Silently I creep through the night, tracking my victim. Floating on the breeze I stalk her scent. I close in and her window beckons. Effortlessly I rise past the sill, standing on air. Through the glass I see her. She lies warm and secure in her bed, not knowing her own vulnerability. Not knowing the horror I will visit upon her this night. Her innocence entices me. Her desire lures me. Her blood calls me, powerful for one so young.
This one is rare, her age having progressed beyond her own body. For weeks I have stalked her, finding out all I could about her. Her name, where she lives, what she does. Determining that although she has lived for eighteen years, her body is only now advancing into womanhood. She is untouched, unsullied by any man, pure, innocent, chaste, undefiled -- rare.
The night wind stirs her chestnut tresses through the small space she has unwittingly left between the window and the sill. I feel the hunger upon me. The urge. The drive. The burn. I draw myself apart, thinning, becoming effervescent, insubstantial -- mist. Drawn by the breeze, I flow through the tiny opening, sinking as I enter. Gently I spread throughout her room, a dense fog enshrouding her floor in a blanket of cloud.
Gathering the shifting tendrils of myself together, I rise, coalescing from the very air to stand at the foot of her bed. My stealth is flawless, having been forged and practiced over nearly one and a half millennia and I have made no sound, yet she stirs, her down cover falling away to reveal her soft, nubile, unclad body. Somehow she has perceived me from beyond the boundaries of sleep and is drifting toward consciousness. I release my will. She breathes deeply, once, and begins to drift back. I do not wish her to be awake yet. I wish to simply immerse myself in her beauty. I watch as she slumbers, her stirrings stirring in me a yearning to feel her. To know her. The very essence of her being. Her very soul.
I remain still, biding my time, immersing myself in her subconscious spirit for a time. Finally I can contain myself no longer and I release my hold upon her mind. Again she stirs, drifting toward consciousness but this time by my design. Her eyelids slowly divide and she reaches awareness. She does not see me at first, not recognizing her surroundings; still caught up in her dream. As the dream fades and she becomes cognizant she perceives me for the first time. Her eyes widen in fear and she opens her mouth to scream.
With a flicker of silent movement I am beside her, crouching over her, my hand covering her mouth. She freezes at my touch, barely daring even to breathe. My gaze, locked with her own, holds her motionless. My fingertips begin to move over her face. Tracing her ice blue eyes. Touching her full, supple lips. Moving along her aquiline jaw to her dainty ear. I hesitate at her throat, her racing pulse beckoning; the innocence of her blood calling, but I resist and my hand moves across her throat and further down her trembling body.
I gently stroke her barely formed breasts, fingertips circling her diminutive areolas, the cold of my touch making her tiny nipples harden and become erect. She sighs, moaning quietly despite her fear. Again, I release my will, dispelling the fear, suppressing everything but the secret desire that I sense within her. Her willingness surprises me. She does not have the experience to know what awaits her, yet she seems to yearn for it to happen. Her breathing quickens as I caress the smooth skin of her midriff, flirting with her navel. A sharp intake of breath as I approach the bare, pristine domain of her femaleness. I pass it by slowly, leaving it untouched for the moment, savoring the anticipation I feel within her as much as my own.