He caught her scent on the wind long before she came into view. Buffy was, at the most basic level, intoxicating. Not in a romantic or even carnal sense, but a mystical one. Her blood would be a delightful feast, so much power in it, and so unique. Alucard never made a secret of craving the lifeforce of others; he made no apologies to anyone for the monster that he was. Yet, he was sufficiently civilized to approach such hungers with a gentlemanly air, a lord complimenting his lady, rather than the rabble on the street who groped and catcalled like rutting beasts. His nostrils flared at the sweet scent, and he closed his eyes against the hunger. Though he had fed since Glasya had left him on Naboo, Alucard had deliberately denied himself his full portion. The knight had failed to leave him with orders to look after himself, after all, and self-sabotage was the most effective measure he could implement against Glasya's plans.
Buffy didn't seem at all pleased with the external manifestation of that deprivation, once she came into view. Alucard smiled at her, slow and mocking, the derision aimed inward, and not at the slayer. "Arthur thought it the height of fashion for vampires." The vampire made a slow turn, arms outstretched. "It seemed appropriate for the occasion." When he faced her once again, he dropped his arms. "After all, we are both in a position we wish we could escape, but cannot. Much like those long years spent in Hellsing's dungeons." His expression became mournful, the weariness in his eyes highlighting the skeletal panes of his deathly white features. "You should not have come."