"What do you think of the statue?" A stranger asked Morrigan.

They were standing infront of a beautiful, marble statue of a child. It was a little boy, with long, wavy hair and large eyes that stared at the viewer. His clothes were of early, Dutch America. Morrigan noted the teeth marks on his neck.

"He seems frightened," Morrigan replied. Her infamous, evil grin lit up her pale face. It had been awhile since she fed. The stranger kept his eyes on the artwork, while Morrigan watched him from the corner of her eyes.

He was in his late twenties. His skin was tan, which accented his black hair and blue eyes. His outfit was full gothic. Tattoos covered his hands. Paint stained his pants. This revealed he was a painter.

"Do you paint?" Morrigan asked, innocently. Her dark hair curled around her face. The stranger did not seem to care her flesh was so white. Her amazing eyes kept his attention.

"Yes," he answered, "What gave it away?" He laughed, a full laugh. He knew how she guessed.

Morrigan could feel her hunger growing. He was so filled with life. "What is your name?"

"Brad," he said, smiling.

"Hello, Brad. I'm Morrigan." The words rolled off her tongue smoothly.