As the day approaches night, an expected stranger sat down next to me, by the counter; poor devil. It'd be an educating ordeal if they survive, but I was particularly ravenous that day; so the chances were slim. 

You must understand that I consider myself, for a lack of better term, reserved, having no more or less countenance than the average woman. Thus it is on days like this that I make an exception, for it is the thirst of the hunt which excites me so. 

The man turned to my direction and strewed his hand in the air, trying to capture the attention he didn’t know he already had. I veiled a smile and signaled back.

Reciprocating, he flashed a grin at me, and asked from where I came. He picked up a glass as I answered, wetting his lips with blood red wine. Therein laid a two-fold deception. The drinking, to set the idea that he, like me, was to some degree inebriated, which allowed him to pass himself in a more familiar manner; and the question, to distract from the fact that he wasn’t enjoying the drink one bit.

I narrated the details of my youth; which city I originated from, the story of how and why I moved when I was twelve, what uncouth spirit had driven me to move to this gutter. It’s a story I’ve never told anyone, mostly as it wasn’t true. 

I asked the man questions along the same lines, whose answers I estimated to be even more fabricated than mine. 

Evening turned to dusk, and we decided to move our affair elsewhere. My place would’ve been more convenient, but afraid of losing opportunity, I agreed to the man’s request and settled on going to his. 

I had brought my guitar case along with me, which with what I was wearing, was naturally inconspicuous. I carried the bulky thing. 

His routine was as simple as it was uninspired, sought out less than reputable venues, where faces are easily forgotten, and – subject to standard – pick the most inebriated girl available. 

Judging from his mannerism, I was certain he had had practice, although judging from his obliviousness, he did not know that so did I. 

The approach was pragmatic, yes, but it also provided the man with a particular buzz, which was on account of the blood alcohol. 

I jammed my words in a puddle, mumbling every three syllables, while the other two became fused in a slur. My steps deviated in random directions with respect to its regular axis of motion. In truth, I was as sober as sober can be — or at least no less than as would have been, having by that point five or six glasses of whiskey.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

This city is an iron maze. You can accept that statement metaphorically, but it’s also very much a physical one. When you want to fit so many people into so little space, it simply becomes inevitable. This, to my advantage however, meant that any decent number of alleyways would make themselves available, no matter the route we took.

Midway through, after rejecting a few prior candidates, I finally found the right alley, far enough from the bar, where we could be sufficiently sequestered. I dropped my case and rushed towards the dead end with false infirmity, an act which I had underpinned by regurgitating what appeared to be vomit—the secret: it was real. He came to me and softly motioned me out of the alleyway. He could’ve had his chance with me then, being in a situation more opportune than whatever he had in mind, but he had standards, and in hubris, waited. 

I fell down, urging him to take a few steps closer and bent over. Once again he motioned me to move. But pale I was, as the driven snow. 

I had stopped my breathing, and heartbeat too; it was a technique I learned from mad monks, who had developed it, in order to emulate death. I could generally maintain it for about thirty seconds, possibly longer, but then brain damage would start to set.

The man glanced at my spattered heave, and let out a rustled sigh at his dinner, now soiled. He was hesitant to touch me, and instead stood still, listening to my vitals. Dejected, he groaned once more, and approached my face with his.

“How disappointing, fresh meals are getting harder to come by these days, must I settle for spoiled meat” was what I imagined running through the man’s mind, but he was hungry all the same.

He inched towards me and hung my head about my hair, causing it to fall like a lifeless doll’s. I could feel his breath on my neck, but I bade my body still, and bided my time.

Predators are most vulnerable right before consuming their prey. Why wouldn’t they be? Seizing victory is a cause for celebration and celebration is no cause for alarm.

He closed his eyes and let out a mean hiss, moving his fangs towards my skin.

But it was during that window of weakness that I slowly recovered my vitals, and fingered my jacket slit. 

The man focused on the jugular vein. He tried to dig in, but was rudely interrupted, unable to even pierce the skin, too distracted by the stake then halfway through his heart. I could’ve pushed further, but their muscles are naturally tougher than mine, and with the amount of sudden awareness then present, it’d be foolish to risk a close physical altercation, and so I urged myself to hop back instead.

The man writhed and shrieked, trying to remove the weapon lodged four inches deep between his fourth and fifth rib. But the efforts were futile. Though he tried to pull the stake, it remained, and the pain only accrued. The stake was barbed.

I walked towards my guitar case, taking more time than necessary. It was a bad habit, I admit, but I had completed the routine with a good enough number to know that he wasn’t going anywhere.

We began conversing

“You’re a recent convert aren’t you? I imagine this is the first time you’ve felt pain since you’ve been turned. And for the first time you don’t know what to do, like a confused child you only know how to cry.”

I took my claymore out of the guitar case, and thoughtlessly pressed my index finger on one side, wetting the edge with a drop of blood. Sharp enough! 

“Well a bit of advice, even for mortals, trying to remove the weapon first is a bad idea,  in situations like this you should try running before tending to your injuries”

But alas, even with the greater hearing he possessed, the man was unable to process my guidance, with reason being that by the time the sentence ended, the claymore was already whole way through his neck.

A fountain of blood gushed out the man’s headless torso. It was cold. I picked up my breathing to its usual pace and enjoyed the scenery, red mist sprayed over my face. 

I wiped the gore off my claymore and placed it on my case, and from it took out a plastic pouch with a biohazard symbol. The bag was barely big enough to fit the man’s head, but I was sure Dr. Harker would appreciate the effort, especially compared to the last few attempts; let’s just say they weren’t as clean. 

Ideally I should bring in the whole body, but this was sufficient work for one night, any more and he needed to start paying me.