New York City reeks of car fumes and sewer in a way that makes Will's nose burn. He hated it when he was mortal and he hates it even more now that his senses have all been dialed up a few notches. It doesn't have any of the old-world smell that Italy did, and it's the farthest he's been from his maker since he was turned - but it's for the better. Staying tucked close to Louis' side will never get him closer to Hannibal Lecter.

So he follows the trail - murmurings of the man, and sometimes he reaches out with his mind in search of his thoughts. It's not easy hunting down the thoughts of a mortal monster in the same way it's easy to seek out the mind of other vampires. (Will has done a lot of listening in - eaves dropping where he shouldn't be, letting his mind play and wander with the new and terrifying gifts he's been given).

But here they are - New York. New York where he last tracked Hannibal. New York where there's rumor of a reporter. The same reporter that Louis skirted around, the one who wrote the very same book Will picked up and opened at the home of his maker. (Wrapped in plastic - he should have asked, first, but it had been out on the table in the little en suite sitting room).

"You're Daniel Molloy," quiet, a voice from the other side of Daniel's kitchen. Maybe the older vampire felt him or heard him or smelled him coming. It's hard to say - but it doesn't exactly look like Will cares. "I've read your book."