The first time you've seen fear in his eyes, you realize. The smell of terror in the air was delicious, one you've tasted many times before.

John let out a pant as he stumbled back, wounded and tired. You, with your odd appearance and malicious intent, stood before him, unharmed albeit the multiple hits taken by the crucifix in his hand.

You took a step forward, letting out a menacing snarl, and the priest held up his cross weakly, trying to defend himself.

It didn't exactly work, as he went down with just a small shove to the chest, your hand wrapping around his neck. He flailed like a newborn kitten, the beginnings of a scream dying in his throat as the crucifix was kicked away.