This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
DEAD BY SUNRISE
The indecipherable thrum of what some would call 'music' grew steadily louder in his ears as he strode purposely towards the steps to the warehouse. He was conscious of the organ in his chest beginning to rise in tempo the nearer he drew.
Hissed insults, pointed glares and lustful stares from the long line stretching far enough back it wrapped around the corner, ignored in their entirety.
"You have room for one more?"
His voice, cool and confident to the perceptible bulk of the man guarding the narrow passage to 'The Feeding Ground'.
The flash of some financial grease, two bills from his hand, and the velvet rope was parted proverbially and quite literally. He smiled a predatory smile and inclined his head in silent thanks, the outrage of the penned mass at his back lost as he stepped across the threshold. The previous thrum of sound morphed into a visceral din. Standing upon the raised pavilion he had exited onto, he bypassed the stairs to lean on the banister staring downwards. A sea of legs and limbs frayed this way and that in the chaos of the dance floor.
Techno-trance. Smog. Mirrors. Light and dance.
His heart pounded in his chest. He felt alive again.
The corner of his mouth twitched in humour. It had been so long.
Running his hand along the banister, enjoying the sensual feel of cold metal, he set himself a slow pace into the herd.
He was an outsider here. He ate their food. He drank their drinks. He spoke their tongues and he danced their moves. In the sea of dark leather, bleached faces, stick-on nails and glow in the dark teeth, he was just a face in the crowd. One of them, or so they thought.
They came here to play dead whilst he... He came here, and in other places in others cities like here, to be alive. To feel the steady pulse.
It had been weeks since he'd had his fill of blood. Where better tonight to sate his thirst.
Where better tonight to indulge.
It only took a few moments of searching to find his prey. A pretty young thing.
Moving gracefully through the crowd, his body never contacted another despite the close space. Approaching the youth from behind he laid his hands over dark denim clad hips and exposed midriff, pulling his prey gently but firmly against him.
"Want to go somewhere?" he whispered huskily into a shapely ear. "Take the edge off?"
As he expected his prey flushed in embarrassment, and desire.
The blonde made a show of pretending calm over jagged nerves, as they grinded together.
No longer a virgin, but not quite a man.
It was not long before he led the youth to the backroom.
These places always had backrooms.
Guiding his prey in, sights, smells and sounds titillated the senses. Worn, paint stripped walls. Old toilet cubicles. Graffiti. Unwashed mirrors.
The acrid smell of smoke, sweat and sex.
He closed a cubicle door behind them, lavished attention upon a welcoming neck. The sound of a congress in action a few stalls down their background symphony.
"You're very aggressive," the blonde panted, as he slipped open his prey's jeans.
"You have no idea," he murmured with a warning bite to the fragile flesh over a pulsing jugular. The youth gave a fragile cry of surprised pain. He smiled.
It didn't take long to have his prey on his knees worshipping him.
He gripped hard, and thrust deep.
This was what being alive was all about.
It was some satiations later that he permitted blonde, completely spent, to fall to the dirty floor.
"Ahh. No more," his prey breathed, panting hard.
"That was fucking amazing. ...You fuck amazingly, but no more."
The youth's clothing lies in a crumpled heap, his appearance glistening and bruised where he had been gripped and used.
"Such a shame little vampire. We could have had so much more fun together."
He aided the blonde to dress, and grips him for one final touch of mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue, lips on lips.
His prey doesn't feel the small pinch of the needle in the back of his neck, or the plunge of the syringe. He just lilts forward limply in his grasp. The needle is abandoned to the toilet bowl.
It is always easier when the prey dress themselves.
He carries the blonde out of the club. People shoot him concerned looks about his cargo, and bouncers draw close, suspicious.
"My friend had a few too many. Couldn't call us a taxi could you?" he lies smoothly, diffusing their suspicions with cold, calm, certainty.
The cab leaves the club scene behind dropping them off before abandoned lot, his vehicle parked a short distance away, sheltered from the prying eyes of people, cameras and transients.
He lays his unconscious victim out upon the back seat. His little vampire poser. The irony doesn't escape him. Unlike them he truly is immortal. Long after they have all turned to dust, his actions will keep him alive in society's heart.
Though that would be only once he had been caught. It would happen eventually, when he allowed it. But this was not tonight. Tonight he was alive once more.
He went through life as the living dead, only feeling whilst caressing the last stokes of fire out of another.
Sometimes he maintained his prey under his guarded care and could stay alive for days.
But not tonight. Tonight his lust for blood was too strong.
Tonight they would both be dead by sunrise.
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