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Those almond shaped eyes took him in, drank him as if the very sight of this tiny, handsome and exotic man was something that would feed her very soul and keep her alive for the rest of her life. Her mind drifted and began to imagine what it would be like. Would he be soft and gentle or would it be rough and hungry and vicious? Personally she wanted a mixture of the two. The thoughts brought forth a wicked grin that almost seemed to spread from ear to ear. The hunger and need was clear in his eyes as he looked back at her. Apparently he even thought he had some kind of control here, the look on that wonderful face betrayed his eyes...the truth was all too evident. There was going to be the facade of control, if only for a moment, then and only then would he snap and it would all come crumbling down. Every ounce of his will would evaporate and her capture would be complete. Predator would feast on prey until satisfaction was had. May the gods save the fool that tried to prevent it.

It was only momentary however as the sound of his bag hitting the floor snapped her out of her day dream. Abigail's eyes snapped to the bag as was subconscious nature when startled and by the time they went back to her new play toy he was already there standing before her. A gasp caught itself in her throat as a single finger timidly reached out and ran itself lightly along one cheek, the facial hair rough against the digit. Usually facial hair was a huge no no in Abigail's book but the way it looked and felt then and there sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine not to mention what it did to her to feel the tender touch of his own fingers upon her own flesh. From forehead to cheek to her overly sensitive neck, every inch of flesh felt as if it had been sparked with electricity to the point it brought a gasp from between her barely parted lips. One hand finding his shirt near the hip and gripping tightly. Why was he having this effect? How was this so easy for him? Here she was supposed to be playing the part of predator and yet here she was melting at such a simple and soft touch. What. The. Hell.

Leaning her head back as those fingers graced the ink upon her neck her pulse was there beneath fingers that had seen a bit of action. In no time at all her lip was secured firmly between her teeth. He had her. She had been wrong all along. She thought she was the lioness and he the poor helpless animal wandering through the wilderness but no...it was the exact opposite. He had played her. Lured her in using her own plan, twisting it in and on itself until it was a complete and perfect backfire. Whoever he was it was all too clear now that he had the power here, he always had. From the moment she had seen him during the class she had to wonder if he had chosen that particular seat with the intent of this being the end result all along. Gasping loudly as his fangs sunk in to her neck a tear came to her eye as it dawned on her that a curtain had been pulled back from her eyes. In that one moment a fracture in the world appeared. Sure she'd heard the urban legends about Harper Rock and as much as they were dismissed as fallacy it was all too apparent that the stories aren't just stories. The truth was now staring her in the face...or in this case feasting from her.

If this was going to be what was happening then she'd resign here and now. The stories always had ended the same. With death. Placing one hand on his hip and the other on the back of his head she'd make him do it fast, she'd make sure she wasn't left barely alive out of some....fucked up sense of morality. He had her, there was no way she was getting away so it might as well just happen right? I her mind there were only two options; die here and now or spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder waiting for him or another of his kind to simply come and finish her off. She'd only ever read one vampire book. Dracula. was she going to be playing the part of Mina and he the part of Dracula? When it came to a life like that and pure and simple death there was no choice to be made. A single tear ran down her cheek as she felt life leaving her second after second. Each breath was forced and labored as a futile attempt was made to block out the pain, only once did she speak to him and even then those words were buried within her labored breaths.

"Please. All of it."

Oh, and it’s so tempting, too. I’ve never had a victim willingly give themselves up to me. I’ve never had them gasp and sigh and tell me to take it all—as if it’s a gift Abigail wants to give me, just so she can. I realise the girl has probably been brought up on false stories—lies about our kind that we are happy to perpetuate, if it helps to keep the truth hidden. We actively seek to keep vampires to the world of fiction; beings to be imagined, to be thought untrue. Abigail is under the assumption that I will kill her, that I need to take all her blood for this to be at all worthwhile.

And she’s not wrong, in some aspects. Yes, I should kill her. I haven’t hesitated to kill my victims for months, now. Normally because my thirst is so insatiable—it’s always there, that itch that cannot be scratched. Even after have had my fill, I want more. I don’t need it, but I want it. It’s a curse, but it’s also a blessing. It means that every time I do feed, at least for those few minutes, I am subject to a bliss that I haven’t ever experienced before. The ultimate satisfaction, even if it will not last.

And thus I am tempted. It’s been too long since I’ve pulled away before taking too much. My body is not accustomed to being denied that which it wants with a burning, desperate desire. Perhaps it is because I am stubborn, and I don’t want to give Abigail what she wants. Not so soon. Not just yet. Not on her own terms. She wants me to take it all, but I won’t do it. I think of the class I have just left; I think of the precious few who will miss out on finishing their projects because I have taken the jewel of a model away from them—snuffed out the light that gives her life. I think of my own drawing, back there in that classroom. Incomplete. And I can’t have that.

No. I have to pull away. I have to let her live—if only so she can come back the next night and sit again. Maybe…maybe tomorrow night, or the night after, I can finish what I have started. The peculiar magic sets in, and Abigail passes out in my arms. I stop drinking, hissing against the skin of her neck as that burning itch returns, worse than before. My instinct is telling me to keep going, and it doesn’t like the fact that what it needs is right there. Right in front of me. But I’m not taking it. With slow deliberation I swoop the girl’s body up into my arms. I walk her to one of the lecture theatre chairs, and lower her down into it. I make sure she looks comfortable—I make sure that her arms are arranged neatly on the bench in front of her, and that her head lies upon them. I shift the hair from her neck to make sure the twin wounds have healed. That I have left no evidence of my meal. She ought to forget this ever happened. She’ll wake up in a few hours, feeling like she’s got an almighty hangover. She’ll take herself home. And I’ll see her again tomorrow night.

Just in case, however… I scour her person for signs of a wallet or a purse. Once found, I search through it until I find ID. Until I find something with her address on it. I want to know where she lives so that, if she does not show up tomorrow night, I can find her again. For what purpose? I’m not really too sure. All I know is that I don’t want to let this one get away. Not just yet. I commit the address to memory, before I put everything back where I found it.

And that’s how I leave her, slumped over that bench, as I retrieve my bag and slip quietly out the door and head home.


I’m dressed more casually than last night—tan pants, and a shirt that I found in the back of the cupboard. I kiss Felicity goodbye before I head out the door, bag firmly slung over my shoulder. She knows that I’m going to a live art class. She doesn’t know about the model. It’s not that I’m keeping it from her, but she didn’t ask. And…well, I am a man of very few words. I’m doing nothing wrong. I’m simply intrigued. And what’s the big deal, anyway? A man likes a restaurant, he’s going to return to it. A man likes a particularly good meal, he’ll order it again. This is the exact same circumstance.

The world on campus is exactly the same as it was when I left it the night before. I’m ten minutes early. I saunter through the hallways and drift into the art room. All our easels are in the exact same place they were left. There are a couple of people already there; there are a few who drift in after me. I wander toward my stool and perch upon it, reaching into my bag for the new utensils. The coloured pens, with their vibrant ink. Once they’re set up, I sit and wait, eyes steadfast upon that back door.

A barely audible gasp is all that escapes those lips as arms cling tightly to the man that she swore was about to end her life. Each slow and ragged breath brought her closer and closer to that precipice between life and death and all it would take was for him to keep going and there she would be, falling through it all, falling through her memories and dreams and hopes until it was all eaten away by the blank nothingness of death. It would be simple. It would be easy. She would simply die, her body would probably be left there or hidden and everyone would mourn but eventually move on like nothing had ever happened. This was the key to her very existence and why she lived as she did; life was cheap. Anyone could die at any moment and for that reason and that reason only she lived life the best she could. Surrounding herself with the most extreme of people...from criminals to successful business men and then some so that way if it did just happen to be her she could say it was all worth while. Her only regret was that she hadn't yet been able to achieve the one dream she had always fostered and nurtured since she was a teenager. Oh well.

And that is where it should have ended if fate had been kind. But it wasn't. That had been her second lesson about life. It was a *****. Very rarely did it ever go the way you planned and wanted because there was just some higher power out there that loved to watch each and every person struggle and fail time and again until they eventually got it right. Abigail should have died that night, by all rights she felt as if she had. The world was dark and her body didn't want to move yet at the same moment she felt herself moving or being moved. Then nothing. Nothing connected. Her brain worked and so did her body but there was just no...will there to bring anything about. Exhausted, sapped of her strength and lost in a mental haze there was nothing left for her but to simply drift. The sound of her own ragged breath was all she could focus on and then came the crash. It was a mixture of sleep and simply passing out.
What. The. ****. It was the first thought through her mind as she was nudged awake by one of the janitors. Abigail could only imagine the scene as he saw it; some tattooed mid 20's girl passed out nearly perfectly in an empty classroom...he probably thought she was some kind of druggie or something or that maybe she had had some kind of midnight rendezvous with someone or maybe his own thoughts on the matter were something even more far fetched. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts and then that was when it entered her mind. The eyes at first and then, as if it were being painted out of a haze, the rest of the features. Eyes first, then the jaw line, then the facial hair then the rest of it. That ******. Wait, why was she angry? Was it because he had tricked her? Proven that the rumours of Harper Rock were true? Because he had chosen her out of everyone else? Or maybe it because it had bruised her ego to be that weak and pathetic that she had damn near begged for death?

Gathering her things she made a hasty departure after making sure that her legs had the strength to do so after a brief stumble that had her grabbing on to the janitor. There was still an anger there, a furious rage that she couldn't explain as she made her way home. the bus would have been much faster but walking through the city in the noontime sun made breathing just that much easier as if just having the fresh air was lifting a weight from her chest. Every second of that walk however had the events of the past night running through her mind, from the moment she had bared herself to the moment that man had tricked the predator in to becoming prey. She was supposed to have had him in her web and not the other way around so maybe that had something to do with her frustration and anger. He had, for lack of a better term, beaten her at her own game. Poor sweet Abigail had been lured in by someone a bit higher on the food chain and left like a piece of garbage. At least he had made her comfortable though.

She didn't even have a name for him or any information. Just a face. A face that was truly haunting her. From the second she turned the lock to open the door of the dingy apartment that she called home there was a moment where that very same face was staring at her out of the darkness of the hallway that lead to her bedroom. Panic set in and only after blinking and taking a breath did the visage of that...nightmarish man vanish from sight. Was it her mind or was he truly screwing with her even now? It made her skin crawl and sent a shiver down her spine that just seemed to persist. Her nails scratched at what little skin she had exposed. There was no relief from it though and each step she took as she walked down the hallway had her looking around and in to each room. The silence was broken with each step of her boots on the hardwood floor and, sadly, she was creeping herself out with it all. Her mind racing with fifty different scenarios that could have occurred at that exact moment.

In a futile attempt to put it all out of her mind she turned the knob on the shower and set the hot water to heating. Striping down she sighed and just sat on the edge of the tub. As much as she didn't want to think about it and pretend it had never happened there was no way she could have avoided it. With a steadying breath she stepped in to the shower and tried her best to just focus on one thing at a time. This was her time to escape it all, relax and not worry about it. Something she sorely needed. Even with the water of the scalding hot shower burning her she couldn't actually bring herself to care. Try as she might her mind was lost to her just then. The scene just replaying itself over and over. He had been so gentle and kind and...different. Sadly she now knew why he had been different. The strong silent type always attracted one person or another, hell it was the perfect trap. It's how she would have done it anyways.

Giving up on the shower she toweled off and left for the bedroom. There wasn't even an ounce of care in her anymore. It wouldn't leave her head and heaven forbid she try and talk to someone about it. Who the hell would she go to? A priest? The cops? A friend? None of them would believe her. Dropping down on to the bed and looking at the clock there was a pathetic groan as she rolled on to her back. Seven more hours of nothing to do. Seven more hours and then she could see him again. Seven more hours and she would be sitting face to face with the man that had almost killed her. It was the nine hour mark she was looking for because that's when she'd be putting his *** in the fire...some how. There was no way in hell though she would be letting him just get away with it all.
Stretching as her alarm began to blare a silent yawn issued forth. Was it time already? Damn. At least she felt more awake now and like there was actually some energy to be had. Rolling out of bed she really didn't even care about how she looked tonight. No one was going to be paying attention anyways. Throwing on a pair of tight blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt she called it good and slipped on a pair of plain black sandals. That was it. There was no need for anything else. Her keys were all she brought with her as she made that 15 minute walk from where she lived to the college. Even the building seemed to have grown during the day as it was now a looming monstrosity in her eyes. The greatest challenge she'd ever faced would be faced tonight. The first issue was going to be the class however. To sit there and stare at him for an hour and a half and not jump across the room and strangle him...that was going to be one hell of a challenge in and of itself.

And now was the moment of truth. Here she stood ready to walk out that door once again. This time her confidence was wavering, this time her confidence was almost nonexistent and as the door opened that lack of confidence shone through to everyone that cared. The class was a bit smaller today as expected as her eyes took in the classroom. Those eyes finally settled on him and that rage bubbled back up once again. Taking her seat she reassumed as close to the same pose she had held yesterday all the while she stared daggers in to him. If looks could kill he'd most certainly be a dead man for sure.

The class assembles in much the same way as it had the night before. Everyone resumes their previous seats, aside from those who have decided they don’t need any more sessions. I have no opinion on the matter—people can do what they want. The only reason I am here is to complete my piece of art. Though I am curious about Abigail—whether she will show up, or whether the only face we’ll get to see is that of the stingy old lecturer, apologising and offering us a refund. Or something. As much as I like to assume aspects of Abigail’s personality, I don’t always get it right. I like to think that I can read people. I like to think that Abigail wouldn’t be the kind of girl to bow out, scared and wary because she woke up in an empty classroom with no memory of how she got there. Of course, I could be wrong. She could be a coward. And there’s only one way for me to find out—and that’s to wait and see if she walks through that door again.

There are no apologies from the lecturer. The back door opens, and out steps Abigail. There’s something missing in her demeanour—a confidence that she’d had the night before but which is now lacking. I lean my head to the side as I watch her, curious. Oh, I’m curious about so many things. Obviously, whatever magic natural in vampires does not take away too much of their memory. She wouldn’t be here, otherwise. She wouldn’t remember to be here. Just how much of her life did I take away from her?

She takes her seat, and resumes her position—nearly exactly the same as her position from the night before. At least close enough that I can work with it. I just need to see enough of those tattoos so that I can cover the girl on the page with near exact replicas. I don’t start right away, though. How can I, with Abigail looking at me like that? Like she’s willing invisible daggers into my skull. I roll my shoulders and stare right back. A challenge, of sorts. I don’t understand what reason she should have to be so angry at me. By all rights, she shouldn’t remember me. She shouldn’t remember that little incident in the classroom. And yet…

There’s nothing that can be done about it. Not then and there. Not in front of a classroom full of people. The confrontation will have to wait. I don’t smirk. I try to put it from my mind as I work—as I do my best to capture the art on Abigail’s skin. I work fast, hasty yet adept. I need to get this finished, because I won’t be coming back tomorrow night. Even as I work, I know that Abigail won’t be coming back tomorrow night. At least, if those dagger-eyes are meant for me, because she remembers everything…

She can’t remember. She can’t be allowed to have a clue. She will be a liability to the masquerade, and I cannot have that. I cannot allow it. It pains me to think that I’ll have to kill her—pains me to think that I should have, like I do my every other victim. If this is going to be a recurring issue—how the **** can she remember, anyway? What the hell has happened, that my victims don’t forget me, like they ought to? I shake my head—near the end of the session, after I’ve completed all the finite detail of the tattoos on my portrait, I return my attention to the face.

The face that I have already drawn is soft-featured. Innocent, even. I want to change it. I want it to reflect the expression I can now see—that of defiant fury. It suits her. And I feel it somehow pays homage to her. That this might be the last way she looked. It is how she ought to be remembered—strong, boisterous. Not lilting, like a precious little flower.

The clock strikes the hour, and the lecturer claps his hands. Time is up. The classroom shuffles into movement. I unclip the page from the easel. I roll it up, and push a rubber band around the outside. This is one that I want to keep.

Abigail has disappeared into that back room, and I can’t take my chances. I can’t let her get away. I linger, waiting for the rest of the class to filter out—and then I follow her. I force myself into that back room, where the lecturer is no doubt waiting, too. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him, exactly. But I can’t let Abigail get away.

Could that hour have dragged by any more slowly. Her raging anger was slowly falling away as she stared at him. There was nothing else there worthwhile and even as she replayed the previous night over and over in her mind she could feel the anger in the darkest depths of her mind and yet there was almost the need for her to actually exert willpower to stay angry with him. Sitting there as statuesque as could be she couldn't help but remember a sad yet wonderful story she'd once read in High School. It seemed as if this was the perfect example of a storybook come to life because as much as he had brought her to the brink of death and left her like some unwanted piece of refuse there was still something there in those deep dark eyes that spoke volumes more than he displayed. Even if his actions and words didn't speak volumes there some part of him that gave a care. If he didn't he probably would have just left her against that wall and not bothered to put her in the chair, made her out to be some kind of stupid kid that decided to have a bit too much to drink that passed out in a classroom. So maybe there was something there...

Jarred out of her thoughts by the clap of the instructor she jumps ever so slightly. Without even a backwards glance she is up and off of her perch and walking away. A stunned look on plenty of faces as she simply walks away and closes the door behind her with the pudgy instructor rushing to catch up to her. She wanted to dress herself and get back outside to catch him as soon as she could. He wasn't going to be escaping so easily. Just as she was finishing getting dressed (with the teacher's back turned as was her stipulation) she heard the door open and without even having to look there was no doubt in her mind who it was that had just burst in to the office. Sighing softly she turned and looked him dead in the eye. Defiant to the end. The heat of the anger crawling through her veins had met the icy grip of fear and as they both met there was a moment of sheer paralyzation. Fight or flight time, girl. Her mind raced and with the inability to decided which end to pursue the decision was made to take the middle ground. Confrontation.

Putting a finger on the instructors chest she looked at him with the darkest look she could manage. Her eyes boring into his own as she spoke ever so softly.

"You, sit."

There was no request to the sharp and harsh words that escaped from between those lips. Those tattooed arms crossed over her chest as she simply stopped and stared at the man that had more balls than anyone else she knew if simply for the fact that he was showing his face after the events of the prior night. Still she remained unmoving as she looked him over before voicing her thoughts.

"You have a lot of gall to show back up here after what you did last night. What is to stop me from telling everyone I know all about you? Trust me, I have friends in pretty low places and even some in pretty higher places. You might even wind up on the news if your lucky."

Of course she was merely pulling it all out of nowhere. She had maybe one or two friends that would actually believe her and neither of them would actually be able to do anything about it. Hell, knowing them they probably transform into a pair of fangirls and beg for him to prove himself to them. Lifting an eyebrow she simply stood there, defiant to the end, waiting to see what he'd do with her words.

The oafish lecturer does as he’s told. And why shouldn’t he? Abigail is fuelled by fury; I had it right all along, I realise. She’s not some pansy. She’s a strong woman, with a determination that could turn most men to jelly. I can imagine her all dressed up in leather, a whip grasped lightly in one hand. She’s got the power to dominate, and she does so easily. The lecturer has no idea what’s going on. And all I can think, is that I am in a room with two humans, their hearts beating the blood through their limbs, warming their bodies. That warmth seeps from them, couple with the aroma of their life. And goddamnit, **** it all, I’m hungry. I’m always hungry. And neither of them have a clue what they’re in for.

Of course I think that Abigail should die. She knows too much. She’s not calling me out as some psycho who belongs in a loony bin because he’s running around acting like a vampire. She doesn’t threaten to call the cops, or the doctors. Instead, she threatens to tell everyone all about me. She knows too much.

I might have approached her, stealthy and lithe as a cat on the prowl. I might have explained to her that she wasn’t supposed to remember—that she has no reason to be angry because I left her there with all good intentions. I left her there, believing she wouldn’t remember. And to count her lucky stars that I didn’t leave her in some back alleyway somewhere. I mean, I get it. Poor girl thinks she’s been taken advantage of. Maybe she has. But I’m not going to apologise. Oh, but she’s so full of life. So full of indignant fury. I can see the potential for power, for strength. And I know that she has the strength to…

And then I realise that I have no intention of killing her. Not entirely. Hell, this whole situation is reminiscent of the night I turned Axel. I had more time to think about that. But he knew too much, too. I should have killed him, because he knew too much. And yet I didn’t. I gave him a second life, and he’s done nothing thus far to disappoint me. Rather than learn from my mistakes, I’m learning from my wins. I gained a loyal fledgling when I decided to turn Axel. Maybe it can be the same here, too?

And then I can’t help but smirk. Hadn’t I just harboured that plan, recently? I thought, perhaps, that Axel could do well with a girl—he needed a companion that wasn’t a Paladin. I haven’t seen him with anyone. So why not this one? She’s got that look on her face, as if she’s questioning me – what exactly am I going to do about it? It’s really not smart, to threaten a vampire in a room with only an oafish lecturer for protection. Well, she’s going to discover what I’m going to do about it, and in no uncertain terms, either. I’m not the kind to faff around.

I have Abigail set in my sights. I could almost forget all about the lecturer. He clears his throat, his voice deep and ridiculous as he speaks. “Now, look here. I won’t have students arguing in my office. If you two—“

He doesn’t have the chance to tell us to get out. In two swift steps I’ve crossed the room to where he’s sitting. I raise my arm, clench my fist, and with one backward swipe aim my elbow directly at the man’s temple. All words are cut off as he’s knocked out cold. I don’t kill him. Not yet. He’s going to be useful to me.

Without skipping a beat I approach Abigail. Before she can even think to run, or scream, I cover her mouth; I’m behind her, one arm wrapped possessively around her torso, the other hand clamped tight over her mouth, pulling her head to the side so I have easy access to the vein on her neck. This time, I’m not going to stop. I’m going to keep drinking, even beyond the point that I need blood. I’m going to attempt to fully satisfy that craving for blood. This time, I’ll only stop when she’s on the brink of death. And then, and then I’ll offer her a new life.

A small and soft gasp was all that escaped her as that fat and obnoxious little man got exactly what she felt he deserved. Granted it wasn't exactly how she envisioned it all going and given that she wanted the fat ******** to get his just desserts didn't exactly mean she was going to do it, nor did she expect it. It almost made her want to smile with the way he slumped back in that chair with a lack of any sign of life to him. You'd almost think he was dead with the way he looked now. Surprisingly there was some sort of sick and twisted pleasure to be had there. Poor ******** probably shouldn't have been as obnoxious with his advances towards her and there wouldn't be just the smallest hint of a smile on her face and as much as she hated the fact that it was slightly enjoyable to watch it was just too perfect.

It wasn't until she felt the hand over her mouth and the arm around her waist that she remembered the gravity of the situation. Mister tall, dark and handsome was still there. How she could have forgotten about him so quickly she had no clue but she had. Perhaps she was lost in the look of the actual show of force exhibited or maybe it was the sight of the unconscious man looking so dead that had stolen her mind from her but either way there he was and there she was. Held in a surprisingly comfortable vice she didn't really struggle as much as he might have expected. She had experienced this once before already and the second time around was probably going to be a little bit more...comfortable. If such a thing were possible. Of course there was the icy terror in her veins but at the same time the proximity and the feel of him holding her in such a way brought a most interesting of excitements to her body. She even went so far as to press herself in to him and tilt her head for him. Part of her wanted it, part of her craved it. It was some dark, dirty and taboo thing and here she was smack dab in the middle of it all.

"Your going to do it anyways aren't you? Just like last night? Make me some kind of midnight snack. Tell me one thing, if you can speak, why no game tonight? Is it because something is different about tonight? Just...give me some kind of answer before you do it. Please?"

Reaching back she placed her hand on the back of his head and looked up, her eyes speaking volumes on what she felt as she would never speak those words aloud. Abigail knew that this was probably the closest she had ever felt to another person and yet at the same time she never felt further away. He was a stranger, a face even without a name but that was part of the whole charm of it all. A tall dark evil man having his way with a maiden like her, the mere though could inspire a whole series of romance novels. Maybe, if she lived through this, she'd write them herself and put those silly little Twilight books to shame. If she lived.

I truly believe that if I could answer her, I would. I suppose in time she’ll learn not to expect easy answers from me, though. She’ll know that she’ll have to wait, have to be a little patient to figure out what it is I’m trying to tell her, or teach her. If she doesn’t like surprises, she’ll have to learn to love them. The outcome of this situation, I figure, will no doubt be a very large surprise. Maybe an unwelcome one. But one I hope that, given time, she won’t regret. If I could have, I would have answered her not because of the way she’s looking at me, with those big, pleading eyes, but because I suppose it’s something any person might deserve. But to answer her questions would mean releasing her; it would mean finding a pen and paper to write it all down. And that requires time. Time that I do not think we have—especially when I do not want her to get away. I don’t want it to be a ploy.

And besides which, the way she’s willingly pressing herself up against me, the way her hand rests on the back of my head, just above the neck, the way she inclines her neck without my having to force her—hell, it’s all too much. I’m a man whose actions are dictated, a lot of the time, by the hunger clawing at his throat. I don’t take the time to answer her questions because, at least in this instance, I’m impatient. She’s making it very hard for me to resist.

And it’s not just her blood that I want. No, it’s a contributing factor of course. But there’s a thrill in the whole endeavour—ever since I realised I wasn’t going to kill her, but turn her, I’ve been filled with a gleeful kind of excitement. As if it’s not the blood that I need, but the exchange. It’s not the blood, but the connection I’m able to create. To forge. I nibble her ear apologetically before I bury my face in that warm curve of her neck. As rough as I may have been, taking her in my arms, I’m still gentle when canines break the skin. I hold her tight. I won’t let her fall, if she feels the need to pass out. And yet, I want her to stay awake. I need her to stay awake as long as possible, so that she can drink when I tell her to drink.

I swallow her blood, mouthful after insatiable mouthful, trying not to revel too much in the pleasure of it. I focus on the beat of her heart, and the pulse of her blood. When she seems as if she’s about to slip out of consciousness, I dig my fingers into her flesh—I introduce a bit of pain, just to keep her awake.

When finally I think I have taken enough, I retract my teeth, make sure the wound has healed, and lower us both to the ground. I glance at the lecturer, just to make sure he’s still passed out. It wouldn’t do to have a witness to all this. With Abigail cradled in my lap, I bring my wrist to my lips. Teeth still elongated, I slice a wound up the length of the vein—a wound deep enough so that it will not heal immediately. Blood pumps to the surface, dripping over the ink, over my skin, staining Abigail’s clothing. It doesn’t matter. I hold the wound over Abigail’s lips. I will her to open those lips. To latch on, to swallow. I’ve got one hand behind her head, fingers tangled up in her hair—I tug at it, gently. A reminder that she’s still here, in the physical world. That there’s something that she needs to do, if she’s going to live.

It’s only in moments like these that I wish I could speak—if only so I could shout them into submission.

Realizing she isn't going to get an answer as she desires a soft sigh escapes those lips. Eyes fall to the floor as the sharp sting of his teeth is anticipated and delivered without hesitation. Just like the prior night he was gentle and caring with it as if he needed her very life to quench a ravenous hunger yet he held respect for his chosen morsel. There was doubt in her mind if she was truly something special or if he treated everyone like this but for the time being she would simply assume she was special...it made her feel better about being a buffet for the man. Maybe it would be the same the next night, maybe he would come to her again like an addict craving his fix? It was yet another comforting thought as that grip tightened on the back of his neck, nails digging in ever so slightly as she felt the rush of his sanguine hunger being satiated. All she could give was a weak and pathetic whimper as she leaned back in to him in full acceptance of the fate she was now doomed to face. A toy for him to play with and feed on when ever she wished it and as degrading as it seemed she was accepting of it, she would be his if for the simple fact that it fed some perverse and wicked need or desire she had in that dark corner of her mind she refused to acknowledge.

Just as she was about to drift off she felt a sharp something in her side. It felt like electricity shot through her body. Jumping ever so slightly Abigail knew what was happening now. He was trying to keep her awake. To what end was unknown but he was. She wasn't allowed to sleep for whatever reason...no, not sleep. It wasn't sleep that was causing her to feel so tired and lethargic, it was the lack of life in her. She had, as ludicrous as it sounded, a very hot man with his teeth buried in her neck drinking her blood. Even more ludicrous was the fact that she actually muttered the word out loud as it came to her mind. Apparently that brain to mouth filter had vanished with the rest of her strength.

"Vampire."

There. She'd said it. It had to be true. After all this was classic behavior. From Twilight to Dracula to everything in between this was the most classic way. Closing her eyes she simply let herself go, all thoughts were released, her body relaxing. She felt herself drifting slowly as if she were simply falling asleep, like this were just some kind of drug that was going to make everything all better once she woke up. Little did she know she really was falling, falling to the ground in the arms of this dark and deadly angel of the night. A man-like creature that would just as soon knock a man unconscious as listen to him speak, or feed off of a woman he barely knew simply to curb a ravenous and depraved hunger for human life. It was actually something she could have envied if she had the ability to do so at that point. Maybe he would be done soon though, maybe he would finish with her and take her to some classroom to sleep so that everything would be all better in the morning unless he just decided to end it all now. With a creature like this it was all too evident that death would be in her future one way or another. That was what he was after all. Death, wrapped up in a pretty little bow and some sexy *** wrapping paper. It was almost enough to make a girl not want want to fear this particular reaper.

Just barely feeling the pull on her hair she groaned and lifted her head ever so slightly. That was when she found something that was most exquisite. A soft warmth, it was as if someone were filling her mouth with liquid heat that tasted...better than anything she had ever tasted. It was heaven in liquid form. As good as it tasted however it was different and bad in some way. It was making her stomach turn each time she took a swallow. She wanted nothing more than to simply reach up and move her new drink so that she didn't have to keep her head up. It was absolutely exhausting. Taking but a few swallows a soft sigh escape from between those bloodstained lips as Abigail's head fell back. Now not only did she feel like sleeping but now her skin was itching and burning and her stomach was cramping horribly. This had to be the worst damn day ever.

I grin, broad and indulging, as Abigail does as prompted. Either she doesn’t realise that she’s drinking blood from a man’s wrist, or she doesn’t care. Either way, I am satisfied. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t keep drinking. She has consumed my blood, and now all we have to do is wait for it to take effect. I settle down on the floor, shoulders slumped with Abigail still in my lap. I don’t breath as I sit there. I am akin to a father bird, waiting for his egg to hatch, crouched over her protectively, possessively, waiting for the inevitable.

Well, it’s not really the inevitable. I don’t know how this turning will go. I don’t know whether she’ll pass out, like Felicity did—whether I’ll have to carry her home and wait for the next night for her to wake, fully transformed and ready to go. Or whether she’ll be like Axel, awake, writhing, suffering through every change until his eyes fluttered open—accusative, demanding, inquisitive. I don’t know whether it’ll be something in between, or something entirely different. Maybe she won’t survive at all—it pains me to think of it, but of course it’s a possibility. I’ve projected strength and determination onto this girl. Maybe underneath it all, she’s as weak and feeble as the rest of them. Maybe she won’t survive the transformation. Maybe it’ll be too much for her.

Of course I am anxious. Both anxious and excited; should she survive, as I expect she will, I look forward to introducing her to all the wonderful things this life has to offer. The retribution she can have—oh, I didn’t fail to notice that smile she gave when I smacked that lecturer in the temple. I didn’t miss that small amount of glee she got from watching him so violently struck. I can only assume she has something against the guy. He’s still slumped there, in his chair; there’s a wheezing noise coming from his nose, now, as if he’s got breathing problems. I bet he snores. I bet he’s a deplorable creature, filthy and ridiculous, who deserves to die.

Yes, should Abigail wake up, I want the lecturer to be her first proper meal. He’ll be her training wheels, as it were. Maybe, even if she doesn’t wake up and I have to carry her home, I’ll come back for him. I’ll bring him with us, tie him up. Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Besides, he saw us both arguing. He knows my name. Too many connections can be made, if people start looking for Abigail. If questions are asked. And besides, he probably won’t let me get away with smacking him in the head, regardless of what Abigail’s status might become.

My hand lays against Abigail’s thigh, wrist up—the bleeding has stopped, and the wound is slowly but surely stitching itself back together. My other hand is absently brushing Abigail’s hair as her head rests on my knee. I am silent, watchful, still. I keep an ear on the lecturer, to make sure he doesn’t stir too soon. But am otherwise focused on my new hatchling, waiting to help her through the transition, to cater to her every need until I deem her independent enough to spread her wings and branch out on her own.