Passage #1 - All I Want Is Everything

All I want is everything,
Am I asking too much?
All I want is everything,
Like the feel of your touch.
Def Leppard, "All I Want Is Everything"

He holds vigil over her nearly every night of every week, just as he did with her mother until he killed her; and her grandmother until he killed her as well. Her fate is to be the same as the other females in her family, but he's confused as to why he hasn't killed her yet; why he hasn't sank his teeth into her sweet carotid artery and drained her of her red heat.

The liquor he orders from the buxom blonde waitress never quenches his thirst or the Hunger, but it thankfully quells his inexorable lust for the barmaid's body and blood. She looks nothing like her mother or grandmother, but a few of their features were passed down to her – lucid sapphire eyes and full exotic lips. But it's her hereditary pale complexion which draws his attention so often. He has no idea how much or how little time she spends in the sun, but he knows that pallid skin can never be tanned.

He tries to tune his supersonic hearing into the conversation between the blonde waitress and the target barmaid, but the clinking of dishes, the boisterous laughing and high fives of the drunken patrons and the clack of pool balls smacking together drown out the whispered words the women are sharing. He can see her, though, when he centers his well-defined pupils on her, and everyone else becomes nothing but a blur as her image sharpens to perfection. The golden B around a golden chain glistens under the dim lighting, the glitter on her chest sparkles as she moves and her pinky finger rises every time she pours a new drink. She is the epitome of perfect. She is Bella Teague – owner of the most prestigious bar in town: 1984.

When two a.m. creeps in, Bella announces last call. She and the blonde, whose name he doesn't care to learn, make rounds, collecting empty beer bottles and distributing the very last drinks of the night. Just like every night, he hopes Bella is the one to collect his empty bottles, and just like every night, it's the blonde who swings by his section. But if this was like every other night, he would have slipped through the door after his bottles were removed from his table. Tonight he doesn't. Tonight he leans back in his chair, grabs a pack of Luckies from the pocket of his leather jacket and a Zippo lighter. He shakes the pack, lifting it to his mouth, and extracts a cancerous stick with his chapped red lips. He flips the lid of the Zippo, runs the wheel across his pant leg, and brings the flame to the tip of the cigarette where it licks his face like the Devil. Inhaling and squinting his eyes against the smoke, he snaps the lid closed on the lighter and drops it onto the table.

Every distraction afforded to him, he uses. He'll never die or get sick from the smoking, but the acidic burn it creates as it floats down his windpipe and into his lungs is a welcome change to the rumbling in his stomach and the excessive saliva pooling in his mouth. He wants her, but he can't decide which way he wants her: toe-tagged or wrapped around him in bed, writhing beneath him. Each option is enticing; each option comes with its own erotic fantasy and physically satisfying ending, but still he is torn. He hates that deep down, he knows which he wants – which he craves more – and it's ultimately the reason he hasn't fed upon her yet. He refuses to admit it.

After annihilating the cigarette, he crushes the end into the ashtray as he eyes the enigmatic barmaid, who has lately made it a point to keep her distance from him. He suspects she's discovered who and what he is, but he isn't frightened. Who would she tell and who would believe her? This revelation does dampen his mood, however, and he stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and throwing it on carelessly. He stuffs the Zippo into the pocket holding the Luckies and heads for the door. As he's opening it, a familiar hand presses against the window and closes it. He knows the hand – knows who it belongs to, but what he doesn't know is why it's there, stopping him from leaving.

"I know who you are," the whisper drifts on the air for a moment before fleeing into his ears. His teeth clench to prevent the lengthening of his weapons and he clears his throat.

"No, you don't," he responds in a whisper as well, turning his head to look down at her. Her eyes burn into him, threatening to read him like an open Shakespearean play, and the Hunger attacks his senses – dizzying him and nauseating his innards.

"Yes, I do," she nods, moving to stand between his body and his escape route. "I know what you did … and I know what you want to do."

If she's allowed to speak any longer, he'll take her immediately.

"Do it," she finishes, gazing hard into his fiery eyes. "I'll be happier in death."

When he meets her gaze, his hand raises to cup her cheek – his eyes mutating from normal hazel to ice cold blue. When the enchantment is complete, she's frozen under his touch – her head tilted to the side, her eyes consumed by obedience.

"I would rather watch you from the shadows if only to ensure your happiness," he whispers against her lips, removing his hand from her skin and watching her crumple to the floor in defeat.

He'll have to buy another pack of cigarettes on the way home.