Being over four hundred years old, Nicholas no longer needed blood to sustain himself. The tiniest of sips could keep him going for months but what had once been a need to drink had been replaced with a desire for the thrill. The screams of the suffering were like sweet lullabies to his ears and the blissful moment that the glimmer of life in their eyes faded to nothingness—in that moment, he was no man, he was no Vampire. In that moment, he felt himself a God. It was the only time he felt in control. It was his calm during the endless storm. He was a junkie and killing was the only fix that laid his demons to rest, even if just for a little while.