While the man was filling up the gas on his Benz automobile, Luboslaw Wozniak slipped unseen into the back seat, and waited. Although still early into his Requiem— the undead existence which he now endured— Lubo had already found his preferred feeding method: using his vampiric powers, he would ride along with unwitting motorists, such as this man— chosen at random, with the misfortune of being fortunate enough to afford an automobile— waiting until they drove out to a secluded area for the moment to strike.
A few blocks later, stopping at a dimly-lit, isolated intersection, that moment came. The man suddenly felt the Nosferatu’s dread presence behind him, and panicked as he saw his passenger, finally, lurching towards him in the rear view mirror. As his arms reached back to hold off his attacker, the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist swung back along with them, slamming into the side of Lubo’s bald head as he sank a mouthful of jagged, razor sharp teeth into the man’s neck.
Lubo was hungry, but had full control of his Beast – he could have stopped whenever he wanted – but he drank deeply, withdrawing only when he heard and felt the man’s racing heartbeat weaken. He licked the wound clean, removing any trace of the bite— no simple task, as he’d broken the skin with two full rows of teeth, not the two tidy puncture marks which other vampires made.
Searching his victim, there were some keys in a coat pocket, some money, and a scrap of paper with a Munich address written on it. No identification, but the insurance papers found in the passenger-side compartment showed the vehicle was registered to one Deiter Madritsch of Dresden. As Lubo unlocked the handcuffs with one of the keys, he noticed a tattoo on the man’s left wrist, although he didn’t recognize the symbol.
Next, he pried open the briefcase with a crowbar. Inside there was a plain manilla envelope, containing a handwritten manuscript, in english, which Lubo couldn’t read— except for two words which were known to almost everyone, English or German (or even Polish, for that matter). It was a name: William Shakespeare. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but judging from the security precautions, it was important to someone, at least.
Afterwards, Lubo pulled the dying man from the car, dumping him off to the side of the road before driving away with it. Within an hour, the vehicle was delivered to the owner of a small garage with whom Lubo had come to “an arrangement”. Feeding on motorists had also become a source of income.
By the time he returned home to his dingy, gas-lit flat in the Schlachthofviertel, he was sated and a little wealthier. But more importantly, he’d made it through another night.
Inside, he found a note slipped beneath his door. It was from his sire, Johann:
“Meet tomorrow at 9. Sendlinger Tor. Don’t be late.”