Robert could almost taste the blood. Still, after these hundreds of years, each hunt felt fresh and new. He anticipated the sweet thickness that would flow from her veins.
The young woman had fallen deeply under his spell. Her mind and will had already become his, and she'd never remember what was about to happen. No one else knew that, though. They'd see only the couple leaving the club, with her a little unsteady on her heels. Robert started to ask the doorman for a taxi, then saw horror in the woman's face. Just past her, reflected in the door's glass, he saw the truck careening out of control. He shoved her, hard, out of the way. He later learned that she broke her wrist when she fell. The truck missed her, though, so only Robert's body slammed through the glass and metal of the club's facade.
Pain. He woke to pain. Voices, sounds, smells -- his mind couldn't form thoughts, only experience raw sensations, and soon not even that. Even within the pain, he sank into darkness again.
Next time Robert woke, the pain was still with him. Voices had meaning, though; he could make out words in the hall outside. Sounds carried meaning too, medical beeping, footsteps, mechanical sounds. And the smells -- something antiseptic over the dark scent of bandaged blood. His blood.
He shifted and moaned as unwilling joints and muscles resisted. Sounds of fast footsteps, and a nurse's voice: "Rest, Mr. Andrews. You need to sleep." Something with a needle, and her hand on his arm until the world went dark again.
Robert woke again, to daylight this time. He squinted against the brightness as he tried to make sense of the voices.
"This can't be right. Are you sure this is the right chart?"
"Doctor, I've been trying to tell you. I've never seen anything like this. He -- Look, he's waking up."
"Mr. Andrews? Can you hear me?"
Nod, and even that hurt.
"You're a very lucky man, Mr. Andrews. For a while there, your injuries looked pretty bad. I'm happy to say they weren't nearly as bad as they looked at first."
Robert thought to himself, they were bad, OK. If they looked that bad, they were that bad. He'd felt this bone-deep ache before, as his body worked to repair some serious damage. Already, the ache had turned to nagging itch in a few places, a sure sign that healing was well along.
"We'll have you back on your feet in no time, maybe a couple of weeks. For now, you just take it easy and leave everything to us."
He'd leave soon enough, probably a day or two. For now, though, he needed to take stock. Robert knew the feeling of broken ribs, but those were almost healed. Arm in a cast, raised above his head -- there must have been swelling, but the break would be gone soon. Twinges and itches along his side meant some kind of superficial wounds, probably stitched. Something deep inside, too. There must have been internal injuries. That would scare the doctors, he knew, but didn't mean much. For people like Robert, anything that didn't kill him outright would heal inhumanly fast.
As he took stock, his heart fell. People like Robert -- vampires, if you must use the word, or vampyres -- could heal from almost any injury, with one exception. His tongue probed his mouth, and felt only smooth, raw wounds where teeth had been. Impact had shattered his mouth, leaving only broken pieces that couldn't be saved. Teeth never grow back. Without them, he couldn't pierce the skin of his prey and feed on their blood. In ancient times, that had been the ultimate punishment for one of his near-immortal kind: to have their fangs broken off, to starve an inch at a time, until the years left his undead husk comatose, unable to die but with no energy left to live.
Despair lay near by, but it would catch up to Robert later. First, he needed to leave the hospital before the doctors realized his un-human nature, then leave Robert Andrews behind. Even in this world of interlocking proofs of identity, it was still possible to become someone else. He already had papers stashed away that would prove him to be Robert O'Donnell -- not the Robert Andrews who healed in days from injuries that would have killed or crippled a mere human.
Days later and thousands of miles away, Robert swirled deep red wine ("Bull's blood") in its glass. Food and drink did nothing to sustain him, although he enjoyed the flavors. Only blood, fresh blood, drawn from a living body could keep him going. He didn't need that much -- his prey died only when Robert had reason to kill, and that hadn't happened in centuries. And, because secretions from his mouth affected his prey's tissues, blood from knife wounds, for example, could not sustain him. He had to draw the blood directly, his saliva mixing with the human essence.
So, he sat, swirling wine in his glass. Young and vital humans, his needed prey, bustled around him, arm's length away but forever beyond his reach. He could feel their warmth, smell their human scents -- rage and frustration kept depression at bay, at least for the moment, but Robert didn't know how long he could last. The young woman at the next table, her rich scent tugged at his hunter's instincts. Blood, the scent of blood called out to him. His animal senses, far keener than humans', picked out the odor of her menstruation. That aroma launched urges within him that his broken mouth could never fulfill.
Robert could give in to despair or fight it. For a time, at least, he chose to fight. He knew he could never feed, but he could still enjoy the thrill of the hunt. The woman, reading as she dined, would be his. Robert closed his eyes and summoned his power. Glands in his mouth opened and sweet musk flowed over his tongue. The scent on his breath wafted outward. A few minutes later, he saw its effect. Voices around him relaxed, took on happier tones. Couples nearby touched more. The woman next to him set her book aside, unable to concentrate, and gazed off to nowhere in her distraction.
As she looked around, her eyes touched Robert's momentarily. When she realized the contact, she looked away. In a friendly tone, Robert asked, "Is it any good?" He named the title he saw on her book. "I've been meaning to read that forever."
His hunting scent made his prey more trusting, easier to approach. She looked up, smiled, and answered. Robert kept up the conversation, even though the words meant little to him -- only the womanly scent of her blood really mattered to him. Soon, he joined her ("I'm Nora") at her table. The chemical mix in his saliva changed again. He casually wiped his mouth, wetting his fingertip. When the waiter came by, Robert lifted Nora's water glass for a refill, and touched his finger to its rim. Nora sipped, and her lips touched the spot he had wetted. They talked a while longer, and Robert soon recognized signs that meant she would succumb. Her eyelids fluttered as drowsiness set in. They paid, then stood to leave. She tottered, and Robert caught her arm in support.
Nora made some excuse about the second glass of wine, and Robert offered to get her a taxi. Anyone else would see a gentleman offering a friendly gesture to a lady. For Robert, though, the hunt was nearly over. He neared his prey, driven nearly to distraction by the warm aroma of inaccessible blood. As they stood at the restaurant door, he kissed her hand, a gesture she found old-fashioned and charming. A little wetness from his lips remained on her skin, though, and started to soak in. Part of the hunt, his body made sure she'd never remember him or the feeding that normally would have followed.
Keeping futility at bay, Robert followed his prey into the taxi, then walked her to her apartment. Drugged by the subtle chemistry of his lips, she allowed him in and closed the door behind them. Like Pavlov's dog, Robert's mouth moistened at the prospect of feeding. He pulled Nora close for a kiss, and she yielded. He held her close as the sedative kiss took effect, and felt her slump into his arms.
He laid her sleeping form on the couch and knelt next to her. The hunt had ended, Robert had his prey, and he sat in silent sadness. She was right there, ready for him, the scent of blood wafting up from her hips, and he couldn't do anything about it. Robert never molested his prey, he owed them that much respect, but couldn't help himself. His nose led him down her body. He lifted her skirt and swam in the scent of her monthly blood. For the first time ever, he touched his prey's underwear and pulled it down her legs. The bulky, reddened pad in the panties caught between her legs. Robert caught sight of her labia. The red stain across them and the lush scent of womanhood called to Robert's instincts. His animal urges took control, and he bent to taste the blood.
The taste! That first drop drove him nearly mad. The underwear tore in his grasp, and he parted her thighs. He lapped the stain from her outer lips, then licked more deeply. He licked the blood from her inner folds, then pressed his tongue into her vagina, the source of this richness. A human tongue would barely enter her body, but Robert's had evolved to lap blood even from deep crevices -- the slick muscle reached nearly to her cervix. The flavor intoxicated Robert, but he realized that something more was happening. He felt the glow of energy that came from feeding on blood. Like a man pardoned from a death sentence, Robert understood that he could live, he could feed -- just not the way that he used to.
Soon, the taste of blood was gone, consumed. Warm vaginal flavors lingered, but Robert had what he needed. He arranged Nora's legs comfortably on the couch. She'd sleep for a while, then waken with no memory of being his prey. He let himself out of the apartment, taking care to lock the door behind him. Nora would never see him again, but she had given him a new lease on life. Unknowingly, she had given him life itself.
Nora woke the next day, not remembering how she got home. When she saw her ripped underwear on the floor, she panicked. What had happened? Had someone been here? A fingertip probed between her legs, but showed no sign that she'd been raped. Then she realized, it showed no sign of blood, either. The day before had been her heaviest day, so there should have been at least a little color on her finger. She went to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and felt inside herself more deeply. Nothing -- just the clear moisture she'd see any other time of month. So what had happened? Nervously, she decided it must have been nothing, just that second drink hitting her harder than she expected. At least, that's what she hoped.
