Postpartem
Sitting quietly at his expansive writing table, Johannes' hands stripped his Luger without conscious thought, the actions automatic. As the slide casing and Kniegelenk assembly pulled free, he looked toward the stack of parchment nearby, especially so at the stop sheet, his aborted letter to Starley. crumpled by Audra's hand. He had left the letter out intentionally, impressed at the passive and ignorant facade she had worn upon his return. He had fully expected her to poke around in his things in his absence, though she did a remarkable job of putting everything back in its place, he thought, his fingers moving silently.
He chuckled to himself as he thought about what lay in the closet, unable to picture the horror on her face had she seen what rested inside; if a mere sword, decorative at that, sent her backpedalling, he let the thought sit, unfinished, a cruel smile broadening. While he overexaggerated his thirst, to provide greater impact, he had spent of himself greatly that evening, his heart and lungs coaxed into action by his potent vitae. Her stuttered step as she felt his predator's taint was a memory he would treasure for some time, he thought, opening the small container of pistol grease.
Had she known how easily he had fed after leaving, however, he doubted the effect would have been nearly as convincing; the herd he kept on staff at the hotel ensured he was never without, not that 'Strife' was more than an hour's drive either, the club he and Astrid managed bringing hundreds of tourists to the Santa Rosa area every weekend. The Reeve had yet to want for food since arriving in California, a fact on which he often reflected. Were the people of America less observant, more tollerant, and more willingly blind to the creatures that prety on them than their counterparts across the Atlantic?
A frown grew as he absently disassembled the firing pin assembly. Though he had not been terribly pleased with how his letter turned out, he disliked having to rewrite, especially when it contained the offer to explain Svyatoslav's death; a subject she would not enjoy. A slow, exasperated sigh escaped his lips as he also noted his diminished inkwell; he would have to ensure a new supply of the dark crimson ink before long -- there were many letters on the horizon.
He chuckled to himself as he thought about what lay in the closet, unable to picture the horror on her face had she seen what rested inside; if a mere sword, decorative at that, sent her backpedalling, he let the thought sit, unfinished, a cruel smile broadening. While he overexaggerated his thirst, to provide greater impact, he had spent of himself greatly that evening, his heart and lungs coaxed into action by his potent vitae. Her stuttered step as she felt his predator's taint was a memory he would treasure for some time, he thought, opening the small container of pistol grease.
Had she known how easily he had fed after leaving, however, he doubted the effect would have been nearly as convincing; the herd he kept on staff at the hotel ensured he was never without, not that 'Strife' was more than an hour's drive either, the club he and Astrid managed bringing hundreds of tourists to the Santa Rosa area every weekend. The Reeve had yet to want for food since arriving in California, a fact on which he often reflected. Were the people of America less observant, more tollerant, and more willingly blind to the creatures that prety on them than their counterparts across the Atlantic?
A frown grew as he absently disassembled the firing pin assembly. Though he had not been terribly pleased with how his letter turned out, he disliked having to rewrite, especially when it contained the offer to explain Svyatoslav's death; a subject she would not enjoy. A slow, exasperated sigh escaped his lips as he also noted his diminished inkwell; he would have to ensure a new supply of the dark crimson ink before long -- there were many letters on the horizon.