whole of France, often on foot, always in the shadows. His luxurious clothes were ruined, his nerves driven to frenzy. And everything, absolutely everything, ached, from his fangs to the pit of his stomach...and through every vein. This terrible weakness in every limb had finally overcome him to the point of collapse.

In the gloom, he could see a figure approaching. The hunter who had come for him. Though he needed no air, his lungs shuddered with terrified gasping. All he could do was beg. "S'il te plaît," he cried, his voice still otherwordly with beauty even in its parched, high-pitched rasping. "Have - have mercy on me."