Mithias felt a great relief when he saw the monstrous werewolf revert to a far less threatening form. He still could not believe that he had successfully reached the creature with his psychic gift. It was like admitting to a dangerous flaw. He almost wanted to deny using it, but how could he? It had saved his life. Regardless, there would be more than enough time to reflect on it later. For now, it was time to retreat and recover. Catching Deon Erickson was not likely going to happen tonight, but Mithias felt confident that the Elite team would get him soon enough. It was literally their job description. 

With Lucan acting basically as an obedient, mindless thrall beside him, Mithias listened to Vladimir speak calmly and clearly. Being what he was, the vampire understood the state of not being in control of one's actions, and would not fault any creature for acting in the interests of its own survivial. This philosophy was of course also how he had lived with himself for hundreds of years. He looked down at the innocent Lucan and considered explaining this, but didn't. There would be so much to teach him. 

"You actually ARE sick." Mithias stated in observation as Vladimir went to assist Liam. Mithias was honestly surprised. Supernaturals generally didn't succumb to illness due to their accelerated healing ability. The red light in Vladimir's eyes made clear enough his second nature, also an unexplained rarity. Mithias could only stare in wonder at the walking Russian conundrum. He shook his head, resolving to figure that one out later as well. If the werewolf was alright, mentally and physically, perhaps he'd be interested in joining the team.

"The hospital... Yes, but I am afraid I don't trust them as much as I once did. We need to get to Soldier. Lucan, come." By now Mithias' leg was healed and he began walking out of the cell. "We can take care of our own needs. I will need to equip my weapons and organize a strike team..." As Mithias, still shirtless, stepped out, he got a clear view of Kathryn, Hank, and Mia, and a number of bodies, both vampire and zombie. 


The night drew on, and yet so much was happening. Little did anyone know, it was the first night of a new era of terror. The airborn stage of the virus was over, but even though no new infections would be occurring simply by breathing, a sparse horde of infected dead wandered the night, eeking their way into the neighboring communities. Relentless, they would enter homes, chase down the non-infected and kill them by either devouring them, or infecting them. Much like with vampires, a single bullet most often did not put them down, and trying to fight them with melee weapons often resulted in more infection spreading. Each night, they seemed to surge, as if some psychic force was behind them, directing their movements. Things were getting complicated for the humans. 

On that first night, something extraordinary happened. A psychic call went out, a call that no modern vampire thought they would ever hear, or feel. All descendants of Draculian blood heard it in their veins for but an instant, and it chilled them to their bones. The words were clear. "To me."