Vampire Weather

My Publications

One of the best things about being dead was that she didn't have to worry about how cold it got.

The weather outside had turned bitter, as it often does during February in New York City, and she could see that the street walkers on 42nd Street were wearing pants and leggings instead of their usual shorts and micro skirts.

Having no such constraints on her own wardrobe, loss of body heat being as meaningless to her as to a stone, she had selected a tight black leather skirt, barely covering her ass and a red silk blouse. She had worn pantyhose, black with a rose motif worked into the nylon, more to conceal the whiteness of her flesh than for any protection they might afford. Over her silk blouse she wore a three quarter length black sable fur. She enjoyed the texture of the fur on her skin, even if she gained no warmth from it, and to not wear a coat in such weather would attract more attention than she wanted.

Not that she was being ignored. Her long legs, glossy black hair, high cheek bones and artfully applied make-up made her startlingly attractive to men, and more and more these days to women as well. She took full advantage of this interest in her hunting.

The sun had set less than an hour since and she had woken hungry. Dressing quickly, she clicked her high heels in a staccato hurry along the pavement to reach the area of the Greyhound Bus Terminal. The regular street walkers there tolerated her occasional presence. She had learned from a casual conversation one night that they saw her as a bored housewife who liked a little thrill once in a while. She didn’t give a damn about what they thought, but it made it easier to be left alone while hunting.

The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians and she worked her way along the block slowly looking for a likely target. It didn’t take long.

He was big and heavy. In his early thirties she judged, and his mind was full of violence and murky distrust. He smelled of southern climes and had probably come in on the bus from Georgia. His glance ran over the other street walkers and dismissed them. She couldn’t actually read his mind, but she could sense his emotions enough to know that he wasn’t looking for sex. Instead he was wary of pursuit, and scanned the faces over and over again to be sure he had not been discovered.

It mattered not a whit to her what he was running from. Everything about him screamed minor league thug – someone who would not be missed for an instant. She let him pass her twice, and on his third circuit, she lit him up with a solid blast of raw sexuality. His eyes snapped back to hers with a hot gleam and she smiled encouragingly. He pushed through the crowd towards her and she let him come to her.

Moron, she couldn’t help but think to herself even as she smiled seductively at him. Her psychic skills were powerful but not subtle. The strength of her lure would have alerted anyone with half a brain that something odd had just happened, but all he saw was a pretty girl who had the hots for him. He probably wonders why all the women don’t look at him the way I am right now, she sneered inwardly, all the while keeping her come hither smile turned on at full blast.

As he got closer she started to drift to the side of the block that was less crowded. If he noticed at all, he clearly thought he was capable of dealing with any danger she might pose. Not only a moron, she laughed prettily, but a dead one soon.

"Hey, little lady," he called when he was close to her. "If you’re half as hot as I am for you, we can have us a party tonight."

She flashed her eyes and pursed her lips in an airborne kiss at him. Blood red lips on gleaming white teeth. His accent was indeed from the deep South. His whole attitude was as uncouth as she could have wished. No one would mourn for this scum bag. In fact if they knew what she was about to do to him, half the planet – the female half – would cheer her on.

"Hey yourself, big guy," she answered back, letting him catch up to her at last and take her arm in a crushing grip. Her accent still came through with a slight Castilian lisp even a century and a half after leaving her family’s hacienda. She continued to move him towards the shadows and the open alleyway she had used more than once before.

"A Senorita, eh? Bet you like it in the ass like all them other Mex bitches down in Houston." He laughed and tried to pull her to him. He was a strong man. She was stronger. For the first time a look of doubt crossed his face as she continued to move them farther into shadow.

"You ain’t no drag queen, are ya, honey?" he demanded, dropping his bag to grope at her crotch.

"I’m all the woman you’ll ever need," she replied letting him touch her. His exploration satisfied his curiosity and he let her draw him yet another step farther into the alley. On a warmer night this space between buildings leading back to the loading docks would have been crowded with professionals earning their wages, on their knees or bent over trash cans. Tonight they had it to themselves.

"Kiss me," she commanded, pushing back into the corner of an alcove, now completely out of sight from the street.

"I ain’t gonna kiss no cock sucking . . ." was as far as he got.

She was tired of his foulness and she jabbed upward with the heel of her right hand catching him under the jaw and smashing the back of his head into the bricks. He grunted with pain and tried to yell in outrage at the little whore who had dared to hurt him. But he found he could not open his mouth. Her hand, still under his jaw held his head jammed against the brick wall behind him and he did not have the strength to force his mouth open an inch. He pulled at her arm with one hand and then with both, but he might as well have been a child trying to move a steel cable on the Brooklyn bridge.

He started to panic then, thinking she was going to mug him, or perhaps slice him with a razor. His eyes bulged, and the look of panic turned to one of terror as she flashed her fangs in the faint light from the street. He grunted and gurgled in what she could feel from his foul mind were pleas for mercy, but she just smiled and licked her lips.

She took him slowly, letting the terror well up in him as she sliced open his throat with her teeth and drank deeply of the hot blood that splashed into her mouth. She enjoyed with the palate of a connoisseur the taste of his fear, and did not let him experience the ecstasy her kisses could also bring. He was strong, for Herd, and she drew out his death for several minutes. His blood tasted of his past, a young bully growing up into an abusive gangster. There was a rough pungency to his essence that pleased her, and she held him against the wall long after he was dead savoring his brine on her tongue.

Fully stated now, she let him fall to the cold street while she cleaned her lips with a tissue, reapplied her make-up and adjusted her hair.

"Was it good for you too, honey," she asked his corpse, which actually steamed a little where the last of his life’s blood met the frigid air. "I hope so."

Checking the alley again to confirm that they were alone, she threw his bag in a dumpster, and put his wallet in her coat pocket. Farther back in the dark alley an ancient iron fire escape led to the roof above. Being careful not to stain her beautiful fur coat, she tossed his rapidly cooling body over her shoulder and started to climb. Within minutes she was three blocks away five stories above an open culvert that carried storm water to the Hudson River. Pausing for a moment to slit his throat from ear to ear with a utility knife, she casually lifted the body and tossed the two hundred and fifty pound lump of flesh out into the darkness. His arms and legs wheeled in a complete turn as he fell and struck the ice below with a loud crunch. She was already half a block away and accelerating. The clubs would be opening soon down town, and she felt like a cigar and a sip of fine wine before the music started. It was a night to dance, even to take a lover. She pocketed the $500 she found in her dinner date’s wallet and tossed the rest in the gutter.

It might just pay for the evening’s entertainment.

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Flash Fiction by NeonInk