From his perch in the branches above, he scented the air. The other members of the renegade coven were pigs about their food. David, the oldest ate voraciously and indiscriminately. He had been changed in the 17th century by some street harlot and had spent his immortality getting a sadistic revenge on the fairer sex. Michael, called Micky, had been a vaudevillian actor and he had the odd habit of taking a host feeder; it was the equivalent of a mortal 'girlfriend'. True to the morals of the time in which he had been alive, Micky kept one female at his side for months at a time, gorging on her until another flavor caught his attention. Peter, the midwestern farm boy, ate sparingly and almost reluctantly. Not so with Mike; Mike preferred to wait, to go without sustenance until the hunger became a pain too intense to resist. Only when it was unbearable did he feed on mortal blood, the near madness of his hunger making the coppery sweet taste addicting

It was dangerous and reckless. In his state of blood thrall, the euphoria when feeding that produced the vampire equivalent of a high, under such thrall he could lose control and kill. And killing was forbidden. Though their ragtag band were outcasts among the Brethren, there was still a basic code expected of all vampires. First, one must never convert. It happened, as their existences proved, but to control the population and keep from killing off all the food, and to keep from unbalanced or unworthy individuals from becoming vamp, the Council decreed only 50 years prior that no mortals should be brought over. Secondly, killing was forbidden. Humans were a food source and were to be treated with care. Too many bloodless bodies would raise suspicion and cause territorial wars between the Brethren clan for food. While Mike's ragtag group avoided the politics of these delicate alliances and intrigues, they still followed decorum and did not invite trouble.

"Pick yer damn poi'ssun and le's get outta 'ere." Davy muttered from behind him, annoyed. Louder, he said, "I've found my meal, Mike. I'll catch up with you la'er." Using his unnatural speed, the Brit swooped down and blended in with the crowd smoking outside the bar. The group of 15 or so were milling around in the cold as the lights flashed and music thumped back in the club. Unlike Davy who fed on anything available, Mike waited for a specific type....

He scented the air again, using animal instincts acquired over a hundred years of hunting. And he caught whiff of what he wanted. A dishwater brunette, leaving the bar alone; she stopped for a minute and glanced around. Mike feared that maybe she was aware that he was watching. But instead she ran over to another female and the two hugged. As he waited, the pretty female seemed to be making goodbye to her friend. The small talk infuriated him but for her, he could wait.

She would be so sweet to taste. It was not for her looks that he had singled her out, though even from his distance he could see she was a beautiful woman with frail features. Her skin was so alabaster that he saw the whispy blue ribbons of veins in her throat. Against her skin, her hair was like strands of forest foliage. But had she been a crone, he would have still chosen her for that specific sweet taste.

She was diabetic. Mike had, quite by accident, stumbled across the delicacy of feasting on a diabetic's blood. If he timed his feeding to coordinate with their insulin injections, or the spike in their blood sugar after a meal, the flavor in their bloodstream became unbearably sweet and intoxicating. Years ago, in a lost lifetime, when he had been mortal, the summer breezes of his childhood home had been thick with the smell of mimosa trees. So thick that when he breathed, the flavor of the air had coated his tongue. Tasting a diabetic's blood was as close as he had been to home, to that long ago summer sun, as he would ever be again.

"Aww, Mira, are you sure you have to go home now?" her friend was asking. "Leanne's on her way and it's just starting to get hot in there!"

" I really have to go, sorry, Jamie," Mira fidgeted. She really didn't want to alarm her friend but she was feeling dizzy and her tongue felt thick, a sure sign she needed her insulin. In a rare and incredibly stupid move, Mira had left the house without any medication, thinking she had her travel injection cartridges in the glove compartment. She knew it had been stupid; she was just so happy to get one night off from work and to be able to go out. Her job at the hospital was demanding and as her hours picked up, her friends were slowly drifting away. "Tonight and tomorrow are the only days off I get this week and I have so much crap to do around the house..."

"Aw, all right." The other girl gave her a hug. " We sure miss seeing you. Cass was telling me it's been almost a year since we all hung out together..."

Sweat beaded on Mira's brow and her vision wavered and blurred. Uh oh. "I'm so sorry, Jamie....I'll, uh..later..." her legs wobbling, she hurried to the car. There had to be some cookies or crackers stashed in the car. Inside her little Saturn, she fumbled with the cracker box. Mercifully this would level her out enough to get home safely.

Mike sensed her heart racing, her disorientation and knew that such distress signalled her need for food and insulin. She would be at her ripest in a matter of minutes. But she was not immediately accessible, in that car and any attempt to draw her out would frighten her all ready taxed health. Though the group always hunted in pairs, Mike resigned himself that any chance of feeding from her would require getting her alone.

*

With an exaggerated sigh, Mira plopped down on her sofa, channel surfing without really seeing what was on the tv. The truth was things were getting worse. Type 1 diabetes caused her body to suffer, unable to make its own insulin or synthesize the natural form her body produced. As a little girl, she had managed a relatively normal life with her condition. But with time and physical maturity, the prognosis was worsening. Dr. Samuel had increased her injection dosage, 6 times in 5 years. Pancreas, stomach and kidney cells were being attacked--by her own immune system--starving for the hormone but unable to recognize it in her bloodstream. The kindly older man was baffled and after serving as her personal care physician for 13 years, he had finally pulled her aside and suggested she switch to a more experienced and better trained doctor; there was nothing more he could do for her.

"Doesn't want me dying on him," she muttered sullenly. It disappointed Mira, feeling like she was facing the battle alone. Her mother was busy teaching in England, Dad was happily busy with his new family in Italy. None of her friends seemed to understand what she was going through and rolled their eyes after a few months. People heard 'diabetes' and just assumed it wasn't as serious as it really was. Each day she seemed to need her injections more, the improving effects seemed to last for shorter and shorter times...

Mike let himself in through the unlocked window. Movies and books romanticized the mystical comings and goings of his kind, but in reality, most of their movement came down to careless people who forgot to lock up. He paid no attention to the pictures on the wall, or the kitten in the hallway, hissing and growling at him, following the soft light and noise the front room. Spread out across the couch, the delicate woman was in that dreamless rest of not awake but not quite asleep. Her head was thrown back exposing the ivory column of her bare throat, the pulse drumming visibly under the skin. Too hungry to wait much longer, Mike moved forward...

And froze.

He smelled it on her. Death. It was a faint tinge, a wisp of air clinging to her skin and clothes. The meal he had selected was all ready half way shed of her mortal coil. Brows knit together, he studied her. Pale skin, erratic heart beat, what was wrong that the girl was so near her end? He guessed her to be 27 or 28. From her uncomfortable position she shifted, rolling to her side, one of her shoes dropping to the floor. Despite her internal weakness, her body was full and womanly. A stroke of conscience assailed Mike and he debated the wisdom of feeding from such a pitiful creature. She was all ready doomed. Reflexively two incisors pushed their full length out, extending into the well known fangs of vampire lore. It was a mistake to wait until he was near starved; the frenzied instinct to feed was riding him hard, when his reason was reluctant to do so now. His eyes traveled back up her body, lingering on her breasts, before looking back up at her sleeping face.

Except she was no longer sleeping. She was watching him, intently. The thought of running died in his mind when he took in the shadows under eyes, the pain wracked respirations of her breathing. Helpless and sick, she was no threat to him. None at all.

His fangs gleamed at her in the low light. "Are you going to kill me?," she whispered.

He shook his head; the primal urge of his kind begging him to eat. Some remnant of the human he had been restrained him. "No."

To his utter shock, the girl sighed and her eyes fluttered shut. "Might as well." When he said nothing, she pulled herself into a sitting position. "Go on, Dracula. Do your thing."

Muscles knotted he forced himself to remain where he was. "You want me to drink from you?"

"Not I'm dreaming because you can't be real. And since you're not naked, this dream can hurry up and be over."

A laugh sputtered on his lips. In his time, women had not been so forward. "I am real and I do not want to kill you or drink from you. You are not well"

"There's an understatement. Look..uh.."

"Mike", he supplied.

"Look, Mike, I am very much not well. Being sick sucks big time. I'd rather not go through it if you catch my drift. Plus, according to every romance novel I've ever read, you need blood to live. So in dying, I'd be doing something nice for a..vampire..in need." She leaned back, inviting him access to her neck and patted the cushion beside her. "Come and get it while it's warm."

"No, girl, you're ill, " he said, even as he stepped closer. Her smile was lovely and the arch of her neck pushed her breasts out further. Lust was a pleasant side effect to the hunger of his kind. Very rarely did the actual act accompany a feeding since the taste of blood calmed all appetites.

Ignoring his protest, she merely sighed and let her eyes fall shut again. "Put us both out of our misery, Drac. Please." On the end table next to her sat an empty injection cartridge.

With a whimper of surrender, Mike came over, choosing instead to kneel in front of her. Even when his breath feathered her face, the girl didn't move. Pausing only a scant second to place a kiss on her ear, he bent his face into the vulnerable curve of her neck, sucking the skin into his mouth. His brain screamed at him to stop, to find a meal that he would be healthy enough to survive the loss of its precious blood. In an instant, the voice was obliterated and he clamped his jaw down, feeling his teeth puncture a thin, rubbery vein.

Candy flavored, liquid warmth poured into him. Nothing he had imagined could have prepared him for the confectionery taste, so delicate and heady. What began with his noble intention of only taking a sip was rapidly deteriorating into devouring a meal. Beneath him, her body went limp, and he moved to scoop her up in his arms without breaking his feeding. Mike pulled his head back, watched the two crimson lines roll down across her collarbone and lapped them with his tongue. Reason shouted to him to stop before he took too much but the coppery jolt of saccharine moving under his lips was too delicious to give up. He licked the twin wounds, bent his head and bit again, this time lower, closer to her jugular, where the blood would be racing from her heart. He suckled until his eyes flew open and he realized her blood was not racing through the upright Mike looked down and saw the girl, her flesh colored a bluish hue. Her eyelids were open only to little slits and she looked up at him with glassy unfixed pupils. For a moment, her cyanotic lips moved as if she wanted to speak but no sound came and instead her head lolled back like a flower on a stem. Horrified Mike ran his tongue along the double set of marks he had left on her; vampire saliva had a coagulative agent in it that would seal the holes in a matter of minutes thus leaving prey unaware. Watching the punctures seal, he lifted her hand and fumbled for a distal pulse. It wasn't there. His hands tore at her blouse, and he pushed her down into the couch, his face on her chest frantically listening for a beat. Hours ago when he had selected her, the rhythm had been a solid if rapid thumping. Now it was barely a tremor.

She was dying. Mike made a terrified sob, horrifed at himself. She was so sick and weak, helpless, and he had killed her. He muffled his moan into her shirt. Softly, almost imperceptibly, her hand moved to touch him, to rub his shoulder, the only part of him he could reach in her condition.

"S'ok," she slurred. "S'okmmike. Bedderth " her breath shuddered, "isshway. Pooormmike, poorrmiiike."

The knot of guilt twisted tighter in his gut, a hot acrid shame. Like a child, he was weeping onto a dying woman who was with her last moments comforting him. He squeezed his eyes shut. There would be consequences for what we was going to do, but the consequences for letting her die would torment him his entire endless life. It took a quick look through her tiny bedroom to find the big thick blanket wadded up at the end of her bed. The tiny kitten arched and growled but he yanked the comforter away and wrapped it around the woman's cold body.

"Do not die, girl." he commanded in his most imperious voice. "You must live long enough for me to help you." Mike could not tell if she heard or understood. Seconds before slipping off into the night, her wobbly smile was the only indication she gave that she was still with him.