Investigative journalist Frank would do anything for the next big scoop, and a chance to break the news to the world that vampires really exist is too good to pass up. But his fact-finding mission to an undead hangout takes a terrifying turn when he’s locked in a cellar with a starving -- if sexy -- bloodsucker and no escape in sight.
Forlorn vampire Viktor hasn’t had a bite in months, ever since falling foul of über-vamp The Mistress and being imprisoned for his sins. Delivered to his cell like Meals on Wheels, Frank’s the tastiest morsel he’s seen in a long time. Viktor can’t wait to get his fangs into him -- and there’s something about Frank that makes Viktor lust for more than just his blood.
To escape the mysterious Mistress’s prison, predator and prey will have to work together -- if, that is, they can manage to rein in their baser appetites for long enough!
Note: this short story was previously published under the title Becoming the Spoils.
There’s something cold at my back and I realise I’ve backed into the wall. No luck in getting through it, however. Viktor’s still moving towards me, eerily slow and silent, like an early horror movie playing at the wrong speed. His mouth’s open but no sound comes out. There’s nothing human in those pale eyes that are getting darker by the second. Nothing alive in there at all. I can’t move.
There’s a sudden blur of speed, or maybe I black out for a moment from sheer terror, as one minute he’s still a foot away from me and the next, those teeth -- those fangs -- are sheathing themselves in my neck. Slowly. So I can feel every millimetre as they slice through my flesh.
And then he starts to suck, and I explode.
I’d thought it was a myth, the feeding ecstasy. I’d thought it was something the Goth girls made up, right up there with sparkly eyes and a truly noble nature. I’d scoffed at them. Hell, I told them, having your life’s blood sucked out through a couple of tiny holes has got to hurt like buggery and be a damn sight less fun, and what’s so bloody noble about eating people anyway?
I was wrong.
There’s just enough of me left inside to wonder how in hell, if all my blood is presently turning out the lights, saying goodnight and leaving the building, I manage to get the hardest erection I’ve had in months. And then ... then I can feel him rubbing against me, and I’m thinking, damn, is that my blood making him hard? Pretty soon I decide that thought is overrated, and I might as well get on with dying happy.