You look like shit. Bloodshot eyes, skin pulled back from your nails and teeth, thrift-store clothes. Even your satchel looks like someone dragged it down a highway. You check the satchel; your deliveries—the USBs—are still in there.
Then you hear sound outside: a few whispered words in Spanish, weeping.
Thank God. Food. You just hope there's something you can eat. As a member of Clan Ventrue, your palate is more refined than that of other vampires. Not only can you not drink bagged or animal blood, you are limited to the living blood of—