Chilled

by : epiphanies

A/N - Guys, this is a bit weird and a bit creepy. Just so you know.

His eyes stared into the dimly lit basement apartment window, reflecting the glass sheathed by a thin layer of decorative gauze. He was watching.

The man in the basement was obviously unaware of his spectator as he splayed out on his futon, watching the midnight repeat of Olympic Boxing. One hand scratched his boxers randomly, the other raising to his lips a tall bottle of whiskey every time a point was made for or against the country.

The observer's eyes scanned the musty bedroom with rapid, darting eyes. He was on a hunt.

The black haired man watching television, who's Quicky-Gas nametag read "Roger," (he didn't look like a Roger) grunted. The form at the window froze as he spotted his prize - only a few feet from the glazed eyes of his current enemy. It was strapped in chains.

How this lug had gotten a hold of it, he could never know, but he did make sure that his own guards were not sent on the rescue mission. No. Good help is nonexistent in this world. In his world.

Five by four feet, the room was barely a broom closet in the home of the man outside, barely a single servant's quarter. If he could sneak in once the snoring began...

But things don't always go according to plan. The Olympics proved fascinating and the black haired proved stalwart. It was time for a new plan.

Could he merely break the glass and offer a shot to the head? There was nothing, including mortal empathy, holding him back, of course - two years hitchhiking across the continent had sharpened his senses and calloused his emotional self. The reason he'd never married his high school sweetheart upon arriving home. The reason he'd kept such a high, seemingly impenetrable watch on his dearest belonging, sitting in a rotting basement with ticks and must.

A fresh wave of fury washed over him - what could he do? He could not kill him the way he'd killed the others, could not touch chilled skin with icy fingers built to terrify even the bravest of souls.

Instead, the window slid open a crack at his fingertips, and he, as smoky as the Bear, entered the hideout. Several dozen televisions - four with smashed screens - were stacked in a corner, and a large box marked "Mining" held a few stray jewels that looked like rubies.

The looter coughed and the smoke surrounded him in a resounding referral - a whirling noise reached his ears and, blinking, he reached out a hand to touch the smoke-

Only to find his fingertips resting on a double-breasted man's jacket, black with subtle red stitching... and as his horrified face transformed into a pale and vapid shell of a man beneath the stare, his neck, slumped, revealed itself to the room. Still alive - but not for so long.

He was a different kill than the rest. His blood was rich, and yet it was rank also, like a rotted peach pit. His blood was not satisfying, but satisfaction could not be reached yet anyway.

Long, white fingers outreached to the desk beside the slumped body, the nameless victim, and the deathful fingers clasped over a wet nose and two fluffy black ears.

He'd not been fed properly since the hour of the robbery, and how could he have been.... no mortal knew how to feed a vampiric dog.

No doubt the television stations already had their appointments for the next morning. Appointments where this scoundrel would have sold a most valuable thing.

But, what can a vampire do... go? Most certainly not. Weekdays just didn't... fit in with his schedule.

With a sweep of a cloak, smoke filled the basement loft again, and as it exited through the high window, like any other canine upon seeing the moon, the dog yowled.

-

end.