The lone figure in the shadows watched the crowd and easily picked his intended out from the assembled throng. He had been following for two weeks, and tonight he would make his move.
A lethal predator, his instincts for survival were strong. Not necessarily the urge to flee, though he had been forced to abandon a mark and run on more than one occasion. His skill was patience, calm and deadly. He was different from so many of his kind, who preferred the easy targets—addicts, prostitutes, vagrants. It was correct that they had advantages. The harsh life of the streets ensured a constantly available supply, and, sad as it was true, human society offered them no protection and rarely even blinked when the bodies of their least wanted turned up dead and drained. No, when he fed it was not upon the randomly convenient victim; he chose carefully, deliberately.
He had no set criteria, no reason he could put a name to. He simply knew. It was almost inaccurate to say he chose—he was the chosen. The blood of his victim called to him. Like a lover, insistent and seductive, the call came to him as a song and a scent. Then he would find him or her, and the hunt would begin. To say it was a game would make light of the importance he placed on following before he fed. A truer word would be vigil, so devoted was he to the stalking of his victim. He had no interest in merely feeding and leaving; there was no meaning in such an act, only sustenance. It was so much better to follow and learn, to establish a connection. And as he watched and studied, memorizing the minutia of daily life, his hunger grew, until the ache of need became sweetly intolerable. When it finally came time to bite, he had real insight into the vitality of the person, so that as the blood flowed and was drunk, so flowed the spirit, and he consumed both—body and soul.
Though typically he did not favor one sex over the other, this young female intrigued him more than any intended had in decades. When he first felt the strong pull of her blood, he was expecting a man in his prime. But after having tracked the source, he was surprised to find that she was young, looking barely out of her teens. However as he followed her over the next few days, between school and apartment, he understood. She was lively and intelligent, so full of potential. And this night he would take her.
Infinitely patient, he had methodically tracked her every move, learning her comings and goings and those of her roommate. With practiced care, her life was discovered, every secret, every wish. He knew the routes she walked and when she was most likely to be alone. Currently, out with friends, she would soon be going home to an empty apartment, and he would at long last be able to taste the blood that had taunted and commanded him for the past fortnight.
The girl and her group left the crowd, and he in turn left his place of hiding in a darkened doorway to trail his intended victim for the last time. Keeping his distance, but never losing sight, he almost had to laugh when she told her friends she would walk the last block by herself, that she would be fine and would see them Monday at class. It was nearly unfair how easy she was making it for him, taking all the challenge away from his pursuit and capture. He consoled himself by thinking of the fight he could anticipate, because surely she would not merely submit to him.
As she approached her building and fumbled in her purse for keys, he quickly closed the space between them, timing it so he was next to her as she unlocked and pushed the door open. Grabbing her, he forced her inside, kicking the door closed and covering her mouth with his hand in one smooth motion. She looked at him with familiar shock; he was never what they expected. A thug, a junkie, never him. His long, pearl white hair and nearly transparent, ivory skin certainly bestowed on him an unearthly quality, but if anything he looked like he belonged to an ethereal realm, not a child of the night.
She recovered from her shock quickly and began to struggle, hitting and scratching and kicking. The scent of her blood, so close, filled his senses. Her frantic desperation grew as she realized how strong he was, and he could hear the rapid pounding of her heart. He easily overpowered her and pinned her body against the wall with his, then removed his hand from her mouth, catching her wrists and raising her arms above her head. She first begged him to stop, then screamed. His mouth crashed down on hers to silence it, and she tried to turn her head, but he followed its every movement as if he had choreographed the dance himself. Her slender body, pressed between him and the wall, strained for breath, the sound of her blood roared in his ears, and he knew she was tiring.
He gently bit her lower lip, barely more than a scratch, but it was enough.
The first taste never failed to amaze him; the subtle differences in flavor, mixed with the common tang of copper and iron. He sucked the weeping wound, probing and kissing, teasing the blood out slowly, then felt the wetness of tears dripping down her cheeks. Pulling away for a moment, he saw horror and resignation in her wide, watery eyes and was struck by her innocent loveliness. He licked her smooth face tenderly, leaving the blood from his tongue on her skin and tasting salt. Drawing both wrists into one hand, he traced down the side of her neck, thumb caressing the dark jugular vein, feeling the throb of her heartbeat. It was time.
He put his mouth on her throat and felt her stiffen, then renew the struggle. He pressed his body against her harder and yanked her arms, until she could only gasp for breath and sob weakly. Slowly biting, he broke the surface of her flesh. Liquid warmth pooled in, then flooded, his mouth. Sighing with pleasure, he was oblivious to her pleas, only caring for the rhythm with which her blood pulsed down his throat. She quieted quickly, becoming limp. He removed his mouth from the sticky skin and looked at the twin holes on her neck; two nearly black, identical doorways to her essence.
Blood continued to flow out, coursing down her neck. She wasn't dead yet, but would be soon. He could finish the job or turn her. The latter he'd only done once, centuries before; a very young girl, whom, for no discernable reason, he made like him. He never understood what made him do it, but she followed him for decades, never aging, dying many years ago at the hands of a woefully underestimated mark. If he turned this one, he could have a companion, a lover perhaps. He dipped a finger in the crimson stream that ran down and collected in the hollow above her collar bone and smeared blood on her lips, staining them red. He tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss those lips after a feeding, to taste another's blood on them. Her eyelids fluttered, reminding him of the futile attempts at escape of a captive bird.
No, he decided. He was a solitary creature; better off alone, to wander as he pleased. And it was pointless to try to replace the dead girl. He bit again and was sated; her life's blood now his.