The streetlamps don't reach this far. Their light is orange, like hearthfire. It doesn't pain him as white light does.

The brick against which he leans is scratchy. He doesn't mind. There's a slim possibility the scratching is actually a thousand mice eating his jacket.

He doesn't look down.

And he waits, patiently, for something to happen.

Bo passes him, still in his club attire (enormous white button-up nearly covering too-short skirt, heels in hand, barefoot and stepping lightly, untroubled by cold against the soles of his feet), humming along with something in a pair of earphones.
He stumbles, because his foot caught on a disturbance in the air, or was that his mind?
It was someone's mind, certainly, the mice had to belong to someone, and junkies are dangerous if you don't know them and sometimes if you do.
Keep walking.

Keep walking.

There's someone following.

Just out of sight, faster than the human eye, a shape that fades into the shadows.

Bo turns, teeth agleam in the half-light, searching the shadows with squinted eyes.
"Who's there?"

"No one," no one says.

No one sounds young, male, gruff.

"Come on, now." He giggles, raising one eyebrow. No one wouldn't talk.
Still, he's...on edge. One hand dips into his bag, fingers draping across his cell phone. Just in case.

Grin in the dark, sharp white teeth.

"No, honestly," he says earnestly. "I don't exist. I'm a figment of your imagination. Haven't you been having a terrible day? Aren't I just the thing to make it worse?"

Oh how Ratter loves being hypnotic.

"Nnno..." Bo takes a confused step back. Parts of him are extremely susceptible to hypnosis. Parts of him are immune. It makes him dizzy.

"Yessssss."

He's circling now, hand reaching out to touch Bo's shoulder.

Bo flinches back, but he's still rooted, dazed.
In a way, he's a combination between the bird paralyzed by snake eyes and the snake itself.
"Get away."

His hand slithers from shoulder around throat, cutting off air.

Apparently he isn't hungry, just violent.

Oh, bad.
He chokes, and then he bursts into motion struggling wildly, biting, scratching, wild-trapped-animal.

Fighting back, naturally, from a position of relative stability - he's behind Bo.

He's a vampire. Vampires have instincts.

Vampires bite, when they're on a high, pretty sure they're a poisonous snake, and in the heat of the moment and see an opening.

Bo has his horns out, tossing his head in the hopes of goring an eye or something--
He freezes. He's not so fear-frenzied that he'll risk tearing open his carotid artery by moving while those teeth are in it.

Oh, wow.

You taste-

good

terrible

fantastic

horrific

glorious

awful

special

very special.

He likes this taste. He wants to lick it up, every last drop, tongue slow at the wound and teeth pushing ever so slightly to tear more, draw more blood out.

It's like a candy shop full of purple skittles, all the way at the top of Seattle.

Bo moans in pain and the strange narcotic sensation of being drunk from.
His knees go forward, his head goes back, his eyes goes back, his shoulders go back.
Fumbling fingers scrabble at the forgotten cell phone, flips it, pushes a button--
beep

Speed-dial.
Send.
Whoever it lands on.
Please.

Arm around him, nothing romantic about it, simple expidient of keeping this at the right angle.

There's no danger of death at the speed he's going. He wants to stop, after all, more than anything, this is the worst fucking stuff he's ever tasted such divine ambrosia oh god it was so fucking good it was like every good high he'd ever had combined with every godawful hangover he'd ever suffered through.

Lick it, lick it, a slick of blood on his tongue but never the full-throat rush of drinking deep - it'd make him throw up it'd make him faint in ecstasy.

It rings twice.
Enrique picks up.

"Hello?"

He's on his way home from the club after a most enjoyable, ah, dinner date with Bo. That was quite entertaining.

"... hello?"

The hybrid's throat is working, but it's so tight, nothing makes it through but a faint wheezing, choking noise, and the phone falls from nerveless fingers, thumping softly into his spare clothes. The high-heeled shoes in his other hand thud to the pavement and he goes deadweight, and there's obviously no one speaking into the telephone.
His eyes are still partway open, but consciousness has thoroughly fled. It doesn't want to be there, and there's no air to hold it.

Two things that make Ratter unhappy just happened.

His new best friend just fainted.

And someone who is very scary is on the phone.

He's going to have to ask for help.

The only person around is on the phone.

He picks the phone up, Bo forgotten somewhere, and holds it carefully to his ear. He remembers how to work a phone.

"He fell over. What should I do?" His tone is child-like in its plaintive curiousity.

Enrique, meet the reason for the call.

Enrique takes the phone away from his ear.

That's Bo's number.

... that's the vampire's voice.

"What did you do to him!?"

He's changing directions and headed towards them.

"...was just playing... he wasn't supposed to fall over."

Ratter's rather sulky.

"You weren't supposed to touch him!"

He's jogging now.

"Is he breathing?"

He has asthma. Oh god, his poor little one.

"I didn't know he was him, did I?"

Pause. Frown. He doesn't want to argue.

"Can I do something? I didn't mean to hurt him."

Bo isn't breathing. He isn't exactly not, either, not yet, but he's pretty badly off. He's thrown sideways, livid, his mouth pulled to the side by face-against-concrete. Blood is staining the collar of the white shirt.
He looks pitiable, one arm trapped under his body, fingers scraped by the fall, his other arm flung back and sideways. He's all in disarray.

"How many half-demon, half-angels do you think are in this city!?"

Enrique's going to kill that vampire.

Or cause him a lot of pain. One or the other.

"I'm going to rip out your intestines and hang you with them!"

Ow.

"See if he's got his asthma kit on him anywhere."

"Yessir."

Threats and orders and drug overdoses are the keys to instant obedience.

He even finds the thing. The thingy. The thingy thing.

Superspeed, or something like, makes that quick.

"What-do-I-do-with-it."

Words as fast as his hands - his hands are shaking. How odd.

He likes his fingers, all long and white and covered in angeldemon blood.

He licks his fingers.

He loves it.

He hates it.

"Syringe of... something. You need to get it into his bloodstream. And for god's sake, stop whatever bleeding you caused."

He's still going to hurt him.

He's coming, Bo. Hold on.

This, he does.

As best he can.

His hands are still shaking, so it's tricky.

Stopping the bleeding gives him more blood to lick off his fingers.

He sits down, crosslegged, next to Bo, to wait.

Blood is tasty.

After a few moments, Bo's nostrils flare, and he takes a slow, difficult breath.
Pavement comes.
Pain comes.
He moans, but he doesn't move.
He doesn't know where he is, and he's very, very dizzy.

"Well? Did it work?"

He wishes he were right there so he could see.

He'll be there in five minutes.

"I can hear him breathing. He sounds tasty."

Ratter is wistful.

"But I won't."

I won't touch him. I'm good.

He's sucking his thumb, now.

"You're already in for a hell of a lot of pain."

Enrique is not a happy demon.

Ratter can probably see him down the street now.

Voice.

He turns his head. His eyes open, close again.

He wants up. He wants off the cold pavement.

Whine, low in his throat - an animal noise.

"I should run away."

That would be sensible.

He stays right where he is, because...

because.

Enrique hangs up.

He's there now, no point in it.

"Probably, but it's so much more convenient for you to stay right here. Fucker."

He kneels next to Bo and lifts his him off the cement.

"Little one? Can you hear me?"

Bo's hand drifts to...whatever part of Enrique's body he hits first, no grip, just a light touch.
"Ja."

Some people are right-brained, some are left-brained. Bo has switched to his German-speaking brain.
He's frightened. He'll be shaking as soon as he's regained enough strength.

"Even if I said I was very sorry?"

Even Ratter isn't paying any attention to what he's saying. He's just saying it.

"Oh, you're going to be very sorry."

Hanged by his own intestines, remember.

Enrique is mostly ignoring the vampire though, in favor of his little one.

"How are you feeling? Are you all right?"

He swallows, licking dry lips, and opens his eyes. His glasses are askew.
All right, slow. Slow. Think.
"My heart is pounding." That's the medicine. "My neck hurts." The bite. "I feel sick." A combination of everything.
"I'll be all right." A reasonable estimation.