I dance because it works.

If I were mortal, there might be something degrading about wearing this too-short skirt, these too-high heels, this too-whorish makeup. When I was embraced it wasn’t like this, but it’s a role I’ve shifted into over the years. Really it’s not all too different from what I did to hunt 40 years into my requiem during prohibition. Less conservative? Yes. But showing a little leg wasn’t enough anymore, even with my looks; at least not for a quick fix.
If you wanted something sensual, something romantic, something that actually felt a little human and not just like hunting it was a much lengthier process. I challenged myself at times to not invoke powers of the blood to get it done, but it was hard to resist when your target was a beautiful woman who just never swung that way before.

Men were much easier; less fulfilling, but easier. All it took was a grin to make them too embarrassed to stand, or have them wanting to hide their hard on with a nice cushy ass for them to strafe and scrape against. From there, if you could deal with such ugly body parts touching you between a layer of clothing, it’d only be a few whispers until they’re in an alley light headed and thinking they got laid.

On the dance floor, I can take some time to pick out my prey. In this case, its an unfortunate fellow too scrawny to attract attention on his own and too white to keep his hips moving the way I can. Still, sometimes you feel bad for your prey. Maybe, at least, letting him think he scored with the hottest chica in the room would be worth a few pints of the red stuff.

To him, my approach is alien. No girl has ever run their hand down his arm like this before, lingering at his fingers before pressing a cloud a sweet breath to his ear. I see him swallow hard, nervous, and I can already tell that his pants are getting smaller. I bite my lower lip, turn my head away for a moment, ask his name.

I don’t remember it, but it doesn’t matter, because he thinks I do.

I let him get a little closer when he dares to, even give him a little taste of plump, warm lips courtesy of the vitae I’d sent flowing through my dead capillaries. He gets a few minutes to touch while I arch my back against his boney chest, but even I have to guide his nervous hand over my deadly curves to try and get him out of his shell. It doesn’t work too well; he’s scared, but I can tell he’s dying for his instincts to take over. I can only imagine what his hormones are shouting to him while his brain confusedly tries to process why-thefuck-thisgirlwantsme.

I tug him by the wrist. He’s been too socially awkward to have asked my name even.

My heels click and splash against the restroom floor, covered a half-inch high in overflowed toilet water. It smells like piss and cheap soap. The stall is our ending destination, and I’m lucky enough that the door actually works. At least one guy shouts, “Oh shit,” as if two people have never fucked in a bathroom before.

I can tell he’s too weak to hold my weight, so I push him down into the overflown toilet, muffled *splash* ensuing. One leg over each end of his lap, and I mouth the words, ‘I want you.’

It’d be his last memory of me.

I kiss his neck, and fangs extend in slowly.

He tastes like shit; most men do except for the most fit among them. Maybe he should eat more strawberries.

When I’m satisfied, I let go while he’s in his daze.

I’m out before he opens his eyes.

When he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll think he had the best night ever or was dreaming. Either way, I’m full and he’s back to his pathetic life. Either way, I win.

The predator always wins.