His bracelet still has the mark where my sword struck it. Her necklace is the same as when I found it lying on that cloak of singed feathers. Four hundred years. Memento Mori.

Rats skitter by, covered in dirt and running away.

I've been talking to Nick... Nicolas de Brabant; in Paris they used to call him Merciful Death because he wept over his kills. Now he calls himself Knight. They call him the Vampire Cop. Everybody pities Nick, especially Nick.

When has he ever wept over a black choker necklace and a pin in the shape of a sword?