With a great many substantial events in the past, the present and near future felt a ton â€" a literal ton, lighter. On Frank's sudden, unfortunate death, a path to relief was plowed in that Davante was able to take a look at his work, attempting to find out who it was that had set him up to fail in killing the vampire. Why had they chosen to leave the information about his vampirism out? Davante had been lucky that he was fit enough to take the vampire on after being attacked in his sleep which was a cowardly effort all by itself. But why had the employers wanted him out of the way? It deserved deeper thought, and maybe even some kind of interrogation with enhanced means to produce an answer that the warlock might deem sufficient. Unfortunately, the side effects of killing the vampire had carried over until the next day with a thick catalog of injuries in dire need of a fix. The fix that he found was in the very same shop that he had visited prior in the hands of the stunning woman who had created his lethal means and had graced him with her presence for the evening. Truth be told, he had fought the vampire harder once the threats hissing from his blood stained lips had become directed at the witch that had aided him. How dare the fucking leech regard Serafina with the idea he would be penalizing Davante with her injury? Infuriated, he had snapped the vampires neck without the help of his magic, even. How dare he. When Davante realized that the very smell of her perfume on his shirt had encouraged him to take the vampire out in the dead of night, he reminded himself of her lips barely brushing against his skin in her bid of goodnight.

It was only right that he gave her potions a second chance, right?

Even if that was the lie he told himself to rouse his exhausted body out of his sleepless bed, Davante had implored the witch for her help, again. She had commanded the situation with a poise and an authority that he hadn't been able to submit to in enough time that he hardly remembered the last time he listened to a command. Her effortless expertise had nearly melted him there, and when she had decided to use her affections as a distraction from the immense pain he had felt, it was all he could do from tangling his fingers in her hair and redirecting her kisses to his lips. What he would have given in that moment to change her direction and rid himself of the injuries so that he could have pulled her closer and tasted the sweet lips that had graced his skin. The memory of her soft touches and quiet, commanding nature had kept him from getting angry when he woke on his bed hours after the procedures were finished.

Being healed, taken care of, and attended to by the witch reminded Davante of a tenacity that he had only found in his sister or the heart of a woman years ago. It had first made him uncomfortable, causing him to arrive in her shop with a bad attitude, but now? He wanted to thank the witch for doing as she thought necessary and knocking him out. At the masquerade, he had made it plain that he had intentions to pursue her with a kind of courting that the true gentleman in him had been aching to exhibit to the woman whether he realized it then or not. In drinking enough champagne to be in a publicly good mood, the man had genuinely enjoyed the company of the familiar faces there. And after? There was little to keep Davante from getting into a sort of predicament that the witch would need to fix, but the remedy for that was to simply request her company. Davante had offered her the option to opt out of a second date, but wouldn't she give him a chance to point out what a real date was? He had felt fairly confident in that, and the direction of his car to the building Serafina lived in was only confirmation.

Dressed well in fairly characteristic light brown pants and a deep olive v-neck sweater, Davante oozed that the evening would be casual. He had made sure that he was rested and prepared enough to arouse the illusion for the entire evening. The excitement to show her what he was capable of was more than obvious in his eyes as they were a bright, bright blue and shining with a sort of boyish delight that she would have never associated with his often volatile gaze and staunch expression. He left the engine of the black '72 Dodge Challenger running, more than ready to slide into the drivers seat and make their way to the building that had been prepared. With a small, white envelope in his hand, Davante approached her door and knocked gently, at ease waiting for a woman he had been desiring to see again.