John watches, quiet and unimpressed, as blood gouts sharp enough to splash his face, his shabby shirt, and the woman's legs kick autonomically as her thanergy starts to cascade and her body goes into shock.

He clicks his tongue, like he thinks that's a shame. Lifts a hand and all the blood lifts in a fine mist from the carpet, from his clothes and hers, from the place it sprayed onto a tablecloth and the legs of someone nearby, he pulls it all in together, one perfect red orb — spend enough time holding onto the sun and orbs just sort of become the default shape. He can feel the presence Armand spoke of hungry for her ghost, but he freezes that death, too, pins it firmly into her chest, putting her in a terrible living stasis; she hadn't seemed aware when Armand had called her to him, but he knocks her out for good measure, turns her consciousness off while he deals with this.

"I don't think this is that kind of party," he says conspiritorially; funny when he can already spot the exasperated servants heading their way, annoyed to once again find John in the middle of a gory mess. He waves them off: he's got this, guys! "You know, I did come out to have a good time, but I'm feeling a bit attacked right now," he adds, the blood still spinning like a red moon between them.