There is no dark and stormy night. No forks of lightning ripping through a bruised and sullen sky. No garlic swaying in the rising wind. There is no mute hunchback scurrying across a muddy track. No strangers meeting at an inn, cut off for the night from the rest of "civilization".
And yet, there's a vampire on the loose.
She's chosen the form carefully. Her victim – the lender of an identity – had felt someone watching her for weeks. She'd felt eyes peering into her soul each night. She thought she'd detected the shadow of a shadow at the window. Felt a breath on her throat, though no-one was there. Felt a growing sense of unease mutate into foreboding, a dread she couldn't name and couldn't place. And now, in the pallid morning light, she'd turned from hunted to hunter.
Ohhh, fuck, the exhilaration. She keeps gazing at herself. Yes, even in mirrors. As we know, this no camp, feeble representation of a vampire. This is vampire as superbeing.
Her skin has a super-sheen to it. Ironically, she looks radiantly healthy, even though she's dead. It shines from within, deep down inside her, like the light inside a glacier. A light that speaks of infinite depth. Her muscles are taut and smooth, they ripple and shimmer as she moves. Every action, from walking, to picking up a pen, gives a subtle insight into the body performing it. A little glimpse of the smooth operation of muscle, of sinew, of - whisper it – of blood.
She's never felt like this. Not for a thousand years. Literally. She's chosen well. This one had such a promising future, and now she'll live a different one. A very different one. A future that stretches away into infinite nights. An unstoppable future.
Her strength has added to that of the form's, enhancing it. She's living the form's potential. Her fingers feel like sparks could fly from them at any moment. Her blood feels like it's fizzing and crackling inside her. She can feel her long brown hair caress her back. She runs her tongue across her teeth, relishing the brilliance of her inner glow. She sparkles. She shines. She's irresistible.
What else could she wear, but black? It's always been her favourite. A tight dress that slides across her body as she moves. Tonight, she's rippling through the crowd of the nightclub. The waves of people seem to part for her, as if getting too close is simply too dangerous to contemplate. Which, of course, it is. If they did but know it.
She looks around for some prey. Oh, so much flesh, so little time. She's quite capable of killing and devouring everyone in the room. Her hunger is rising, in the flashing lights and strobes. She draws strength from the heat of the bodies around her. Everyone is hers. Everyone is potential prey. Men or women. She doesn't care.
This form came to her, found her. Languid looks in the café, at her twenty year-old previous self. Girls make passes, at girls who wear glasses. She knows this. The form was drawn to her by the prospect of turning a sweet, bookish girl into a licking, thrashing, slut. The form gave herself up to a wicked, fast-moving tongue, that lashed her pussy into a shivering, quivering, juiced-up centre of unimaginable pleasure. The form saw it's end moments before it came, but was so impaled on absolute desire, on the rush towards ecstasy, that it surrendered willingly. It saw the price, and the prize, and accepted it. The form died on the greatest orgasm it could ever endure.
