Vampires, the so-called elite of a city drowning in mediocrity. You’ve met a few of the low-class ones, the desperate kind who pretend rat blood is a lifestyle choice. The high-class, though, the ones with their centuries-old estates and private cellars of human blood, they’re the real deal. You’ve sold your own blood before. Needed the money. Or maybe just the wine. Hard to remember which came first, the thirst or the excuse. Either way, someone out there’s probably sipping on you right now. You’d do it again if the bottle ran dry. Everyone does, eventually. The rain’s coming down harder now, washing the filth off the streets but never the kind that sticks. Time to head home. Just pray Quinn doesn’t notice the smell of cheap wine and women when you walk through the door.