I've been reading quite a lot of all these fictions, and I have to admit it's highly amusing. Depending upon who you're reading, I am cold, violent, abusive, commanding or wimpy, sensitive, forced into it. Always described as handsome, charismatic, I am also supposedly one hell of a lover.

And how would these writers know? I'm guessing their imaginations and pulp fiction; vivid as some scenes are, they'd have to be because only the preternatural have memories so detailed.

Most of them have their information wrong anyway – hey, it's all good for me. Write away, please! Flatter me, adore my image, but get the important details wrong. I love the attention.

Just don't expect me to care. Moon over me all you care to, fantasize about me swooping down to carry your off as a conquest. I won't keep you, partly because it's nearly impossible to turn anyone, but mostly because I do not care about you.

I will not keep you. I don't want you as my companion, friend, or pet. You are food, occasionally entertainment. I may very well toy with you for an hour or two, but don't confuse attention with concern.

Do me a favor and remember these things so I don't have to see someone whining about it later on: you can't stop me, so don't even try. I am not and have never been anything resembling human.

And you are my food.