Even with new revelations, some wounds were still too old; too deep to heal, and with Christmas anniversaries looming it made others still feel fresher that ever. For the machinist, the last few months had been a every bit a double-edged sword: A refreshing distraction outlining a growing cause for concern. There had been too many things to ponder on since Sunderton. Too many sleepless nights, punctuated and compounded by the continued evolution of his relationships.

With one relationship in particular.

Save for the times he'd taken and efforts he'd made to participate in the Yule festivities, Steve had been distant and withdrawn in the recent weeks, hiding behind a growing mound of time sensitive work and using it as an excuse to draw in on himself. To reflect and remember. To regret and ponder. Precious few answers came to him and the ones that did tended to create for questions.

One in particular nagged at him. Hounded him like some tireless beast of the hunt. hunt... It was a reminder, a stark one, that he hadn't hit the street in weeks.

Hadn't hunted.

It was there that he'd find his answer.

Fresh snow was falling when he finally suited up and took to the rooftops and allies of West End clad in the comforting grays, browns, and black of utilitarian leather. Where he could not blend, he avoided, seeking out shadows and wearing them like second skin, until one failure after another to find an optimum target/test subject (the latter didn't seem anymore forgiving) finally bore potential fruit.

From the second story edge of a building, stone-lipped and overlooking an alley (so seedy that it bordered on cliche), the fresh smell of blood drew a hawkish slant of blue eyes to the shadows below. With what little ambient light could be found, he honed in on the trenchcoated form (Rhy'din was so great for stereotypes) looming over a recently exsanguinated body, the former crooning it's sated approval over the latter. It took only a brief glimpse of the assailant in profile and the briefer still flash of fangs to given a decidedly grim edge to Steve's smile.

The vampire was only two steps into it's attempted departure when he landed atop it with the full force of his drop, hard enough for the audible crack of bone as it was driven into the pavement. It's hiss was both savage and pained, as it immediately began to struggle against a surprisingly strong opponent.

"Get the f*** off o' me," the greasy-smoothe sound of it's voice almost made the machinist laugh, as if it were something right out of a Saturday morning cartoon. "I'll tear your throat out, mate, I f***in' swear it."

It continued to struggle, making one desperate attempt after another to dislodge him, until it's protests were stopped by the sharpened edge of a wood stake pressed was pressed against it's chest. A promise or a prelude.

"Shhh, shhh," Steve crooned to the bloodsucker, with beguiling reassurance. "Calm down, Vlad. No one's ripping anyone's anything tonight. Just need you to help me test a theory, cool? You help me out real quick-like and I won't put a chair leg through your heart. My promise on it."

Black eyes stared up at the masked face with no small amount of reservation, no, undisguised skepticism. The only response the expression drew was a curious and bemused tilt of the head.

"Alroight. Fine, mate. I help and then you bloody well toss off, yeah?"

"Yeah. That's the idea."

The machinist's grip on the vampire loosened only a fraction and just long enough for him to pull a small vial of crimson liquid from a hardened pack on his belt. With his knees pinning it's arms in place, Steve pulled the stopper free and pressed the vial to it's lips.

"Drink."

It was hesitant at first, with pursed lips and a renewed worry that was worth a futile squirm. Resignation and the smell of new blood followed, before pale lips parted and it swallowed down the offered. It went down easily, from all outward appearances, the vampire's thin brows knitting together thoughtfully even as it stared silent question up into it's attacker's masked face. The quick swab of it's tongue, a faint hope of an errant remnant, was a good sign, but Steve let a good sixty seconds hang between them in silence before finally speaking again.

"Well?"

"Well what, mate? It's," it grunted, exhaling a thoroughly wistful, sated sound that surprised it's captor. "...it's f***ing amazing. It's... like, well... Ain't never had better. Like... the perfect glass o' sherry or the perfect woman warmin' your bed. You gotta tell me where you bloody well got that, because I can think o' a dozen licks like me who'd kill to get their fangs in that---"

The words were cut off in a sudden coughing choke, the previously unseen machete coming down in a hard, flawless stroke that struck the creature's head from it's shoulders in a slice that ran left to right. Steve could help but lurch and move to get his feet under him as it rapidly began to dissolve, decay, and eventually turn to stick ash beneath him. The blade was sheathed almost as quickly as it materialized and with all the panache of a carpenter, he was pocketing the vial and rising to his feet.

"See? Promise kept. No wood in the chest." A brief, cursory look was turned on the leech's previous victim, dead before he arrived but no less worth the thin line of his frown behind the mask.

But he had an answer.

...and more questions...