The low, rythmitic humming of a black, Mustang muscle car is heard down the busy roads of the Tri-Borough Bridge. Blade was heading toward Jamaica, Queens where the scene of a young black female found behind the dark alley of a Flourist Shop named "Rosie's" dead, with two small, deep stab wounds near the right side of her neck was reported on the news a day or two ago. That meant that somewhere, hopefully near-by there was a yet another 'Familiar' on the loose, he knew this because vampires tend to stick to areas where they've succesfully captured pray, in the hopes they'd find another...
Blade had finally reached his destination, right infront of the said Flourist Shop. He walked up to the door where a sign reading 'Closed' was seen through the glass, and yet there were loads of people inside, the lights brightly lit as if they were still open for business. He opened the door and walked inside, slightly grimacing at the cinnamony scent whiffing across his nose, he never liked the smell, it was almost as bad as second-hand-smoke from a badly-rolled blunt. He walked up to the people huddled up near the back door of the shop which lead to the alleyway, they did'nt notice him, yet...
He tip-toed over a few of the people infront of him and saw a small shrine of flowers, highschool photos, and thick roman candles neatly decorating the enter of the circle of people. The photos resembled the lady in the news the other day and he narrowed his eyes a bit, tapping the elderly man infront him on the shoulder. The old man jumped and looked behind him, gasping somewhat at the strange man infront him now, "Uh, sorry sir, we closed right now, a little busy, ya see-.."
"Excuse me.", Blade gently nudged the old man over, walking past everybody else, the shrine, and went straight through the back door...
As soon as he entered the dark alley-way, his hightened sense of smell caught the ever tempting smell of blood coming fron the ground just a few feet ahead. No worries though, he had already taken his syrum for the day and knew quite clear that it was'nt "healthy" blood. It was the dry blood of the victim he was looking to avenge. He continued straight down the alleyway, knees slightly bent and his right hand gripping the new weapon that Whistler had built him earlier that day in a ready-for-act position.
As he caught up to the small, dried out puddle of blood on the ground, he got on one knee and rubbed the edge of it with his gloved fingers, bringing it up for a more accurate sniff, "Still fresh.", he whispered to himself...
