Nate wanted to throw up. He could feel the contents of his stomach (all bile and what remained of his breakfast he had eaten so little today) roiling and rebelling against his throat. He could already taste it on his tongue.

He stumbled away from the laptop, the paused image from last night's footage frozen on the screen and staring at him; the door creaked open and a man with a face that wasn't a face but two black holes where its eyes should be watching him from beyond the wooden doorway. He had watched a little ahead, watched as it came closer (with muffled thuds it was wearing heavy boots), watched as it had crawled onto his bed and straddled him.

Watched as, after 30 minutes of just sitting there and straddled his sleeping form with its not face out of view of the shot and its arms too close to his face he was sure they weren't in the shot either (the noises that came from his speakers were not good it sounded like he was choking), it crawled from off his chest and slid itself under the bed.

He don't know how it was playing back to him. In his sudden nausea he must have hit the wrong button and wound it back. Back to the moment the not-person entered his room in full.

He stumbled from the front room, a hand over his mouth as he made his way into the kitchen. Sobs and gasps left his mouth in uneven spurts, wide eyes panicked and darting around the dimly lit room.

His feet fumbled and slipped and he found himself on the floor, gasping and retching acrid bile onto the cracked tiling loudly. He whimpered before he fumbled to his feet, hands on the counter in a sad attempt at support.

He needed to forget. Needed to close his eyes and lose himself and just...forget. He turned his attention to the fridge, eyeing it before he made his way there with a little more strength in his legs.

He opened the fridge door with a jingle and he dragged out the large case of beer he kept stored and chilled inside.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Audrey had needed to unwind. The shock and fear of what had...supposedly happened to her had worn down and left her with a dullness that was unacceptable in every way. So here she was now, putting on her new clothes (the origin of which had been left behind in the haze still fogging her mind beautifully) for the second time in twenty four hours.

She cast a look back, eyeing the figure sleeping on the bed, auburn hair fanning from her head like a halo, white blanket draped to just under a bare arm. The wolf smiled down at the dear thing, straightening the leather over her shoulder before leaning down over her. She placed a kiss on that bare, almost chocolate skinned forehead.

Audrey turned then, making her way silently out of the room, closing the front door with a barely audible click before she made her way back out into the street.

She took in a deep inhale of the rain stained air, taking in the scents of the people who had passed by and of the many things that filled the air of this town filled with monsters and men. To her it smelled like dahlia flowers.

Her nose wrinkled and her lip curled.

She turned from the house she had been to, had slept and partaken in a pleasure she had not felt in some time, not since death and ash had taken her home and family. Audrey needed to get her head back into the game, back into the hunt.

So she turned and, with a startling calmness, began to make her way down the street in long strides.

~~~*~*~*~~~

He was leaning in now, head tilted to the side. He couldn't tell if the dark-skinned man was breathing right, the sounds shallow and labored. That wasn't good.

The masked man sat up, turning his covered face to stare down at the man, a garbled growl of annoyance and displeasure leaving his throat. He lifted a hand, grimy fingers flitting across the others neck, checking his pulse and his breathing and deciding if it would be smart to move--

A sick crack filled the room, the masked man's body jerking roughly to the slide and slamming into the floor. Vincent stood and watched it with a look of pure disgust, his face twisted as he shifted the tire iron in his hand.

The man sputtered and gasped, a greasy hand moving up to cup the pounding point of impact. The masked man didn't even get time to retaliate, Vincent's foot lifting and slamming into his side, forcing him to the ground.

The old witch took the time to lunge downward onto one knee, bringing the tire iron down on the masked thing's head with another, wet sounding crack. It stopped moving after that, going limp under the witch's knee.

Vincent sniffed, standing straight and throwing the now blood and hair covered tool to the side. He turned, bringing his attention to the man on the soiled mattress. He glanced down at the bloody and still creature before turning and making his way to the other.

"Well...hello there," he muttered, leaning over the dark-skinned man and cupping his cheek. "How did you end up like this my friend? Oh don't worry now...I'll fix you up and everything will be alright."

He smiled.

"I promise."