Shutting his eyes, calling into play the psychological abilities that had been to some degree answerable for his brilliant ascent with the Paris police, he converged with the past, utilizing every one of the telltales, every one of the smidgens of proof and air constants, to understand the killer, to intuit his perspective and how it had been to execute, to get back to the snapshot of the wrongdoing, to the turret how it had been the last morning. A swelled yellow moon hung in the east over the mounded slopes that encompassed the palace, enlightening invulnerable bushes and short, squat oaks with small branches, making profound bayous of shadow in the folds of the earth. Short of breath quiet. At that point, the turret entryway squeaking open, and a dull figure, a man—or maybe it had not been a man! Beheim thought for a moment that he detected the male state of the killer’s appetite, the strength of his franticness, yet then a trace of something, a delicacy of development, an aversion, made him suspect something. However, for guess, he named the killer a man. Tall. A tall man driving the young lady out into the cold air. Her pale hair padded in the breeze. Her dim nightdress formed to bosoms and midsection and sectioned thighs. Her demeanor was stupefied, her developments somnambulistic. She didn’t feel anything of the cool, under the powerful impulse of the vampire’s gaze. The killer went to her to confront him, at that point adapted to her neck and drank. Her head lolled; sickles of white appeared underneath her half-brought down covers. After a long second the vampire lifted his head, his mouth crimsoned, supporting the young lady with one arm. The flavor of the blood had dizzied him. Never a particularly irritating flavor, such a flood of powerful joy. He wanted to drink once more, and soon delight turned into a red, crude need, a crude jubilee. Maybe an opening had opened to him, a passage from which poured a surge of degraded, creature wants. Before long he was done drinking, he was tearing at the slight tissues with his teeth, trying to mine the wellspring of the searing delight that was burning-through his insight, his spirit, needing just to burrow and paw and sever until he could kiss the open vein and channel it of its ideal yield. The young lady fell, and he fell on her, a dark bumped shape siphoned to her spasming body. He tore at her midsection, her cheek, he nibbled and snapped without point or perception of life systems, tearing away at the meaty dividers detaining the bleeding opiate juice. Furthermore, Something wasn’t right. A splendid fear invaded his musings. He looked up. The moon was consuming, consuming, a bursting monster that seemed faceted one second, at that point undulating as though seen through a film of warmth cloudiness. The sky had gone a harmed shading, and the whole world sparkled as though illuminated by an absurd power. The blood influencing his vision, he chose. It should be the blood, the inebriation. Or on the other hand, could it be something different? He figured it very well may be a more thing than the blood, however, he was unable to recall. At that point, he saw how he had dealt with the young lady. Repugnance fought with a feeling of pride in his force, his wild standard. He felt mixed up… not the thrilling unsteadiness of minutes prior, but rather wiped out and dubious and astounded. Everything was excessively splendid. Blood flickering like a smooth progression of magma across the stones, light steaming up from the spills, the puddles, from breaks between the stones. A rush of sickness overpowered him, and he lurched to his feet. It was all off-base by one way or another, what he had done, what he felt and saw, everything wasn’t right. A lot of light, light detonating in his skull, spilling from his eyes, from the young lady’s injuries, from the cut meat of her bosoms, bleeding light penetrating vertical to stain him with blame, to spoil for his entire life. A hot liquid rose in his chasm, and he choked. His stomach was exhausted redly. There was an abnormal singing in his mind, a shrieking like fingernails raked across the record. He attempted to stop his ears, yet couldn’t stifle the sound, and, muddled, terrified—of what, he didn’t have the foggiest idea—trickling blushed bile from his jawline, his heart pounding, he escaped into the murkiness of the palace… Beheim came alarm to find that he was holding the turret divider, looking out at the Carpathian slopes, at—to his extensive shock—a smallish shiny moon very not the same as the swelled yellow monster he had envisioned. He worried somebody remaining behind him, yet on wheeling about, he discovered just the body of the Golden… however, the air stayed thick with presence. He relished that presence, expecting to confine its specifics, certain it was a psychological track left by the killer, a piece of information as substantial as a bloodstain or a boot mark; however it blurred rapidly, and he couldn’t acquire any further information. He attempted to collect his different impressions of the killer into a representation, however, the figure to him’s eye stayed as featureless as an outline cut from dark paper. Likely a man. A self-important sort, yet with a reasonable level of the heart. Toasted the point of hallucination on the blood of the Golden. Headed to kill, at that point disgraced to sickness and flight. That was all.