Sitting in the stoop, furthest away from the door, Peter watched the skies. Taking in a long drag of his cigarette, his mind lost in the strange energy it all created, the vargulf and vampires out amongst the city streets. He knew they weren't his world's vargulf but they were close enough. Peter had noped the fuck off the streets when he first smelled the others and the massive amounts of blood in nearly every alley.
He didn't have Roman around to protect him from whatever this version of upir could do. He wasn't the fighting type himself, so the loss of his closest friend so soon after they arrived stung. That's what he got for trying to do the same to Roman back home, he supposed.
Dressed in torn jeans, a grey beater and his leather jacket with a variety of patches, he smelled the other wolf beyond his smoke. Turning, he smiled and waved. "Ah, perfect," he said toward the tequila bottle. "Your blessing will be strong with this," he winked.