LeGrande stood at the foot of Marcy’s bed watching her sleep. She snored the gentle breaths of a housecat, and LeGrande savored the sound. Her being asleep would make what he was about to do seem less monstrous. Not that he cared, he was long past trying to justify what he did,
(more) to himself or anyone. He would have her blood and that was that. Explanations were a waste of words.
He caught the flash of his nails in the moonlight. In mere seconds, they had become sharp as teeth. His teeth, now fully descended, were sharper still. Over sharp for the job, he sometimes thought. Tearing the flesh of the throat required force, not precision, and his fangs binded easily. Especially when there was a struggle.
He stepped to the head of the bed, claws bared, and prepared to leap.
“Not tonight, LeGrande.” The voice sounded tinny, as if coming through a speaker.
Surprised, the vampire shrank from the sleeping form. As he retreated, the lights came on, and his widening eyes saw the truth. The figure in the bed was a dummy. Bait.
“I got you LeGrande. I fucking got you!” Marcy’s piped-in voice rose in exultation.
LeGrande flew to the door and was not surprised in the least to find it locked. Turning, he ran headlong toward the windows, intending to punch through the glass with the full weight of his body. Instead, he bounced off and rolled onto his back, limbs sprawling across the carpet.
“It’s bulletproof, numb nuts.” Came the voice from the speaker. “You are absolutely, one thousand percent fucked.”
One of his fangs had punctured his tongue, and as LeGrande lay staring at the ceiling in confusion, his own blood, thin and watery, pooled in his cheek. (less)
