By Clare Solomon
Blood falls from the gash in his side and spreads across the layer of snow. In the moonlight the blood looks almost black and the snow is rendered blue. Blood is usually his life – a source of food and sexual pleasure – but this is his own. He’s dying.
A shadow falls over him and a blurred face leans closer and comes into focus. It’s Eric, the cop he’s been partnered with these last few weeks. The man who hates vampires. He’ll probably throw a party to celebrate Alexander’s death. It’s strange, though, because the brown eyes look almost concerned. “Why aren’t you healing?”
“The wound is too deep.” He’s too weak to say more. He’ll be dead soon and they never even managed to kill the rogue vampire who’d been slaughtering a dozen or more people each night. It’s a niggling sense of annoyance, that he will die with this work incomplete.
“Drink, Alex.” Eric is holding his wrist in front of Alexander’s mouth, the smooth pale flesh inviting. The vampire can hear the blood pumping through the veins and he swallows and lets instinct take over. He bites through flesh and Eric gasps and tenses. Alexander licks the salty wound, aware of the moment when the cop’s heartbeat speeds up and pain vanishes, then he drinks the warm liquid. His thirst increases with every mouthful and he swallows eagerly, retaining just enough awareness of the other man to stop before he takes too much. He licks slowly over the wound once more to seal it and Eric shudders, not from pain.