Figures that the blood would garner him some attention. Cassidy had been banking on the idea that, with most people, that attention would take the form of horrified staring and eventual backing away. But there's always gonna be some outliers, aren't there?

"Coupla days, actually." Couple of months, if he's being totally honest, but the last 72 hours or so are the freshest scabs in his memory. Getting shot with a rifle. Stabbed with a screwdriver. Roped up by his ankles. A roaring crowd in a dark, sweaty basement; a male voice with an accent from the American South, sneering: "—piece-of-shit vampire."

Cassidy murmurs out a quiet "Thanks" as the barman places the bottle in front of him, and he sets about removing the cap.