It was the worst of times, and it went downhill from there...
Deanna hadn't faced a lynch mob in over a hundred years. She'd learned to hide herself in plain sight so well, she allowed herself the luxury of believing she'd never be on the pointy end of a pitchfork ever again.

And then she had the bright idea to burn down a decrepit building, pretend to play hero (truthfully, she followed Rhiannon inside to make sure the woman didn't croak, that was something she wanted for herself) and then, when the Slayer called her out to the gathered masses, thought she could scare them off with a growl.

Humans fear the shadows. Anything could hide in them. But show them what that darkness was attached to, that was something they could fight back against.

The blows rained fast and furious. She'd been knocked to the ground, stomped on, bludgeoned with bricks. A gaping head wound, broken ribs. But clearly not a true bright among them, as they tried to lynch her rather than jab a piece of wood through her heart. Vampires didn't need to breathe. They chanted and scowled as she twisted from the bark of a hanging branch, until three police cruisers arrived on the scene. They cut her down and forced the throng to disperse.

Then they pulled out their own billy clubs and took vengeance. Because she still wore her face.

Severely pissed off, Deanna lashed back, gutted two of the officers and shot the rest with one of their own handguns (not before receiving three slugs herself, two in the stomach and one in her shoulder). Limping and bloodied, she commandeered a cruiser and high-tailed it back to Las Vegas, hoping to find refuge.

She prayed Grace would be home before dawn.