Hungry.
All he could feel was the gnawing, inescapable hunger. His gums ached with tension as he held his fangs back through sheer force of will. The glow of the moon was strong tonight, stronger than usual. It would make for a difficult hunt. It didn't matter. He had to eat.
There was always a sense of disorientation when he was so low on nourishment, a fuzziness to the world's edges that made him blur the line between dreaming and waking. Streets flashed by in blurs. Even the alleyways were illuminated by the moon's glow. Something wasn't right. It didn't matter. He had to eat.
A faint scent caught his attention. An open wound, the smell of clotting blood so close on the peripherals of his consciousness. Easy prey. So what if his meal had a life before this? It didn't matter. He had to eat.
Finally. The rush of hot, metallic blood hit his body with the same force as a bullet, but he wasn't the victim, not this time. He was the assassin. It said a lot about just how hungry he was when he could see his vision clearing in real time. Now that his survival was more secure, the metaphorical blinders were off.
Oh, shit. He wasn't alone.
A shadow against the too-bright moon was the only warning he got before he was slammed into the unforgiving brick wall behind him. Away from his meal that was somehow still gasping out pained moans. Not dead yet, then. Unfinished, yet so easily spoiled. He hated wasting food, but at the moment he had more pressing things to attend to, namely the masked fella pressing him against the wall. How forward.
TBC (in a reblog. at some point.)
