He adjusted his leather coat as he settled into the driver's seat of the Plymouth. It had been a while since he'd taken the car and gone on one of his 'hunting' trips. He didn't indulge himself very often, but occasionally the bloodlust overwhelmed his self-control. He smiled, anticipating the rush he would soon feel when his victim finally succumbed, the incredible pleasure of the kill.
As usual, he told himself that he deserved it, that he had earned the right to indulge his baser nature; when you considered the number of lives he had saved in the past few years, his little indiscretions were mere peccadilloes, not mortal sins.
He didn't know exactly when it had started, this compulsion to maim and kill. It had certainly been a part of him long before adulthood, long before his life had been irrevocably changed by the forces of darkness. He supposed a psychiatrist would blame his father, or rather, his father's endless disapproval. No matter, he was what he was; it was too late to change now, even if he wanted to.
He looked at the girl seated next to him. She was young, almost a child. She still had a trace of innocence in her face, unlike most of the women he hunted for sport. Such innocence never lasted long out on the mean streets. Prostitutes led such a hard life, he thought, remembering Darla. If you thought about it logically, he was really doing her a favor.
After all, it wasn't as if her death would be of any great loss to society. She was just a whore, just a thing to be used, then discarded like the trash she was. What was that phrase Kate Lockley had used to describe crimes such as his? Ah yes, 'no humans involved'.
It's odd, he mused, despite direct evidence of his deep-seated violent tendencies none of his friends had ever evinced the slightest suspicion that it was he who had committed the gruesome murders. Instead, they had ascribed them to random vampires, ritual sacrifices, or to his macabre amusement, rogue demons.
Why did no one suspect he could be the one responsible for the wave of killings? That he was capable of such violence? Or did they only see what they wanted to see? Yes, that was probably it. They took him at face value, never looking beneath the surface. He smiled as he recalled his murderous attack on Fred.
His reverie was abruptly broken by the blast of a horn. Flushing with anger, he wished he had the time to deal appropriately with the driver. He glanced over at the girl; she seemed a trifle nervous, sensing perhaps that something was wrong. Giving her his most charming smile, Wesley said, "Don't worry, we'll be done soon."
The End.