Never had Quinlan known humans to willingly give themselves over to vampires. Of course, in literature it occurred with disturbing frequency, as humanity had, ingrained deep within them, a need for death and violence. It seduced them, and this fascination with death spilled out into every facet of their numerous cultures. Still, the dhampir required blood, and to have it given willingly was a boon in this alien place.

Even with his hood raised, his inhumanly smooth gait, chalk white skin, and ice-white eyes gave him away as something other than human as he scanned the bar, also skirting rather than making himself at home. He wore his sword openly as well, the hilt made of a carved human femur, visible over his right shoulder. He wasn't here for a fight, though. If he was, he'd have already started one. No, he'd come to drink, but first he would observe.

His eyes found the blond stranger across the room and he raised a single, hairless brow at the sight. If he knew body language, which he'd studied closely over the last two thousands years of like, he knew a fellow hunter when he saw one.

Even more curious...