Many times, countless times, I have heard people tell me they love me. They say it as if those words could keep them out of danger. As if, once said, they will forever remain a secure fence that should keep their dreams from falling. Painfully doubting and blushing, they squeeze them out of themselves in the vain hope of stopping the inevitable disaster. I love these moments of frightened revelations.

I often wonder if Alistair ever told me how he felt. No, he's never spoken about it. But I know that in this whirlwind without a name, he obsessively seeks only my echo. And I can't help but respond to his madness, toppling myself from the throne of my own arrogance time after time. It is only for the mystery that torments me that I drink the souls of others.

How do I choose my victims? I think you'll be interested to know. The same way I hear Alistair. I hear him all the time, as if his whisper is inseparable from my thoughts. I hear the hum of fire and the heat of searching images. I glide in the thick stream of perpetually fearful humanity, closer and closer to the one who does not love fear. I am drawn to the courage. And I love the beautiful.

I found this boy by accident. I was hungry, too hungry to choose, but he, himself, came into my arms. He was drunk and open. And I entered his soul without much effort, leaving the imprint of my desires on the retinas of his dilated eyes. When he woke up, he was already looking for me. Impatiently and greedily. And I didn't keep him waiting. We've met five times now, five strange times, hidden by equally strange excuses. And on this night, I'm taking him with me....

Incubus-borns differ from us in the directness of their desires and the plainness of their lust. They lack the subtlety of seduction and do not know the growing power of long games. But I am not such. And I seek out those who can resist me. Dissolving among the tangled labyrinths of abyssal places like Saint Ferno, only they can learn to enjoy it. But they are not destined to change their nature. Their existence will be like an elaborate, exquisite torture. I can squirm with pleasure, hearing them calling to me. But I do not often return. And they are left to serve as wilful playthings in the greedy hands of the Born.

Once, when I met one of them, the hot-headed pretties of hell, I asked:

‘What do you think is the most important in love?’

‘The moment of getting,’ he answered without hesitation.

I knew who he'd chosen. Handsome, lucky and miserable with his desires. I laughed. Because I knew both would be deceived. There's no beauty in moaning without pain, and there's no pain without a tear of the soul.....

I don't pity them. And I'm too arrogant to listen to their scornful envy. The eternal envy of fire over sharpened steel. The Fallen are not loved in either world. Because when we kill, we do not devour like a merry flame. We give endless freedom and room for long suffering.

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We are simply recognisable: we have nothing but ourselves. Our lives are hindered by the beautiful wrapping of the world's best gifts. Unlike incubus-born, we do not seek it. I don't know where that comes from. Perhaps from an innate contempt, born in heaven. From the emptiness and coldness of this self-sufficient space. It's even possible that I sometimes feel a vague longing, a shadow of memories of a life that Alistair wasn't in yet. But I am not drawn back. I'm too greedy to give up pleasure. And too cruel to give it away for nothing. My current prey seems to realise something. Suddenly he tries to jump off my lap, scared.

‘Where do you think you are going, Wolfie?’ I gently shush him and draw him to me again.

He doesn't resist. I don't know his name. I call him Wolfie. He likes it. That silly nickname, awakened by my lips, makes him more agreeable. Putting his arms around me, he bravely puts his face up. I kiss him on his closed eyelids. He laughs.

‘You know how to seduce,' he says and I smile too. ‘May I kiss you?’

I nod and let him take over. He runs his hand through my hair, and I taste his lips. They're soft and stubborn at the same time. He smells of wine and uncertainty. I'm captivated. For that, I allow him a few moments of triumph, adorned by the languid intertwining of tongues.

‘I want you slowly,’ I confess when he finally pulls away from my mouth. ‘But I want you tonight....’

He lowers his eyes, startled by my gaze. I gently squeeze his tense thighs. He grabs my wrists, trying to hinder my movements.

‘You'll get me, Vic, you know it,’ he whispers, ‘but don't scare me, okay?’

‘I like your fear, Wolfie.’

We freeze in a stunned vibrating pause. He slowly releases my hands. I smile with just my eyes. Our last night is drawing me in more and more, and I'm ready to stretch it out to infinity....

What I dislike most in the human world is morning. Its gentle light is incredibly harsh. It considers itself entitled to measure time. That brief time of blissful power of the magnificent creatures of night, when illusions and desires can materialise from the bottomless recesses of darkness. To grace the miserable sparseness of human life with their presence.

But morning comes, and the daring beauty of intoxicating seduction withers like a rudely plucked bud that has not had time to inflate. But I have learnt to make it open before it begins to perish under the merciless light of a new day. That's why my nights are so devastating to your souls. You get too far gone to come back. And tonight will be the longest night of his life and mine.

I rise, excitedly rubbing myself against his supple body, and draw him into the room. To where the untouched bed stand watchful and innocent. In anticipation of the sweet moment when two eager lovers will violate its deceptive virginity.

He doesn't struggle. I can feel how greedily and a little fearfully he scrutinises my body from beneath his trembling lashes. His gaze slides down to my belly and rests uneasily on the black belt around my thighs.

‘We forgot the wine,’ he remembers, and makes a slight slipping gesture with his bare shoulders.

I shake my head and sit him down on the bed.

‘No, Wolfie,’ I reply in a soft whisper that poisons his resistance. ’I don't want your senses to be dulled. There's enough alcohol in your scent to make me drunk.’

‘Will you leave me in the morning?’ he asks doomed.

‘If that's the case, there will be no morning for us,’ I press him back against the bed with ecstasy. He shudders and gives in....