He'd spent to what amounted to 200 years in a box.
Because of Angelique.
Because of the girl who was so obsessed with him, she'd murdered his parents, the woman he loved, and cursed him to live forever.
Love was so overrated - particularly in this day and age. Those nice young people he'd been forced to slaughter hadn't stopped talking about it - that and peace.
He had almost been driven mad in that box, alone and hungry, the starvation driving him to near madness every time a human passed over his grave. He could smell them, hear the blood pounding in their hearts and thrumming in their throats, and despite the fact that he'd never tasted human blood, he awoke from his fantasy's with the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.
He hissed in pain and agony, wanting nothing more than to be free.
And, at long last, he was.
He felt sorry for the deaths of those workers - really he did, he'd never wanted to become this soulless monster of the night - but he'd just been so thirsty.
Surely they could understand that?
And if not, it was all Angelique's fault anyway. They could blame her instead.
He needed to find out whether any of his family line had survived - and what they had done if they had.