The wind was relentless against the windows of the Puca Hotel, a rhythmic, mournful drumming that matched the fatigue throbbing behind Daniel’s eyes after hours of interviews and signing of his book. He pushed the heavy door of his suite open, his keys jingling faintly, his mind already drifting toward the bottle of scotch he’d left on the dresser.

He didn't make it three steps inside before the shift in the air hit him.

It wasn't a draft. It was the absence of silence. The room felt crowded, weighted by a presence that didn't belong in the mundane ecosystem of a hotel suite. His gaze swept the room with the practiced efficiency of a man who had spent decades looking for things others preferred hidden.

His laptop, which he had left closed on the mahogany desk, was now slightly ajar. His suitcase, which had been tucked neatly against the wall, was pulled three inches to the left. The air smelled different—not of the hotel’s antiseptic lavender, but of something metallic, cold, and impossibly old.

Daniel didn't panic. Panic was for people who didn't know what kind of monsters walked the earth. Instead, his jaw tightened, his blue-gray eyes narrowing into sharp, calculating slits. Without a sound, his hand bypassed the phone and closed firmly around the heavy brass firepoker resting by the unused hearth.

"I’m a bit too old for home invasions," Daniel called out, his voice rasping but steady, lacking any tremor of fear. "And frankly, my insurance doesn't cover supernatural vandalism. Why don't you show yourself before I decide to be difficult?"

He moved through the room with a lithe, predatory grace that betrayed his years, checking the corners, the bathroom door, the shadows behind the thick floor-to-ceiling curtains.

He didn't find them until he turned toward the balcony. You were there, standing in the silver light cast by the streetlamps outside, utterly motionless.

Daniel stopped. The firepoker remained in his hand, though his grip loosened almost imperceptibly. He didn't need to see your fangs or witness a feat of inhuman speed. He saw your eyes. They held that unmistakable, terrifying depth, the look of a creature that had stared into the abyss of time and found it unremarkable. It was the same look he had seen in Louis. It was the same look he had seen in Armand.

"Well," Daniel exhaled, a grim, weary smile touching his thin lips. He leaned against the back of an armchair, his posture relaxed despite the weapon in his hand. "I suppose I should have updated my security system. Or stopped writing about you lot altogether."

He tilted his head, his gaze intensely focused, already scanning you for the tell-tale rhythms of a predator. "You’ve been through my things. My notes, I assume? Or were you just checking to see if I was as senile as the public thinks?"

He didn't lower the poker, but his tone shifted, becoming the inquisitive, dangerous voice of the journalist he had always been.

"You’re a long way from the shadows, aren't you? If you’re here to kill me, you’re taking your time."