/-/- Fall, 1886

The harbour is much colder than Nikola expected. In the centre of the city, back at Dr. Magnus's Sanctuary, it was a brisk fall morning. The breeze was tamed and the scent of winter approaching hung in the air, but it was still a comfortable temperature. Out on the dock however, Nikola was shivering under his wool jacket. Which was strange, he thought, considering that he's a vampire now.

He lifts his luggage by its worn handle and steps away from the departing taxi. From his pocket, he removes a first class ticket- Helen had bought it for him, to make boarding a less tedious chore. He's not really sure where to go and thus just stands in centre of the dock, being occasionally tousled around by boarding passengers and dock workers. He doesn't look around for a member of the crew or someone knowledgeable enough to point him in the correct way; he doesn't look at the ship for clues as to where he should go. He doesn't even wander aimlessly closer. He's just frozen in place.

The world has become sharper to his senses. The colours seem brighter, the lines more vivid and bolder. He feels like he can hear everything, the soft patter of rats scurrying around the crates, the grating of metal and wood, the sharp tones of the woman almost twenty metres away and the reply of the confused worker. He can taste the approaching rain and the hint of salt being carried in the breeze. But most of all, he can smell everything, every rancid odour of the third class passengers and sweaty dock workers, the gentle perfume of a first class woman off to his left, the scent of mud and rain and salt and iron- most of all, iron. He's experienced this before, a number of times actually and always when in large crowds, but every time before he had had Helen with him, to keep him moving forward.

This time he's alone and trapped in his senses. It's not so much the acuity in his hearing or sight or even taste that bothers him, it's how strong the scent of iron is. Because it's not just iron, not just the scent of too much metal surrounding him. The iron smells sweet to him, it's overpowering and enticing. He flares his nostrils and breathes in deeply just to get a better appreciation of it.

When an Irish worker jostles him from behind, he can smell it perfectly. Iron- the sweet, hot scent of iron flowing through his veins. Nikola can hear his heart pounding, pumping the blood through his body. When he turns to see the man, all he can see is his neck and the artery pulsing, just perceptible to his vampire eyes. Nikola takes a step to turn around and then another forward to follow the Irishman, before he stops quite dead in his tracks. He feels it then, the sharpness of his teeth and the dilation of his eyes. He shuts his eyes quickly and inhales deeply through his nose, though he regrets that almost immediately- he can still smell the Irishman's wake, the tang of blood. Nikola starts walking, gaining speed and closing the distance between himself and the Irishman.

Then, quite suddenly, Nikola veers right and leaves the dock. His pace is quick but he has no destination in mind. He knows, in the more rational part of his brain, that he should return to Helen and tell her what happened. He knows that she would be willing to have him stay, to keep working on his self-control. Honestly, he doesn't know why he doesn't go back.

He finds himself at a small Inn, somewhere in Soho, hours later. It's late and he's famished. The pub is dark, not enough candles throughout the place, but it doesn't bother Nikola with his advanced sight. He hides himself in the corner and orders anything that's meat and a pint of dark beer.

The food has no taste to him; he hates that alcohol doesn't have an impact on him any longer. Within an hour, he's eaten three dinners, all meat, and still he feels famished. If he were normal, he would have drunken himself into a stupor. All he can think about is the stench of iron that fills the entire pub, the entire Inn. So many humans with litres of rich, sweet smelling blood pumping through them, keeping them alive.

He hears the barmaid approaching just before he smells her. His breathing becomes shallow and pained. She reaches around him to take his plate and empty mug away. His action is reflexive- he snatches her arm and holds her close to him. Her body is flush against his side, radiating heat, pulsing blood, exuding a strong scent of booze and lilacs and sweat and most certainly iron. So much iron, so sweet.

"You interested in a little more than food tonight, sir?"

He knows his teeth are a bit too sharp and his eyes dilated to the point that little grey can be seen, but that doesn't stop him from looking up at her. She's smiling a little at him, forced in the way whores tend to smile at potential clients, but it makes him smirk in response. "Yes. Yes, I think I am."

"Well why don't you follow me?"

She holds his hand and leads him to a room in the back. He's having a hard time controlling himself; he wants her to walk faster. She pulls the door opened and he breezes past her. He feels his face growing tauter and his eyes dilating even more in the dark room. The door slams shut behind the barmaid and he feels a growl escape his throat and he doesn't try to stop himself from throwing her against the door, from pushing his body against hers, from grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the wood, from letting his teeth grow sharp just before plunging them into the tender skin of her neck.

It's his first taste ever. It almost burns it's so good, so sharp and tangy. Sweet with a bitter aftertaste. It makes the shaking and the coldness fade away. He feels warm and heavy. He feels stronger and more invincible than ever. He wants more.

When he started, she was struggling against him and her chest was heaving and he vaguely remembers her saying something to him. But she was quiet now and limp against him. He pulls his face out of her neck and stares down at her. She's pale and her eyes are closed.

"Oh god..."

He lowers her onto the floor and strokes a strand of hair behind her ear. He stares at her chest, hoping to see it move. It does, just barely. With effort, her lungs are still pulling in air.

"Rachel!" The bartender's knuckles pound on the wooden door he was just pinning her against. "Rachel, come out here and tend these tables!"

The taste of blood is so fresh on his lips, he feels so strong, he can't change back into his human form. He stands and looks down at the half-dead body of the barmaid then back at the door being pounded on. He searches the room, desperate for a way out. He runs over to the window and breaks it open, runs through the back alleys and jumps rooftops until he's breathless and human and standing outside of Magnus's home. He pounds on the door and yells for Helen.

"Helen! Please, let me in. Helen!"

The door opens and Helen stands there in her dressing gown, a candle in her hand and her hair cascading down her back. "Nikola, what are you doing? It's the middle of the night. Why aren't you on your ship to America?"

He doesn't listen to her, just steps inside. He paces forward, then pivots and looks at her. "I... I almost killed a woman."

"What?"

"I could smell everyone. I needed," he gasps in air and moves closer to her, "I wanted..." He's standing directly in front of her, his face lit by the candle in her hand. "I drank her blood. I almost couldn't stop myself. She was still alive, but I didn't know what to do. I just... I just ran. I ran here. Helen, I... I couldn't control myself."

She strokes his cheek and he leans into the warmth. He closes his eyes, and breathes in her scent- always of tea and mint and just a little iron, but it doesn't affect him quite as much anymore.

"You'll be all right, Nikola. I promise. I'll help you. Maybe there's a treatment, or something. I can work on it." She strokes his hair and he chokes back tears. "It'll be all right."