She ventured into the bar at midnight, the witching hour when men turn into pumpkins, or worse.
She sat alone, all attitude. He sat beside her. She snuck a peek, noted a pale hand, long, tapering fingers.
He turned, eyes startling blue. Pale, lustrous hair falling to shoulders sheathed in black. Goth Freak.
Drink? Voice fluid, like a drug.
Yes.
He drew her into conversation with no recollection of content. Then a revelation. I'm a vampire.
Really?
Yes, really.
Pathetic, she thought.
He drew her out, she allowed it. By the curb a gleaming motorcycle. He climbed astride, as did she.
By a silver disc of water, hard moonlight glinting from the surface, the reflecting pools of his eyes, his predator's smile revealed all.
He hadn't lied, she offered up her scarlet sacrifice to his hunger as brittle stars winked, ice crystals embedded in ebony.