When Nick Cutler found himself locked inside a cell with Mr. York, he tried his best to convince himself not to panic (This was a reasonable man, he told himself. Guilty of nothing more than gambling and dog fighting. Surely not inclined to attack solicitors left and right). He discovered that this was to be quite difficult, however, when the man opposite him lunged forward, a strong hand wrapping around the Cutler's vulnerable neck and eventually settling with a firm press against his shoulders.
Warm breath ghosted across his face and he averted his eyes, lashes lowered and breath uncomfortably constricted by the weight leaning against him. He sputtered and it felt as if all will had left him as the other man lowered his lips to his exposed neck and-
No, surely not. Not possible. But the prick was too painful for Cutler to dismiss as an ordinary bite, especially not as an impossibly cold, burning sensation spread across his frame. He was sure he screamed inelegantly. Shivers turned to shakes that rattled his bones and he found himself praying. Shark that he was, he still had faith, and God knows he needed it then.
The creature was drinking his blood and taking no great strides to hide it. It groaned and he could feel its lips twitch with every great pull of liquid. Within minutes, Cutler found his vision invaded by spots and his legs weakening. He clung to his attacker despite the nausea that such an action caused him, doing his best to steady himself. He saw the monster pull away, eyes black and teeth sharp, and tear one of the little blue veins from its wrist open. Cutler soon felt the arm being pressed to his lips and drank. It smelt of the tea that his wife often made for him after he came home from work and tasted like honey and roses.
Cutler hoped, silently, that he'd live to see her again.
