31 Days of Halloween

Bloodlust

Stealthy, a hunter stalking its prey, she watched. Silent among the shadows, no quick movements to be detected. Days she had spent tracking his path in the early morning before sun-up and his return just after sundown. Tonight would be the crowning glory of her efforts. Losing sight of him as he rounded the corner all she had to do was inhale. There - there he was. His scent familiar to her. There could have been twenty men together and she would be able to single him out. The woody scent of his cologne, the undertones of musk and spice. Normally these strong scents would irritate her keen sense of smell - but not his - no, not his. The essence of his skin - fresh and clean - combined with the bouquet emanating from his blood. Sweet, sweet deliciousness, ripe for the taking.

Normally not one to become addicted to her quarry, it was with puzzlement she had accorded herself the luxury of attachment. There were some things in her world you simply did not do. Becoming attached to your prey one of those things. Yet, she had. He was an attractive man, tall and muscular - a mess of blonde hair atop his well-tanned body. Finding him in a crowd of people exiting from the train, she joined the crowd near him. It would have been possible to reach out and touch him, had she chosen to do so. Self-control imperative, with the others around, any one of them a possibility for feeding. Her movements fast enough to go unnoticed by the human eye, able to grab anyone and disappear in the night. Rip out their throat and dump the lifeless body in the bay. It had happened before, and it would happen again, but for now, her sights were set on him. Only him.

Clueless that death stood next to him every day, his life could be over at any moment. When she was done playing with her food, it would be finished. No more journeying back and forth every day. He wouldn't curl up in that enormous bed he slept in all alone. Yes, she had seen it. In a mist form, she crept through the window, open a crack for air. Standing in the darkened corner of the room, watching, listening, hearing his heart beat as the blood surged through the veins and arteries lying under the skin - yes, she was there. Conflicted in her choices. Does he live another night? The answer - always, yes, for now, he lives. Leaving him shortly before sunrise, she would feed on her pilgrimage home.

Learning centuries ago never to feed near your domicile - too many questions regarding missing people, dead bodies - she traveled many miles to search for her kill each night. Lightning fast, she could travel long distances in the blink of an eye. Sometimes before anyone would know she was gone. Her kills were usually the same, monotonous now, tiresome even. She killed men, only men - men who had done terrible things. Those were her usual feeds. It was always the same, they would see a beautiful woman, who depending on where she would be feeding that night, dressed to fit her surroundings, proposition her or offer to buy her time, thinking she was another street prostitute trying to survive or searching for her next hit. She went with them and even took their money. They, however, never returned. The last thing they saw before succumbing to death was the terror she held within. The true monster she had become. The fiery red eyes, the long, sharp white teeth with the moonlight glinting from them, her face transformed into evil personified. Oh, they would struggle, and she would giggle. None of them to escape her grip of death. Even if they had, never would they have gotten away.

With the prowess of a cat, she pounced. Toying with her food, perhaps letting it scuttle away in fear, thinking it had escaped the grasp of death. Only to wind it back in, staring eye to eye, as their memories played out before her, a silent movie of another's life. These men, these men she never had doubts over killing them. They with their family memories, while out searching for something they couldn't find at home, or they were out to hurt the already troubled female searching for a way to feed herself, to gain access to the drug in whose clutches she was ensnared. They looked down upon these women as beneath them, not worthy of being treated well. As garbage. She would show them, as terror set in and they knew there was nowhere for them to run, no one for them to cry for help, no forgiveness in her deadly eyes, she would smile. Pulling back her lips as her tongue wrapped around first, one hooked fang, then the other. A laugh innocent and child-like turning into something darker, menacing. Until with protracted viciousness, she sank her fangs into the artery pulsating in his throat. Slowly, allowing the pain to penetrate, allowing him to experience all of the pain he had caused. Struggling to free himself from the prison of death, she would draw more and more, emptying him, draining drop by drop, until he was nothing but a cold, dead, shell.