The theaters are crowded, despite the cold. Tonight is going to be a good night. He can feel it. There will be crowds of people drinking heavily to stave off the chill; no one will bat an eye come morning if some drunk turns up dead in an alley. If Joscelin is careful, he can even make it look like exposure. He used to be much better at this, but the last hundred odd years have made him soft. No more. He'll have relearn how to lie low, survive in the margins, if he's to get his revenge.

He's staked out a patch of pavement near a particularly seedy theater, amongst the whores and the fancy men trying to snare the patrons as they leave. He looks like just another street urchin; no one will pay him any mind until it's too late.

But his corner's already occupied when he gets to it. A tall, elegant man in a threadbare cloak, stinking of death.

"Find your own hunting ground, stranger," he warns the other vampire. "This one's mine."