The night was cold. And so was he. Romax’s body temperature was not high enough for his breath to be more than a slight vapor, certainly not warm enough to create the plumes of steam that issued from the mouths and noses of the few human that were out on this clear, frigid night. There was no wind, for which he was grateful, as his face was somewhat numb beneath the thick scarf that served the dual purpose of masking his features and hiding his lack of noticeable breath.

He had not fed in almost two days, which was a mistake. Romax felt jittery and weak and knew his control would be as shaky as his hands, which were clenched in his pockets to keep them still. The hunger was like an actual, physical pain, lancing through his head like a razor-tipped spear.

It was an effort to look and behave normally, but he was passing. As usual, he wore clothes that were neat and clean, but uninteresting—a grey scarf, a thick sweater, and a heavy black coat that came to his knees. His head was bare, the inky hair combed neatly into place. Only his eyes were different. The blue seemed even brighter, sharper than usual, almost like broken pieces of colored glass as he stared at the light, but steady, pedestrian traffic.

He wanted someone who was alone and distracted. There were too many people for a snatch-and-grab and too few to use for cover. So he had to wait and watch, struggling with his hunger as it demanded blood, blood, blood.

Finally, he saw one that would do. She was young and average, nearly as unnoticeable as he was. White headphones were plugged into her ears and she watched her feet, not her surroundings. Perfect. Romax wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and edged out of the shadows. In one smooth movement, he tossed an arm around her shoulders, pinning one of her arms against his body and locking his hand over the other with a loud “Hey, honey.”

She froze, but he dragged her along. Pulling the headphone from one of her ears, he brought his lips close in a parody of giving her a kiss and whispered, “If you scream, I’ll kill you. Understand?” He waited for her nod then, with a quick glance around to make sure nobody had noticed them, pulled her off into a pitch-black alley. She hadn’t had a chance to see his face. But he could see hers just fine.

Romax hardly heard the pleas that tumbled from her lips as he shoved her back against the grimy alley wall. His hands trembled as he unwound her scarf, jerked away the interfering collar of her jacket. She flailed against him and the blows were like the beating of moth wings. He hardly noticed them, but when he did, he casually sliced the back of his hand across her face. He hadn’t meant to swing very hard, but her head snapped backwards and her eyes blinked stupidly. Romax didn’t notice that either. He pulled her against him, their bodies pressed intimately together, and gave in to the hunger.

Her skin was warm, but her blood was hot. He couldn’t stop the unconscious way his head jerked, his fangs ripping through the soft flesh of her throat to tear rather than simply puncture. Blood gushed out and Romax, his self-control shredded, clamped his mouth over the wound, greedily sucking at the hot, red liquid until it flowed no more.

He flung himself back, but it was too late. Free of his supporting arms, she crumpled to the filthy concrete, her eyes as wide and blank as a doll’s.

Romax buried his face in his hands.

Interesting. The simple seduction—truly it could not be called that. It was the abduction of an oblivious child, nothing more. The brutality with which he tore into her soft, impressionable throat. Michael envied the man in that moment. True, he had only just killed on his own, but the thirst never was sated past the point of being quite easy to tempt pack to life. No more tangible than a shadow, Michael watched this one with an eternal, grim fascination. The other was of course far too...involved…to perhaps notice his presence. But when he released his slain prey with the sudden ferocity of true and potent remorse, Michael had to suppress a cold laugh of bitter disappointment. He stepped forward, clicking his teeth reproachfully. No. No, this would not do at all.

“Now this is a shame. And you were doing so well. But then, the sudden conscience...”

What, he wondered, must he look like to this other, apparently younger vampire? Michael had been changed somewhere in the strange nook between boyhood and manhood. His body was that of a man, but his face was still vaguely boyish, conveying a false innocence in all but his spiteful eyes and cold smile. Consequently, he had learned how to disprove the docile look perhaps a little too well. Ah, but it was a conundrum, wasn’t it?

He circled the scene slowly, pacing like a predator might work its way around a wounded victim. He made his way to the other side of the crumpled girl and nudged her roughly with the edge of his shoe. Her head swung towards him, her wide eyes stared up, begging, pleading even in death. The tears at her throat yawned and stretched, sucked completely dry. He chuckled quietly under his breath and turned to regard the other with a fresh note of appreciation for the other’s short and thorough work.

“Why still this remorse?” He questioned, amused, his frigid eyes bright. “You waste time mourning for her. She is not mourning.”

Truly, this was none of his concern, but tonight he felt vaguely humorous. Tonight, he felt especially greedy, bored of his own petty world in Demaitre. And a confused new blood with an apparent existential crisis was just the thing to entertain him, at least for awhile.

Why did she have to stare? Romax splayed his long, elegant, murderous fingers over his eyes, hiding from the dead girl’s accusing gaze. Empty and devoid of life and light, but so damned accusing. He snarled behind his hands, suddenly angry at the woman he’d just killed. Who was she to look so critical? He was the predator, she was the prey. That was how the world worked.

But he wilted again. Romax hadn’t meant to kill her. He never meant to kill anyone. Except for once, once when that violence had felt so good, he had never killed on purpose. He was civilized! He was. The blood… he needed it to live, but he didn’t need to kill. And he tried, really he tried, not to kill them—even though it felt so strangely good.

What was it about murder that thrilled the mind and body?

The sound of tutting startled Romax from his thoughts. Staring at her as she stared at him, he dug his fingers in his hair, his eyes only reluctantly tearing away from the alluring scene of death to study this odd newcomer. Certainly, he was a vampire. His face was youthful, childish, even, but his eyes were like shark’s eyes. Flat and opaque. Romax no more wanted to look into them than he did the woman’s. He saw something abhorrent in them, something he desired as much as blood.

He wrapped his arms around his legs as he crouched, pressed his forehead to his knees, and took a deep breath. “Go away,” he mumbled. The professor looked up again as the vampire coldly prodded the girl with his foot. Unconsciously, Romax’s fangs slid down again, his attractively forgettable face contorting as he snarled, “Don’t touch her.”

She was his.

Unsettled by the sudden territorial anger, Romax blinked, confused. He stared at the newcomer, trying to calm himself again. “I killed her,” he said slowly, brows knitted. Death meant mourning, of course. Even, in this case, from the murderer.

Michael watched the younger vampire's sharp reaction unblinkingly, his cold eyes as devoid of emotion as ever--not particularly because he was good at masking his thoughts, but because there truly was no emotion behind his frigid, uninterested gaze.

"Yes, well, that's rather apparent," he remarked, unamused by the sudden regression of the other to unnecessary sympathy towards the dead girl. "But you said it yourself. She's dead. I don't believe she minds the attention."

He had half a mind to leave immediately. This little encounter was not promising to be of much interest, and the sudden scent of fresh blood had done more than tickled at his ongoing appreciation for a good and clever murder. But the look of the other--knotted and sorrowful, like that of a child who has lost an old pet--compelled him to stay. Not out of compassion, mind you. Michael was detachedly interested. As interested as a psychologist watching the reaction of a test subject from behind bulletproof glass. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the alley wall.

"What are you going to do about it? What does it matter to you?"

Pathetic. That was the only way to describe it, really. Michael had never been like this, never. From the moment he'd been made--or rather, made himself--he had lived like a prince and had apologized to no one. If a woman caught his interest, he had her. If he killed her, so be it. Her own damned fault for tempting him. There were billions more just like her, just begging to be chosen. Lambs, all flocking close together. It was only too easy to coax one from the crowd.

Romax's eyes lifted to the other's flat, shark gaze. Suddenly angry, he glared at the vampire, regret temporarily washed away in that hot flood of fury. The anger was easier to handle, cleaner than sticky remorse. "Don't you understand? She's dead! Doesn't that mean anything? I killed her, I couldn't keep from killing her!" he raged. Lurching to his feet, Romax shoved at the smaller, slighter vampire.

His anger seemed not so much about the girl's death as how it had transpired--his own loss of control. But more, it was fed by his fear of what he had felt as he'd killed her. It hadn't been the simple bloodlust--it had been a desire for more than simple sustenance. Romax hadn't just wanted to drain her because he was hungry, though that was a large part of it, he had wanted her to die and because he had wanted to be the one to kill her.

There was something inexplicably seductive about the violence, something in the terror of the victim that was addictive. And there was part of him that craved it beyond reason. He told himself he was civilized and never killed if he could help it. He told himself he was a predator, that she was his prey, that this was how it was supposed to be. But he didn't believe his own justifications--for, what predator took joy in, not the hunt, but the pain it wrought in its victim?

His hands fisted on Michael's lapels, the often overlooked muscles on his strong frame bunching as he clutched at the other vampire. "I killed her! I killed and it didn't--" he broke off suddenly, his words turning to ash on his tongue.

It didn't last long enough.

His flat gaze seemed to turn flatter still, and the slightest twitch in his expression noted a sudden, drastic change. He waited until the inevitable, powerful anger seemed to drain away in an instant and was replaced by a much weaker emotion--guilt. His passive mannerism shattered. Michael broke the other's grip on him with a furious snarl and cast the weaker vampire off with a shove that would crush a mortal and stagger any other.

"Don't pretend yourself to be a fucking saint, you miserable idiot! You know perfectly well how you enjoyed it, and I'd be willing to bet you're dwelling on it now!"

He was. Oh, by the look in his horror-struck eyes, he was. The wave of retaliatory fury passed, sated by this sudden recognition. Michael laughed as though he'd just been let in on a secret, straightening his belligerent posture as he paced about the scene again, once more on the prowl. Romax's thoughts reverberated through his own like his harsh, metallic laughter echoed across the sullen walls.

"Yes, they never seem to last long enough, do they? No, especially the young, soft ones. Too vulnerable, you see. They break. They crack and snap. They dry up and wither in your arms like autumn leaves. They're weak, but their pain is always the most satisfying, wouldn't you agree?"

His eyes shot to the dead girl, staring back at both of them, appalled even in her miserable sleep. He circled about to her again, not turning his back on Romax despite the apparent difference in strength. Michael knelt beside her, grabbing her face in one hand and brushing her hair back from her gory throat with the other.

"Their blood...always the sweetest..."

Romax was flung back against the opposite alley wall, hardly noticing the pain that shot through his back as the bricks cracked. His glasses, which were unneeded but suited his role as a bookish professor, fell to the ground as he stood frozen, his thoughts whirling inside his head like a storm. "I didn't, I didn't," he mumbled, his words directed towards himself and not Michael. After all, the other vampire had already realized the truth, the liar here was Romax.

Romax stared down at the dead girl as Michael caressed her pale, wan face. Even from here, the young vampire could still feel the last of her warmth draining away like water from melting ice. They were useless when they were cold. It was the heat he wanted, the great, gushing fountains of blood and screams.

He shook his head at the thought. Part of him was still desperately repeating the tired, feeble words meant to hold back the other. Romax knew the truth, he knew what he wanted--what he'd always wanted. His life as the boring history professor, the mellow ex-quarterback who made self-depricating jokes, all of it was the life he'd built in the hopes that if he told himself that was what he wanted, eventually he really would want it.

If he caged that part of himself long enough, perhaps it would force itself to sleep; sleep and leave him be.

"I can't stop myself," Romax said quietly, but this time the words meant something different than before. Not that he couldn't keep himself from killing them, but that he couldn't keep himself from killing them so quickly. In respect to this other vampire, Romax was weak in mind and body, but to these fragile humans...

Michael guessed at the other's meaning with perhaps a disturbingly accurate amount of understanding. He studied Romax for a minute, contemplating him and his potential. So the remorse truly was over the murder, the act itself, rather than over the girl's stolen life. Interesting. He ran his fingers across the girl's glassy eyes, drawing them shut so they could stare no more. Now she looked only as if she slept, if one could ignore the jagged tears at her throat.

"It's to be expected," he rose to his feet, his tone gentler now, almost coaxing--a far cry from the violence of a few moments ago. "When you restrict what you are best made to do, you play an empty game. The victim dies without purpose, and you are never satisfied. Anything can kill. There's no glory, no satisfaction, in a hollow murder."

A killer in denial. The nights of entertainment taking on a protégé could bring. But what did he need a fledgling for? He had sired before--they were nuisances, hindrances. But then, not one of them had been a challenge. They were born into the blood with all of his own violence. Never had one of them questioned his authority or lifestyle but had all followed along like a dumb flock. How he could transform this doubtful, bumbling creature into something truly fearsome. Controlled, obviously, but a terror capable of anything. He sized up the other idly, curiously.

"You're young, but not the most reckless I have seen. You have been suffering for some time. Where is your sire?"

When you wanted to believe, it was amazing how words could slip into place. Michael's did. Reluctantly, at least in theory, Romax listened to the older vampire, whose words were seductive, not for their tone, but for the message. It made him think and let him believe. Surely this other was right. He was older, stronger, better prepared for a world Romax had been thrown into by a fool.

And if she had been a fool of a vampire, what did that make him?

"Dead," Romax replied dully, still ridiculously pressed against the brick wall. He sighed, his breath appearing as a cloud of steam now that he had thieved the girl's warmth for himself. "She... I killed her shortly after I was turned." His lips twisted into a parody of a smile. "My way of dealing with the news."

He gazed at Michael as if a supplicant. "You're older." It was a statement, not a question. "Can you--help--me?"

It was odd, for, physically, Romax appeared the older. Taller, broader, more mature to Michael's smaller, slighter boyishness. But the truth, as often was the case, was just the opposite. Broad and muscled as Romax was, this other was the one with the power, and knowledge.

Bitterly, Romax indicated himself. "I can't live like this. Pulled between the urge to kill and the compulsion to save." His dusky blue eyes lifted to Michael's lighter, colder ones. "It's a horrible thing, you see, not knowing what you are..."

He couldn't help but be a little smug. Michael was used to attention probably more than most, but even so, it wasn't every night that he was begged by another vampire to act as a mentor. True, Michael had little experience when it came to the dismal path of self-doubt and internal affliction--whatever he wanted, he took, and whatever he felt, he acted upon--but the anger and pain of the fledgling hunger pangs were universal, and he knew those well.

And Romax had killed his maker, after all. This new fact was encouraging, at the very least. So the man knew violence--real violence. Any vampire could kill a human, but to kill another of his own kind. It took strength. Or sheer violence. And Michael could appreciate both equally.

"How do you suppose I can help you?"

It was a question of curiosity, though no sign of such an emotion slipped through his impassive expression. He stood quite still, facing the other with a calculating, scrutinizing intensity. The last thing Michael needed was a whiny new blood begging him to take away the pain of endlessness. What he wanted was a potential killer, someone with promise. Thus far, Romax seemed a fitting student, a fascinating pupil. But this one last question, just this one, would be enough to convince Michael that this fortuitous encounter would yield a worthwhile endeavor.

"What is it you hope to learn from me?"

Romax exploded from his morose, crouching position, his hands fisting once more in Michael's lapels. The anger, so close to the surface so often, boiled up and made his words an enraged hiss, "Don't play dumb. You're older. Stronger. You know. You know." Words seemed to fail him and he shook the other vampire, ignoring the fact that Michael had already displayed he could swat Romax like a fly. "Show me how to be... something! Anything but what I am. A monstrous child who breaks all his toys, that's what I am--that's what I hate."

His dark, peculiarly gem-like blue eyes flashed with a desperation that leaned strangely close to madness. The words that were buried deep inside of him were nearly impossible to extract. His mask, that bland costume, was not shaped to let those black sounds free and Romax was still struggling to throw off the friendly lies.

"I don't want to kill them, but I do. God, I do. Tell me how to get rid of the reluctance... or the lust. It doesn't matter. The indecision is agonizing." Abruptly, Romax released Michael. Stooping, one strong, elegant hand closed around the dead girl's throat and he lifted her effortlessly, studying her blank face as if fascinated. "Look at this! So pretty, so young." He flung her back to the ground. "I wanted to more than kill her--I wanted to hear her scream. I wanted to rape her, to feel her die while I was inside her."

His eyes glittered, as reflective as an animal's, and he stroked her cheek, his hand clenched around her chin as the wild urge to tear her face to bloodless pieces rose up in him like a tide.

Romax's violent temper prompted an interesting response from Michael. On one hand, the elder was tempted to just kill the senseless little fuck, or at least maim him to prove a point. But on the other hand, that unpredictability was a vital characteristic to have. He watched Romax back away, darting again to the corpse of the girl like a child returning again and again to a dead parent, unable to accept the fact that they were gone. Michael watched the other's less-than-mournful display with detached interest, studying the lulling head of the dead child as one might regard a rather plain piece of art.

At last, his cold expression resolved to change to a twisted, malicious grin. The boyish face could look nothing less like it should have. His eyes, as pitiless as Romax's, flashed with wickedness and recognition. His mind quite made up, he straightened his slightly crinkled lapels with a sharp tug and gestured towards the girl.

"Of course you did. How could you not? Look at her, so finely made. The cherub was just begging to be taken. What you wrestle with are the vestiges of human emotion--foolish, weak. But they can be discarded. They will be, in time. And of course the process can be helped along."

He paused, tilting his head slightly as if listening for some key sound amidst the vague, city clamor.

"There are more. There's a city full of them, and outside that an entire world. You have the power to reach out and take whatever you want. You can control them all, decide who lives and who dies. And why settle for the stragglers, like this one? No pool is safe from our reach.

Go on, tear her apart now if you want to, but it will be a cold and empty win. Instead, let's find another. And another after, and another, until you see for yourself what you can do."

Look at her, so finely made...

"But she's not!" Romax spat it, his fingers digging into the senseless face in his anger. "Begging--yes! But she's like a lump of mud, crudely shaped." With a sudden, infuriated movement, he threw her away with a horribly casual flick of his wrist, sending her body careening into the brick wall of the alley. There was a cracking noise as she hit the wall and fell again to the dirty pavement, poor figure even worse for wear.

Romax seemed calm again as he looked down at the crumpled body. "See?" he nearly whispered it. "See how fragile they are? They're nothing compared to me." To prove it, he hauled back a fist, throwing a powerful haymaker at the wall, sending cracked bits of brick showering down. He withdrew his hand, studied the abraded knuckles. The cuts closed before his eyes, leaving only a few red smears behind. "And I break them just the same."

He closed his eyes, listening to Michael's words with the intensity of a supplicant before his priest. "Show me?" Once again, Romax sounded hesitant, now that he was confronted with something new. It was not his nature to take the strong, but to cull the weak from the pack.

The younger vampire glanced at the immortal, suddenly curious. What did this one know? Feel? Could he hear the heartbeats, slow and lazy, of the prey that they had yet to find? More, could he teach Romax to do the same?

Michael watched the other's sudden display of violence in silence, his cold eyes flashing once at the resounding crack as the lifeless little mannequin cracked against the wall and slumped again to the ground, her limbs scattered about her like the wings of a bird crushed underfoot. Her face was not unlike the one belonging to his first kill, a haunt from long ago--not the face of his wretched sire, but of his first mortal kill. Like Romax, he had loathed her, the senseless lamb. He had beat her, bled her, crushed her, and not once had she lifted a hand in retaliation. Like a twig frozen in winter, she had snapped and broken, and he had hated her all the while.

"Come," he turned away from the girl, his stomach roiling with a fresh and violent anger. "You can't very well survive if you can't learn how to pick out prey worth hunting, killing."

Shadows. Everywhere, low and menacing. A hunter's dearest friend, though Michael had never been one for shadow-play. It was a superfluous precaution for any hunter with the slightest bit of finesse. Besides, anyone skulking around in the shadows wasn't likely to be worth much as a victim.

Even in almost dead-center Demaitre, it didn't take long to find one. A lady of the night, her earrings shining under a nearby streetlamp, her bared legs crossed as she sat, one heel clicking the ground impatiently. A snappish thing, by the looks of it, but easily broken when it came down to her life. Perfect practice. He slowed his pace to a more casual walk and nodded towards her. Her eyes glittered as she exhaled a slow cloud of smoke from her lips and watched them from the other side of the street. She rose to her feet and took a few aimless steps, showing off her legs, her sleek body. To her, they were the prey. Life loved its morbid little ironies.

"Want her?" He turned his head slightly, watching his apparent protegee with stony amusement. "She wants you."

Ask anyone who knew, or thought they knew Romax Finch, about the mild-mannered history professor, and they wouldn't have much to say. Most would know that he is from the States and played gridiron ball, but little else. They don't know his hobbies, if he's married, or has a pet. Few would even be able to tell you what sort of car he drives, or if he even owns one. (He doesn't, in case you were wondering.) But they would tell you, without a glimmer of hesitation, that Romax Finch would never hurt a fly.

Shows what they know.

They wouldn't recognize the man who followed Michael now. Sure, with his boring black trousers and big-buttoned wool overcoat, he was dressed like Romax Finch. But unassuming Mr. Finch could never have that hungry look in his eyes, the kind that made mothers of small children tug their brats a little closer to their sides. Clumsy Romax could never walk with that eerie, liquid pace, as if some cliche about wild cats as they stalked their prey.

He paused as Michael did, studying the woman with those eerily starved blue eyes. They trailed over the hooker, taking in her rich mane of hair, the thick makeup to cover up the lines already beginning to creep around her mouth and eyes. But her body, showcased so nicely on this chilly night, that was still young and shapely. "She wants my money," Romax replied, with what might have been irony.

After all, he wasn't really interested in what she had to offer either.

He glanced back at Michael. "Here?"

"She wants my money."

Michael smirked, not taking off his eyes from the unfortunate temptress pacing restlessly across the street from them.

"Can you take her here?" He glanced once at his colleague, his frigid eyes dark with brutal anticipation, a look that was not quite reflected in the other's gaze. Pity. He'd learn. "No point in risking it. There are people around, likely witnesses. If you can't do it without making a scene, don't. Lead her somewhere less open. I'm sure she'll gladly follow you."

He bowed his head slightly at her as she twitched her mouth into a seductive smile and turned her legs, the hem of her short skirt slipping still farther up just for them. She was getting impatient with their coyness. No doubt she had other things--and men--to do.

"Go on, if you want her. Do whatever you want with her. Mangle her, crush her. You are the hunter, and she is the prey. What reason is there to hold back?"

The whore, she reminded him of someone else, and the resemblance irritated him. If Romax didn't kill her, Michael certainly would. He'd let her die slowly, growing sticky in a puddle of her own blood. He'd make her beg and moan like the slut she was for her own death, and then he would give her just that.

"Do whatever you want with her. Mangle her, crush her."

Romax's fingers twitched at Michael's words and the images they called to mind. He could see the blood like so much paint, splattering walls with that oddly elegant arterial spray. The way it shotgunned, then stuttered to a few intermittent spurts and finally a slow, gentle ooze. He danced his fingertips up his own throat as he thought about it.

The annoyance of his conscience made a feeble attempt to rise up, to send him away, to rebel against such bloody thoughts. Romax brushed it away like dust. That was weak. He wasn't weak. He wouldn't be weak. They were the weak ones, and if he wanted to crush them, he would.

Like a man transfixed, he crossed the street to the hooker. She flashed a well-practiced smile, did the well-practiced dance of trailing a finger down his chest, angling a leg to flash her no doubt well-used cunt. This time, however, Romax had no wish for sex. His lust for blood outweighed its partner. His mouth curled into a smile--one quite unlike the lecherous smiles of her usual johns--as she offered to go someplace a little warmer.

Romax leaned into her, one hand cupping her head as he bent as if to kiss her. "Not tonight, whore," he murmured in her ear.

His eyes met Michael's over her back, then he was driving his fangs into her throat, his hand slapping over her mouth. And she was screaming. Screaming, screaming, not aloud, but in his head. Screaming as if possessed and he wanted it to never stop.

So the fledgling was a natural, that much was apparent. Michael had seen the look on the whore's face when Romax leaned in, seen her expression shift completely from one of false, strained lust to one of complete and perfect fear. He had heard the sound her flesh made when he'd torn into it, heard her skin pop. He could smell her blood now, and the aroma of slaughter was arousing. With a bit of work and some desensitization, Romax would be able to wreak havoc with the best of them. Michael grinned mirthlessly, watching the other's work from across the street with a fair amount of smugness and no little anticipation. Having another ruthless murderer around might prove entertaining after all.

He waited for several minutes for Romax to do his thing, then guiltlessly trailed across the street to break up the little scene the fledgling had made. Not that it mattered. Anyone hanging around these parts could tell a whore when they saw one, and who cared about a whore? Besides, he'd done a reasonable job of keeping the little slut quiet, he had. Like Michael had said, he was a natural.

"Right, well, go throw her body back there in a dumpster or something," he flicked his hand vaguely. "Unless you intend on bloodying her up a bit more. But you did well," his voice lowered slightly and he glanced up at the taller Romax with a venomous glint in his frigid eye. "Took her in public and everything. Killing in public's always dangerous. There's always witnesses to worry about, and making a mess. Which makes it all the more desirable, doesn't it? But go on, if you want to fuck her up, do it." He stepped away again, looking restlessly up the street. "Rip her apart," he murmured. "While she's still warm."

Romax drained the bitch quickly, thirstily gulping at her blood with a fervor quite remarkable considering he had drained another only a moment ago. But when she went limp in his arms and he was forced to hold her slender body, he remembered and disgustedly hurled her away from him. "Too fast," he muttered to himself. Once again, it was all too fast.

But at least he seemed to be getting over that whole morality thing. Crouching to look at her body, her eyes half-shut and still clear with fear, Romax felt only a whisper of guilt and it was powerfully overlaid by a feeling of disappointment. Why did he take them so fast? Was he still, subconsciously, wanting to be a good little vampire boy--killing for food and not for fun? Why did he feel compelled to end them so quickly, before fun was to be had?

Romax dismissed the thought almost immediately, feeling foolish. He was just too hungry, too used to draining them quickly, to make it last longer like he wanted to. He listened closely to what the older vampire was saying, though his eyes remained on the dead woman. That was how he worked--studied and listened before doing.

His dark eyes flicked up to Micheal's, as frustrated as any unhappy student's. "It's still too fast," Romax shook his head in irritation, as if chasing away a fly. Patience. He needed patience, he knew it, but seemed unable to quite grasp the ability as it darted just out of his reach. He kicked the body before lifting it with one hand. "It's their fault." It always felt better to blame failure on someone else.

Michael stared down at her, slowly stepping about her still-warm body to take her in from every lovely angle. She'd been pretty. Not remarkably so--rather like that of any whore--but pretty. His frigid gaze flicked once to Romax as the younger gave the dead girl a good kick. Her limbs flopped about pathetically as he lifted her, watched her, hated her.

"Very well," he carried on pensively, perhaps like how a teacher might redirect a flustered student, "then we'll try something else, something a bit more...extensive. We'll walk, and you'll pick out another. A nice, pretty bitch, whichever one you like. I don't care. We'll take her with us to a place I know, somewhere secluded and secure. And then we'll torture her a bit. I'll make sure she stays alive until she gets boring, then you can do what you do."

He glanced up the street, then back to his irritated companion, folding his hands into his pockets. He could use a good torture. It'd been a long time, far too long to be healthy. Things like that tended to build up if not properly tended to. Perhaps one pretty thing wasn't enough.

"All right, toss her somewhere and let's go."

He was already testing the air, listening for a nearby crowd to pick from or the footsteps of a straggler. Anyone would do. Any unfortunate lamb who happened to cross their way, or perhaps even a small flock. Who could say? The night was yet young.

Romax listened intently to what Michael was saying, feeling particularly soothed by the older vampire's words. He knew, after all, he knew how things ought to be done. Michael was older, stronger, and to use the cliche, wiser--at least in the ways of... of their kind, Romax supposed. Vampires. Immortals. Creatures of the night if you wanted to be B-movie about it.

This scene was familiar wasn't it? Played out in its entirety not much more than an hour ago, after all. A pretty young thing with her throat ripped out, her killer hoisting her body to toss it in a less conspicuous spot--it was the emotion that differed. Romax was not guilt-ridden this time, but angry--furious, even--over his lack of self-control. With an ill-tempered jerk, he tossed the body away into a filthy alley, where she landed and lay sprawled gracelessly in the garbage. He made a half-hearted attempt to kick some of the trash over her, but abandoned the effort. It wasn't worth dirtying up his shoes.

Like his newfound mentor, Romax tipped his head back to taste the air as they moved on; two handsome, boyish killers going easily on their way. Clean-cut and neat, well-groomed, who would possibly consider that they might just be contemplating whether you were pretty enough for them to kill? For once, Romax not only didn't mind his anonymous, every-guy face, he reveled in it. Women rarely gave him a passing glance, but now that was to his advantage.

And as even more consolation was the knowledge that whichever one he wanted would take his face to their grave.

His pace slowed a little as they neared a particularly eye-catching sort. Taller than average, maybe five-eight, with a lovely, high-cheekboned face. Her hair was dark brown and shiny, feathered back from that pretty face in a no-doubt-expensive cut. Romax's eyes dipped lower, dancing over her pale neck, the subdued pearls, the black suit riding primly over a lush body. She passed the two vampires without a second glance, talking rapidly to her less-noticeable companion. Under usual circumstances, the companion would have been the one Romax would have angled for. She was plainer, shorter, and obviously poorer. She was in his league, the other was out of it. But he was playing a different sport altogether now. It was the brunette he wanted.

"That one," Romax mumbled under his breath. He shot a sidelong glance at Michael. "How? How do I get her?"

Michael watched the other toss the corpse aside with idle approval. He couldn't agree more. The bitch wasn't worth dirtying one's shoes over. Tomorrow she'd be someone else's problem, and her murder would be another tally on the lengthy scoreboard of "Unsolved Deaths." They turned to leave and it didn't take long for Romax to pick out what he was looking for. Michael had to give him credit for that--he wasn't a terribly picky fellow, but he had an eye for unusual gems.

“She's pretty," he commented approvingly, lazily looking his choice of prey over. "I’ll distract her friend. I don’t know what kind of powers you have going for you, but I think we ought to figure that out. See if you can’t persuade her to follow you someplace less conspicuous, one of the back alleys. If you can’t lure her, scare her. Get her to run. I’ll follow behind and watch the alley entrance. If she comes running back my way, I’ll turn her around for you. Once you’ve given her a good scare, bash her over the head or choke her. Be creative. Have some fun with her, mess her up a bit. But don’t bite her, not yet.”

He clapped his companion once on the shoulder, like he was wishing a good friend luck, and vanished, skirting around the lovely young ladies until he was a fair distance ahead of them. They drew closer, chattering on and laughing in their secretive way over their latest bedroom conquests. Prior to now, he hadn’t existed to them, not even as a shadow.

Now he did.

His target walked straight into him, and stumbled back, her plain face twisting into a proud glare. She glanced once at her friend for guidance and was reassured by the identical look on the brunette’s face.

“God, watch where you’re going! Freakin’ creep,” she mumbled, attempting to step around him. But she couldn’t. Instead, she stood quite still and stared up into his face, her brow furrowing. "Do...do...I...know you?"

“I’ve been looking for you, love.”

He continued walking, passing both of them without a backward glance.

“Katie, you’re not going with him? Who is he?” The brunette’s voice.

“Yeah…I’ll…see you later. Call me.”

“Katie!”

He smiled as his new plaything caught up to him, staring up into his face, her expression completely vacant. He winked at her and slipped his arm about her waist, glancing back once to glimpse the brunette standing in open-mouthed bafflement in the middle of the sidewalk.

Romax grinned a bit at Michael's praise--his expression not unlike a pupil preening under his mentor's airy approval. And, really, that was basically what he was. Romax had always been a good student.

He eyed the woman as Michael spoke, wondering about the sort she was. Probably the kind with some sort of high-powered job--finance or the like--who sipped martinis with her lunch and decorated her home with smoked glass and sleek metal. Ultra-chic and modern, the real-life embodiment of the Sex and the City. The type who wouldn't give a second look to the hardworking history professor who spent less on his rent than she probably did for one of those martinis.

Be creative, Michael had said.

Romax watched as Michael moved off, studying the older vampire's technique. He was impressed by the boyish vampire's ease as he got the brunette's companion to go with him. Romax had limited talent controlling humans, but the key word was limited. He'd never mastered his abilities, often becoming too frustrated to keep his patience. And it was easier to grab and bite.

The blue-eyed vampire ambled towards the brunette. "Something wrong?" he asked, pouring on the disarming down-home drawl.

Juliet was too baffled to do more than give Romax a look, puzzlement over her friend's behavior outweighing suspicion for the moment. "My friend just... went off. With some guy. I know Katie doesn't know him."

Romax glanced after Michael and Katie. "Well," he said slowly, "Maybe she's about to."

The brunette looked at him again, this time with a little more caution as she realized he was standing just a shade closer than strangers usually did. "Um... No, I don't think so..."

"Sure they are. Just like you and me, honey." Romax grinned, letting his fangs gleam in the faint light of a streetlamp. "We're all gonna get to know each other real well." He saw it in her eyes a moment before she turned to run. "Stop!" he snapped, focusing hard. She only got a step, freezing with her back to him, still fidgeting as she tried to move, to run.

Romax put his arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides. "Let's take a walk."

The boyish grin vanished the moment they turned a corner and were out of plain sight. It was instantly swallowed up and lost in the cold, cold stare he fixed poor little Katie with. She blinked up at home once, her brow slowly furrowing with confusion as she looked around, her cute bob swishing about her sweet face as her expression shifted from bafflement to alarm.

"W-where? W-what are you, some pervert? Where's J-Jul--"

"W-who?" He mocked, his voice dangerously low as he reached out to touch her waist.

She slapped his hands away and turned to run but found his arms quite impossible to move as he shoved her back against the wall. The back of her head connected with the brick with a painful crack, and the ripe scent of blood hit the air with sudden, overwhelming clarity. A slow, lazy bead of it trailed down the back of her neck and down her naked shoulder. But he wasn't done yet. She whimpered, tentatively touching her fingers to the cut. The sight of her own blood brought a scream to her lips, but he suppressed it with a kiss. She tasted like smoke and cheap wine. She tasted like desperation and near-poverty, like a starving actress moonlighting as a waitress. Slowly removing his lips from hers, he took hold of her wrists and stared hard into her fretful, thoughtless eyes.

"You will die tonight, Katie. And you will be nothing."

She moaned, a few fat tears spilling down her face, and looked away. He shook her sharply, forcing her gaze back to his.

"Look at me. You will die a nothing. And when your body is found, assuming that it ever is, no one will know your name. No one will mourn over you. Your cheap apartment won't be touched until your landlord breaks down your door demanding your rent. Do you know why, Katie?"

"Please...," she sobbed, and he brought her bloodied fingers to his lips.

"Because you are nothing."

"Please, I'll give you anything you want, just, just take it--"

His fangs were in her neck before she could utter another syllable. He drank from her quickly, gluttonously, tearing his head from side to side until her entire neck was a bleeding gash. When her lips parted in a dying gasp, he dropped her and, turning to leave, ran the back of his hand across his lips. He wasn't much one to linger and make snide comments to corpses, tempting as it was. Besides, he had another show to watch.

With his arm tight around her narrow shoulders, Romax could feel her shuddering, still fighting, still trying to run when he'd told her she couldn't. And he suddenly felt angry that he'd never tried to use the power he'd had. It was almost surreal, to feel her trembling and shaking and trying to run and knowing she couldn't. And why couldn't she? Because he'd told her not to.

How cool was that?

It brought a grin to his face, made him look playful and almost handsome, despite the circumstances. "I know your type, honey. Might sound like a hick, but I ain't stupid. Used to getting things your way, I bet--I can read it on your pretty face. Bet you get lots of suitors with a face like that, all sort of gentleman callers. Bet you're used to brushing them off like flies without even letting them get a sip of your honey." He nuzzled her neck a little, a touch that would look affectionate if not for the terrified look in her eyes. Oh, Romax wanted to give her a bit, to sink his fangs into her skin and let them tear.

But Michael had said not to. And so, though it was a struggle, Romax didn't and led the woman further and further away from the well-lit street and into the shadows.

He let her go as they turned down an alley, the opposite end too dark to make anything out. For her, at least, for Romax could see just fine. He pushed her, finding it comical as she stumbled, caught off guard, and fell to her knees, expensive pants dirtied by the filth. Romax wondered, was this always where he'd end up? In a dirty alley with his latest catch?

She scrabbled backwards, trying to keep her eyes on him, and words toppled out of her mouth. "Please, please, I'll do anything. Just don't hurt me, please, I have money, you can have it! You can have all of it!" Her final words ended on a shriek as she started screaming, begging for mercy and for help. Romax kicked her in the stomach.

"No one's going to hear you, honey." Wasn't it funny how they always sought to deal when they saw death coming? She squeaked, no breath to cry out, as he kicked her again. "Bet you ain't used to begging, are you? Don't seem the type to know how it's done proper." He flexed his fingers, vising them around her wrists. And wanted to break them. "Maybe," he had to pause to catch his breath, to regain his composure as the urge to just kill her already rose up inside him. "Maybe I can teach you."

He couldn’t get the taste of the little bitch out of his mouth. She must have been on something, some sort of medication, perhaps. He truly hated when that happened. It was a sour, nasty taste. Other than that, she hadn’t been bad. A little bland, maybe, but not bad. Trailing up the alleyway, he could hear his companion’s low drawl already. He had that going for him, the fledgling did. It seemed like an unimportant detail, but there was a lot of power to a voice, and his gentlemanly accent would no doubt be the slow, entertaining death of a fair share of unsuspecting birds.

His shadow flitted along the alley wall long before him, stretched and tangled and grotesque. The girl was on the ground, her knees dirty, her arm over her stomach. Romax hovered above her, as pale and as cold as any bloodsucker might be- but he had a knack, this one. Or he would before long. With a good bit of practice he’d fit the part perfectly. He slowed to a casual stroll, his hands in his pockets, and let his footfall echo and precede him. The girl’s head snapped up, her face paled with fear and pain- and what little hint of suffering she felt now wasn’t even the beginning.

“P-please! Help me! This man, he--,” but the words died on her lips as Michael moved close enough for her to make him out. He could hear her precious heart skip a beat or two and her throat tighten as she tried to swallow. “You. W-where’s Katie?”

“Katie?” He raised his brow at her, a look of total innocence turning his cold features almost boyish. “Katie, Katie…right, the little pigeon you were strutting with earlier?” He leaned a fraction closer. “That Katie?”

She only looked up at him with large, tearful eyes, her pouty lips trembling with a premature sob.

“Tell you what I did, gorgeous. But later, we can talk later. We have places to go.” He stared at her a moment longer, a slow and crooked grin erasing any trace sympathy it might have contained just before, then looked to Romax. Michael had been indecisive about where best to take her. His house- the one he actually lived in, anyway- would have been more entertaining and more comfortable, but ultimately the risk of someone being there, of her being there, was too high. So the secluded little number at the edge of its block would have to do. “Where we’ll take her isn’t far. We can get there through the alleys. If you think she'll stay quiet long enough to get there, don't bother knocking her out- you'd only have to wait around for her to wake up, naturally. Can't very well have fun with you unconscious and all, can we?"

He smirked at the trembling little sylph Romax had chosen- Juliet, her name was- and turned to continue down the alley, his mood considerably improved and something damn near a jaunt in his step.

Romax Finch was, or should have been, used to being overlooked. He was, after all, the unlucky sort who always came so close to standing out that they could nearly touch it, then watched as it slipped away like smoke through the fingers. He'd been a damned good football player but hadn't been able to have a professional career because he was two inches too short. (Considering he was six-one, that was no mean feat.) When he had been that hero on the gridiron, he'd had no problems attracting the fairer sex. But when that gleam wore off he was just another Joe and there was always someone shinier, someone better, someone more noticeable at his elbow. He was a good history teacher, but teaching history did not a superstar make.

Romax Finch was always just this close to being somebody and he'd always known it. It was why he'd played football, why he'd joined the Army, why he'd done anything and everything he thought would give him a little bit of luster. And still, he was so easily ignored. But not anymore. He was beyond them now. He had powers ordinary humans did not and compared to this gorgeous, successful woman in front of him, he was next to a god.

Which was why it pissed him off when he eyes lingered on Michael and not on him. Romax backhanded her, receiving a yelp and her undivided attention in return. "Please..." she whimpered, the plea no doubt foreign on her tongue.

Romax glanced at Michael, his dark blue gaze meeting the other's much lighter one, and nodded slowly. "No," he breathed slowly, "no, I don't suppose we can." He knelt in front of the woman, clutching her chin in his hand. "But I'll knock you out if you're too loud, darling, and trust me, you don't want that." His voice dripped with Southern charm as he drawled, "Do you?"

All chivalry now, he put his hand out, fixing his blue-black eyes on her as she slowly, tremulously placed her much smaller hand in his. Romax looked again at Michael. "Lead the way?"

Down the alleyways, left turn, right turn at the dumpster, following a back way. He’d walked this very same course a thousand times before, but it had been longer than he’d supposed than he’d last visited. The neighborhood itself seemed to be in a state of decay. Once it had been lively, new. Children had run through the streets, even at night, or raced their bikes down the hill to the little park. Now each house was dark, curtains drawn. Each door and window was locked and bolted shut. Demaitre was changing. Slowly, of course. Very slowly. But even the idiot civilians had noticed the intimidating crime rates and were adapting accordingly.

Once or twice they nearly crossed paths with someone- bums, most likely, but Michael didn’t care to deal with the hassle of it regardless when it could easily be skirted. The blood in his veins was scorching, now, no doubt at least in part due to the lovely scent of the trembling woman so close behind. Her fear was intoxicating, shuddering off of her in deep, primal waves. He certainly wouldn’t mind having a little fun with her himself. But he’d had his fun for now and there were more pressing- or at least more interesting- matters at hand. And judging by the way his companion had acted before, he was in no mood for competition. Not that it mattered. Michael was quite confident that if he wanted her, he could reach out and take her. But, hell, he was feeling generous this evening.

“Just a bit further pet,” he walked backwards a few paces to flash the quaking little bite a wink. She was leaning quite heavily on her captor’s arm by now, every last inch of her long, slender legs quaking.

At last he led them around the gated drive to the back of the house and through the considerable tangle of foliage that had grown in his absence. The place was in disrepair, but it would suffice and then some for anything Romax might have planned for his ‘guest.’ Michael snapped the lock on the door and led them inside. Having still paid the damned electric bill all these years, he was pleased to note that the lights still shuddered to life when he flipped the switches.

"Make yourselves at home," he muttered, his good mood somewhat put off by their quiet journey. No matter. Undoubtedly the rest of the evening would make up for it.

He wasted no time in visiting the kitchen and retrieving a slightly dusty bottle of a dark, dark wine. Returning to the living room, he leaned in the doorway, empty glass in one handle, bottle in the other.

"No, really, have a seat," he stared hard at the broad, but her eyes were diverted- apparently she'd learned her lesson. "I know it's probably not quite like the places you're used to, but you look a little flustered. You might get your ass dirty, but please, sit down." He glanced at Romax. "Drink?"

OOC: Romax and Juliet. Romeax and Juliet? Romeo and Juliet? I didn't notice that until, like, just now. :P Or maybe I'm reading into stuff that ain't there.

Romax gripped Juliet's hand firmly, though not squeezing, his fingers flexing every now and then as if he was impatient--which, of course, he was. He'd not been in this part of the city before and glanced around him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt and, though he hid it well, almost the slightest bit of fear. It seemed the young vampire had played human too long to let that instinctual wariness go completely. A normal human being would naturally be tense walking through this section of town at night--with the shuttered windows and deadbolted doors. He was not worried, not truly, yet was on guard--though obviously he and Michael would be able to handle with ease any sort of riffraff that might plague them.

Every now and then, he would glance at Michael, his dark eyes catching the yellowed rays of the streetlamps, yet seeming darker for it rather than lighter. The lamps were few and far between for this was an area of the city where the police didn't come without backup and utility repair often fell by the wayside. After all, fix a light and some hoodlum would only put it out with a rock anyway. Michael seemed supremely confident--the kind of confident that Romax, who had never been such, could recognize but not replicate. Irritated at the thought of it, he jerked slightly on the arm of the woman as she lagged, her coltish legs trembling too much, perhaps, to keep her entirely steady.

At last they reached the boyish vampire's decrepit home, or house, rather, for surely Michael did not live there. No, the older vampire was too... something to live in a house where the yard was practically a small wood and the lightbulbs buzzed when flicked on. The cracked linoleum creaked slightly beneath Romax's inexpensive shoes as he stepped inside, glanced curiously around. His nose filled with the scent of neglect. Beside him, Juliet kept her eyes on the floor, so pale it wouldn't be surprising if she simply collapsed into a quivering heap at his feet. Romax pushed her towards a grimy chair, saying, "You heard him, didn't you? Go on, darling, sit on down."

He glanced at Michael and the bottle. There seemed a moment of humor here--two vampires, a pretty girl, and a bloodred bottle of wine. Romax smiled and decided wine would be nice, though it would not, of course, compare to an entirely different drink, one served hot instead of chilled. "Wouldn't mind it," he said slowly, his friendly blue eyes flickering from the bottle Michael held to behind the shorter vampire's shoulder, where a knife block, thickly laid with dust, sat on the counter.

OOC: I was wondering if you did that on purpose! XD

Michael poured the other a glass and handed it to him as he moved past Romax towards the girl, keeping the bottle for himself. She squirmed under his gaze though she wouldn’t look him in the eye. Thin, loose tendrils of her dark hair slipped down over her face and cast light shadows on her quivering lips. He brushed them back slowly, and to his amusement she flinched back from the coldness of his touch and pushed her hair back herself.

“What's the matter, love? Thought you liked the attention?"

She still refused to look at him, choosing instead to stare at the bottle in his hand.

"I’m sorry, darling, did you want a drink?”

He leaned in closer to her, trying to catch her gaze despite how she attempted to keep from looking at him. Even when he caught her fragile chin in his hand, she closed her eyes and swallowed hard, her entire body taut and trembling, warm…

He turned and followed Romax’s gaze, his attention alighting at last on the knives across the room. He had to admit: the fledgling already had an eye for it. Now all he needed was a good bit of practice. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he retrieved the block and placed it on the low table in front of the couch to which Juliet was quite effectively confined by her own lack of will. Leaning back on the arm of a chair adjacent to the couch, Michael glanced at his companion and gave a slow nod towards the girl.

“Just enough to make her bleed a bit.” He looked back at Juliet and flashed her a grin. "To make her scream."

She instantly turned her pretty face up towards Romax, her back straightening a little with alarm, her doe eyes wide and pleading.

OOC: xD No, I totally didn't. Maybe it was subliminal?

Romax took the glass, his hands practically shaking with anticipation, desire. He took his time taking a few sips, trying to level himself and find his control. His blue eyes were the color of dark blue ink as he watched Michael with the woman, partly from envy and partly from a sort of admiration at how easily the older vampire handled himself. Romax took another long swallow of the wine, wondering about that. Was it simply natural, that easy confidence? If it was, he likely had little hope of achieving it.

Still, if there was anything he'd learned from football (other than getting hit by six-six guys really hurt) it was that fake confidence was almost as good as the real thing. Draining the glass, Romax wandered over to the knife block, taking his time pulling out different knives and studying them. He automatically wanted to reach for the biggest knife in the block--the chef's knife--but as he studied it, he changed his mind. Too clumsy, too unwieldy. Listening to lovely Juliet's frightened gasps, he pulled out a shorter, thinner blade instead.

She had tears in her eyes as she stared at the knife, which he held in front of her face so she couldn't miss it. Romax directed the point towards one of those pretty, sloe eyes, piercing one of the tears and making it run. "Never thought a walk would be so dangerous, I bet," he drawled, as she drew as far away from the blade as she could without falling off the kitchen chair. Shifting slightly, he drew the knife down, lower, slicing through the expensive material of her blouse so that it gapped open. A small streak of blood smeared the blade, apparently he'd nicked her. Romax grinned as the scent bloomed into the air and delicately licked the drop off.

"Waste not, right?" he said to Michael.

As the younger toyed with lovely Juliet, Michael’s gaze remained steadfast on her face. Each brief and different expression was delicious, and each in turn ended up reverting to instinctual, primal fear. He could feel it hovering about her, and he could smell it thickening in the room. Not surprisingly, her reaction impacted him as well. He could feel his muscles inadvertently tense each time she flinched back from the blade as if he ached to be the cause of the next fearful jolt, and, of course, he did. Such an intrinsic violence never faded, was never totally leashed regardless of how many years of control a vampire had or how they tried to be otherwise, to be civil, to be human. It was a one-sided war, and as such it was one that could not be ended by fighting it. Delayed, perhaps. Put off for years, for decades, even. But never ended.

He’d cut her. Michael looked quickly to the other vampire as the scent of blood erupted on the stale air, but the younger seemed to still be in complete control.

“You know what’s interesting to me? No matter how delicate or pampered the exterior, blood is always the same. Just blood. Of course, being attractive helps,” he flashed her a quick, amused grin. “Which is why you’re here instead of your friend or any other passerby walking the same street as you, isn’t it? Must be a burden, being so beautiful,” he mused. “But I’m betting we can help you with that, hm?”

His pale gaze flicked pointedly to the knife Romax held and Juliet’s eyes followed- they had only left it for a moment. Her perfect, salon-done nails were sunk deep into the arm of the couch, her bared chest heaving in uneven gasps as she glanced from the knife to her tormentor and back again.

“W-why…are you doing this to me?” Her smoky voice had been reduced to a weak and terrified rasp, and her wide eyes were again intent on Romax’s. “I’ll give you anything, I swear. I have…I h-have friends…important…and…and I have money. Please!”

Unable to suppress another amused grin, Michael looked to Romax, curious to gauge the younger vampire’s reaction to her barely coherent plea.

The subtleties were missed by the younger vampire. Romax did not feel the weight to the air that was pretty Juliet's fear, did not scent anything but the rich sweetness of blood. He barely noticed the way her face would contort, shivering as if the bones beneath were gel every time he moved and her fear spiked. He saw the overlying mask of fear, but not the whispering chords beneath it. Terror, the causing of it, was an art form with certain vampires; they knew how to make a scream sing like the strings of a violin and knew to appreciate the graceful spiral of a drop of blood down bare flesh. But Romax was yet a novice and did not notice those things.

He swiped again at her blouse with the knife, so that it fell open completely to his greedy eyes. The bra she'd chosen when she'd left her home that morning dumbly, traitorously continued to fulfill it's purpose, the silk cups molding her fine breasts and tempting a man to pull it open and take what he wanted. The muscles in him quivered as he gazed at the bared flesh, at the little red nick that rode just over her belly button, as powerful and eager as a racehorse just before the starting shot.

Nearly ready to simply rip into her and leave her a husk, Romax glanced over at Michael as the older vampire spoke, and the words calmed him a little. He tapped the knife against Juliet's cheek. "He's right, I'd say," was the dark-haired vampire's only comment.

But he smiled a little more as she began to beg again and her eyes grew enormous as they searched his face for mercy or pity. "Anything, you say?" he slanted another look at Michael, "Did you hear that? Our haughty girl will give us anything. I don't know about you, but anything sure sounds good to me. Better than money, even..." He dropped to his knees, his face close to hers in some parody of intimacy that she cringed away from. "You offer up anything, darling, to us... not very smart. We might just take it." Romax's head dropped, his fangs sinking deep into the soft, sweet skin of her bared shoulder, his hands twisting, bruising as she screamed and writhed. Her skin taste like peaches, just underripe.

Michael looked on with detached interest as Romax began to torture Juliet. He loved the little whimpers she made, loved the way she sat so still and pretty as he sliced down the front of her shirt and looked her over like a prized possession. Bitch was probably used to it. Well, she was in for a nasty shock, wasn’t she? The scent of her blood heightened, and he sat back as Romax began to feed. But it wasn’t long before it became clear that the younger had likely forgotten any intention of stopping. Michael stood up. Taking hold of the other vampire by his coat collar, Michael pulled him from the girl with perhaps a little more force than was necessary and shoved him aside. Nothing personal, of course- it was just his prerogative. Fledgling had to learn.

"Careful, now. The night's young. Don't go and spoil the fun all at once."

He regarded Romax for a second before his gaze inevitably turned on the ever-attractive Juliet. Even as a trembling, rasping thing cringing pitifully against the back of a deteriorating couch, she was in a completely different world than her mousy friend had ever hoped to be in. Romax had chosen well. His eyes wandered freely over her exposed and heaving bosom, pausing at the nick on her dainty belly and tracing back up to the bloodied abrasions on her rounded shoulder. She followed his gaze, settling on the violent wounds with the beginning of a sob.

"Hurts good, doesn't it? Almost makes me wish your friend was still here so we could have a little fun of our own. She was a cute thing, wasn't she? What was her name? Katie, right?"

"You," her eyes flicked from Michael to Romax and back, her lip atremble. "You killed her?"

Michael raised his brow and took a step away, content to sit back and let Romax try again.

"Well, yeah, kitten. Vampire."

Juliet raised a dainty hand to her rouged lips to stifle a sob, her pleading eyes turning again on Romax for any scrap of mercy she knew she wouldn't find. Michael chuckled and took another drink, flashing a viciously cold grin at Romax. "Looks like she's finally starting to catch on."

Romax nearly turned on the older vampire with an animalistic snarl as he was tossed unceremoniously on his ass. The blood had gone straight to his head like whiskey, making it light and… starving. How could it be? Always before, or almost always, when he had drunk, he had done his bloodletting with care, feeding only until the hunger was gone and leaving his drink of choice a little spun, but more OK than not. Now, though, it seemed the more he drank the more he craved, as if he wanted to take the whole world by the throat and drain it dry.

His face cleared as he took a moment to compose himself, and the blue in his eyes seemed to settle a bit. Slowly, deliberately, he picked himself back up, one hand still gripping the knife. Romax glanced over at Michael as his head cleared and he could think without the swirls of blood to distract him. Offhandedly, he tossed a word of thanks to the light-haired vampire, as he pulled his collar back into place. As he did so, he seemed to consider for a moment and shrugged out of the stodgy black blazer and rolled up the sleeves on his white shirt. Without a tie and with his hair slightly mussed, he looked friendly, innocuous—even boyish.

He took a quick swallow of the wine, letting it rest a moment on his tongue, for though it was not quite blood it was good nonetheless. Certainly better than anything he could afford on his pitiful associate instructor’s salary. Perhaps it was the moment to think that gave him the idea, or maybe it was his more experienced friend’s lead, but Romax decided to change his tack. “Well,” he drawled to Michael, as he turned the handle in his palm, “Gal like this doesn’t get where she has by being slow, does she?” He passed his empty hand down her arm until her dainty hand was caught in his much larger one. Slowly, he pulled her into a standing position, for she was too busy quivering in fear to resist.

His eyes locked on her watery ones and almost immediately, her lips parted in a gasp, her tongue flicking out to shakily wet her lips. It was easier to control, he realized, when half her mind was incoherent with terror. “Hurts, right?” Romax whispered, echoing Michael’s words as she shuddered in his grasp, running the flat of the simple kitchen knife over her bared skin, teasing her nipple with the point.

”Oh, Jesus,” she moaned, her eyes rolling back as she writhed beneath the blade as if it were a lover’s hand, arching against it until blood flowed. “Please, God.”

Romax spoke to Michael, a cocky smile crossing his face though he didn’t—couldn’t yet—take his eyes from Juliet’s. “Did she just call me God?”

For a moment he locked gazes with the younger, Romax’s stare malicious and cold, Michael’s colder. He half hoped the fledgling would attempt what was on his blood-muddled mind and attack him. It’d been a good while since he’d had the chance to tear one of his own to grisly shreds, and then he could give lovely Juliet the night of her life, snap her pretty neck, and be done with it. But Romax was smart and surprisingly level-headed compared to the majority of the tasteless, boring trash Michael had witnessed crawling around this reeking city.

Romax uttered a brittle word of thanks which Michael promptly ignored and dismissed as irrelevant. Young, and so fucking arrogant. All he did and said he no doubt did solely for himself, but Michael was vain and he preyed intently on the chance to seize a potential challenge. A single taunt, and he'd gladly smash his companion's head in.

The heightened scent of her blood drew his attention. Thick and luscious, it hung in the air, as seductive as her bestial moan. His empty gaze flicked from her face, tightened in manipulated ecstasy, to her bared bosom, and the familiar lust flared again with renewed vehemence. In his thoughts, he traced the curve of her breasts with his tongue, in his mind he forced her to take all of him again and again and stifled her gentle, fearful weeping with the last kiss she would ever taste. Impatiently, he rose to his feet in silence and crossed the room, circling the two, his eyes on the ground and daring only to sweep over the sensuous curves of her bare calves.

Even so, in spite of his encompassing envy, he couldn't help but respect the younger's craft. It was pleasing to him as a deranged mentor to see his pupil take so quickly to the game. A grin, his sole response to Romax's smug inquiry, hovered about the edges of his indeterminable expression, and he paused in his pacing to take in the sweet irony of her lustful profile.

Romax had never been violent. When a man, he had been the awkward and shy sort and violence... violence took confidence and arrogance. Before he had been turned, confidence and arrogance had been in short supply for the dark-haired man. In fact, they had been in short supply for a good, long time after he had been turned as well, making only brief, unexpected appearances before vanishing.

But God, God, it was as if he was feeding off of the other. Violence, confidence, arrogance, they simmered inside of the young vampire like a delicious, powerful alcohol, all heat and froth and intoxication. He'd never felt anything like it before. But Romax hoped to God he would feel it again and again after he finished riding this high, exhilarating wave. He hoped he'd never be without it again.

She stood docilely before him as he pushed off her bloodstained blouse so that it fell to the floor, forgotten. The bite on her shoulder bled slowly but freely and Romax couldn't resist lowering his mouth to it to take another taste. She didn't resist. Couldn't. She was completely within his grasp, her quivering terror making her as biddable as a mouse. That in itself was an entirely new high. He could make her do anything he wanted. Everything he wanted.

As languorously as a lover, he let his lips wander lower, to her soft, full breast and the sweet red blood that trickled from it. She gasped, a low, empty sound that could have passed for pleasure or pain.

Lust, Romax had discovered, could be fabricated. His hands bruised as they dragged her against him, molding her body to his as his mouth clamped to her breast in some obscene parody of lovemaking.