Mitchell had ran the first few streets from the cinema with no idea where he was going. There were people everywhere. Fucking streets full of them, all warm and flooded with thick, hot blood and stacked in buildings and rammed into bars and clubs. He could tear this place apart. He could leave a trail of blood running from one end of the city to the other. He could go to the castle. He could drink them all dry and dance around the bodies.
He'd enjoy it. No. He'd love it.
In the end Mitchell had thrown himself into an alleyway and slumped back against the cold, uneven brick, letting his head roll back on his shoulders to clunk dully against the wall. He gasped for breath, felt it whistle helplessly into his lungs and curled his hands into fists to stop them shaking before he came to a decision. He turned his collar up, willed his control to hold, and ducked his head before forcing himself back to the streets.
He watched his feet, ignored the smell of them and the aching need that was building up. Like every one of his nerves was screaming, like there were knives under his skin. He didn't look up until he was nearly at the cemetery, when he broke into a run again and all but fell in between the gravestones.
He had no fucking idea what he was supposed to be looking for. Instead Mitchell looked around, wiped a shaking hand over his lips. He was sweating, he realised. "Spike!" he bellowed, a faint note or urgency straining his tone.