She laughs. "It's been a while since I've been asked that. You're not new, are you? Ms. Grey told me you were an old hand at this."
You shake your head. "Not new, no. Just had a recent experience that made me rethink how we feed."
She reaches forward and takes your arm. "Stop thinking," she says, almost desperately. "You need this, and so do I. Don't make me beg!"
She's right, of course. You can no sooner deny your true nature than snatch the sun from the sky. Or gaze upon it, for that matter.
You lean over her relaxed body, your lips curled back, nose flared like a predatory animal. You're barely aware of the room as you sink your fangs into her delicate neck and drink deep. The moment feels so profoundly right, and her moans only encourage you to slake your thirst. There is nothing that can compare to fresh blood straight from the vein, and a willing partner quiets the voices in your head. You're not a predator, you convince yourself. No, you're a gift to these mortals—these supplicants. Forget the victims you slaughtered—all is forgiven in this holy act of feeding.
You pull back and lick the neck wounds closed. The blood doll's eyes have glazed over and she's panting. You never did get her name. Does it matter? You suck the length of your fangs and your lips clean of blood. A small part of you knows that it should matter, that you should remember the faces of your victims. But maybe it's too late for that. Maybe your humanity is gone forever.
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