Jules tumbled out of the car when Tate shoved him, and despite the horrible change that had come over him, despite the fact that he wanted more than nothing than to sink his teeth into the blond boy's shoulder, which he could see just there, just there, just there. He could lunge, he could take a bite outta that skin and feel blood between his teeth. He didn't register that the boy wasn't living, not just then, and all he saw was something he desired more than he could ever think of desiring anything. He wanted it, but there was still enough of him left to back away, to keep on going and not stop and, eventually, he turned and ran, even though he didn't want to. He wanted to get as much distance between himself and the pretty blond thing as he could - Jules did - the thing he was becoming didn't want that at all, not none, but Jules fought it long enough to wind around a pack of overturned cars, through an alley and into a square full of folk already gone blue. He got lost among them, and he was real careful not to turn back, not to see where the pretty boy had gone. Some part of him knew the boy - Tate, Tate, his name was Tate - would do just fine on his own. That didn't change the fact that Jules didn't want to be remembered as this thing.
And then all that thinking was gone, and he was lost in the night, hungry and wanting nothing but blood on his tongue and staining blue lips.