His tongue passed over the sharp tip of one incisor as the siren scent of angry blood danced around him. The man tapped his fist twice against Nicholas’s lapel.
“There’s some that’s not to be trifled with, if a gentleman knows what’s good for him,” the man said and jerked his head at the window.
On the other side of the pane the shopgirl hummed contentedly as she worked, unaware of her gallant’s possessive defense of her on the cobblestones outside. The man’s fist punched Nicholas’s lapel harder, a final time. Nicholas inclined his head once and felt the rake of un-slaked hunger as the fellow stomped off down the street, taking the toothsome scent of overheated blood with him.
– chapter 3, book 1, Blood Trilogy