After months of hop scotching from Detroit across the country, having reliable hunting again was a novelty that had yet to lose its charms.
That being Said Verity would rarely be found feeding in clubs or bars even though the ones outside the rack are less popular, less safe, it would still be easy pickings, to be saved for nights when something else failed or was needed fast.
No, she preferred to make a game of it, the beasts hunger a constant, its whispers in her ear the need for blood. Which is why she makes art of it. She doesn’t just exist as a vehicle for appetites, when feeding was needed, it was done her way.
And the voices her heightened hearing can pick up coming from under (checks the sign) guy west bridge, sound just like the kind of night life she is hoping for.
Riding boots lead her procession down the embankment to see what she has to work with.
A gaggle of 20 somethings drinking cheap booze, bitching about the world. Bitching but doing nothing she knew their type, more dead than she was.
Verity approaches, trying to integrate herself, these after all had been her crowd, the disillusioned the malcontent, the square pegs. Even if most of them had soft edges.
So, she gets to talking, to listening, to laughing. Her interest peaks on one, she sits a little further under the bridge only speaking to add ideas not problems to the conversation, this one reminds Verity of her old life in a sad twinge.
Verity slowly begins to favour this one with more comments, more laughter, more interest. The plan is to draw her off until it’s just the two of them, off a way in the brush and scrub of the embankment, out of sight and hearing of the others.
feed/hunt failure
Only it never gets that far. Maybe she senses something amiss, maybe Verity just isn’t her type, maybe it’s the caution instilled from the news but Verity can’t get her alone and goes hungry.
The beasts anger at going hungry, its mockery of her and her antics palpable. So much for the novelty. Now about that easier meal?