Page 2 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

The craving gnawed at him, ever present, rarely and reluctantly sated, like a monster curling in his stomach, draining his strength and urging him to act.

How long has it been since I fed? A week? No, six nights.

He crouched on the corner of an apartment block roof, watching the alley below, hoping for suitable prey to wander along.

He didn’t have to wait long. A man shambled into view at the mouth of the alley, his movements sluggish and disjointed, as though every step was a struggle.

His eyes were half-lidded, glazed from the effects of some powerful high.

A bucket of Chick-fil-A rested in the crook of his arm, the greasy cardboard crumpling with each unsteady sway.

He lurched forward, slow and off-kilter, as if his body could hardly keep pace with his disoriented mind.

The sharp scent of fried chicken mixed with the faint, sickly-sweet reek of whatever drug clung to him, and Antoine’s nose wrinkled. The man’s blood would be thick, cloying, laced with chemical residue. It wouldn’t affect Antoine, of course, but he wasn’t that hungry.

The man took another slow, deliberate bite, chewing lazily, as if the food was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Antoine couldn’t suppress the disgust that curled in his stomach. Modern-day America, where the diet is junk-food and—well, you are what you eat.

Not like my Paris.

Yet Boston had its charms too, and one had just rounded the corner.

She looked to be in her mid-twenties: tall and slender, wearing a pale blue blouse and jeans tight-fitting enough to hint at a lithe physique, hugging herself against the mild September night.

She would taste like a young Bordeaux. Bold, fruit-forward, and fresh, with a touch of spice.

He could already picture his fangs sinking into her neck .

Antoine checked quickly; the stoned man was still too close and shuffling even slower than before.

The young woman’s long strides were rapidly closing the gap.

Merde , they were too near one another. She was almost tempting enough to justify murdering the drugged man just so he could feed on her.

But then she would see, and he’d have no choice but to kill her too.

It was a passing fancy; that wasn’t his style. He’d have to let her slip on by, the nicest morsel he’d seen in too long.

She walked gracefully, like a dancer. Just watching her, he knew she’d be delicious. Such a shame.

He saw when she noticed the man, the falter in her step, her speed fading, the glance over her shoulder. Of course: the reluctance of a woman traveling alone to draw close to a man, particularly when it could be avoided. Especially in a secluded alley such as this.

His interest returned. Would she turn back for the safety of the main road, or slow enough for the man to shamble out of sight?

Irritatingly, the stoned man was breathing heavily and moving at a glacial pace, staggering with each step.

Be just my luck for him to drop unconscious right in front of her.

He judged their relative speeds, eyed the distance still to travel, and grunted with satisfaction.

There would be a small window of opportunity, which was all he needed.

The seconds crawled by, both she and he waiting for the unsteady man to trundle out of their way.

He veered from side to side, ricocheting off the dirty alley wall.

Perhaps his ungainly passage was what had caused her hesitation, or maybe it was the lingering smell of greasy chicken.

Either way, she was now a good distance back from him, unknowingly making Antoine’s task much easier.

Finally, the stumbling figure turned the corner. She quickened her pace, as if to make up for lost time. It was regrettable she was about to be delayed again.

Antoine dropped from the rooftop, letting the fall turn into a swoop, his shadows trailing out behind him like a cloak. Three stories—fifty feet—plenty of height to swiftly close the gap.

One second, two, and he touched down silently behind her, his shadows collecting around him once more.

She reacted swiftly. It caught him by surprise, and delight. Somehow, she’d sensed him, turning within the circle of her own space. Fast for a chattel, but he was effortlessly faster. He needed only step-cross-step to stay behind her, like fencers sparring in a circle .

Her foot lashed out, swooshing through the air, passing harmlessly through where, a fleeting second before, his head had been.

Impressive.

He waited for her to finish the move, but she was slower in recovery than she had been in reacting—bewildered, having thought she’d sensed something, yet found nothing there.

Her leg lowered and her body straightened.

Antoine noted the way her supple form maintained perfect balance and control, and his mouth watered.

One hand curved around the side of her neck in a caress so familiar, gathering her against his chest. With the other, he tugged away the collar of her blouse, exposing the delicate contours of her throat.

Her scent was impossible to ignore: her blood particularly rich and heady, her faint natural musk, an intriguing trace of balsamic with a wisp of basil, all undercut by a clean freshness with a subtle citrus edge.

He swept her blonde hair aside, revealing the gentle swell of her carotid artery, blue-tinged against her pale skin.

She stiffened, reacting in shock and trying to pull away, but Antoine held her easily, and then his lips were against her.

“Get off me!”

A trickle of his power, and her mind clouded, until she was hardly aware of what was happening to her.

Always for the best.

She gasped at his bite, but as his serum rushed into her brain, the sound eased into a languid sigh. As ever, he was grateful his ability triggered pleasure and not pain or fear, like some of his kin.

It made feeding so much easier for both of them.

Within seconds, her body surrendered, and the sigh became a moan, thick with want.

Her blood gushed into his mouth, the thick liquid coating his tongue and flowing down his parched throat.

Antoine echoed her moan; she tasted even better than he had anticipated, with subtle nuances of spices and minerality. Exquisite.

An unintended benefit of going so long between feeds.

He knew he mustn’t take too much. He needed to stop before she was weakened to the point of vulnerability. Her blood was so rich, so vibrant and healthy, that it took a significant act of will to finally draw back. If she were unable to stagger home it would raise too many questions.

He placed a lick across the wound, the act donating a little of the healing enzymes his body produced, and the twin holes in her neck began to close.

He ran his tongue over the last drops, savoring each taste, and there wasn’t even a trace of red on her clothing.

But then, it was hardly his first time .

She moaned again, arching back into him.

Out of idle curiosity, he’d once looked into the science.

Something about dopamine, oxytocin, vasodilation.

A cocktail of pleasure hormones and spiked blood pressure that made the experience intoxicating.

He barely remembered the details, only caring about the effect: increased blood flow, compliance, and quiet.

Antoine lowered her carefully to the ground, her legs unable to support her. She’d need some minutes to recover from the sudden blood loss, though less delay before she regained cognitive awareness.

He leaped, energized and reinvigorated, expecting to use a ledge half-way up the three-story building to spring to his perch. Pleasantly surprised, he soared high with a single effortless bound to the rooftop. Potent blood indeed. It might keep the craving at bay for longer.

Once more crouched above the alley, wreathed in his shadows, Antoine watched her limp form. Normally, he’d have already left, but tonight he felt uncharacteristically protective as he savored the intoxicating taste of her blood.

Such a delightful morsel didn’t deserve to be abandoned so, but he had his rules, and never fed from the same source twice. Though in her case, he was sorely tempted to break them.

“Because, my pet, rules are just rules.”

The memory intruded, and Antoine blinked. It had been years since he’d thought of her, and still her words plagued him, the lilt of her French accent as it echoed in his mind not deadened by time or distance.

Another set of footsteps marked the approach of a new visitor to the alley. The man walked with haste—until he saw the woman on the ground. He halted, but there was no concern in his stance, no instinct to rush to her aid.

“Well, well.” His words drifted through the quiet night, easy for Antoine to hear. “Fortunate indeed. I thought I’d lost you there.”

The woman didn’t respond; she hadn’t recovered enough to be capable of speech. She was barely on the cusp of consciousness, unaware of what was occurring.

The man drew closer, his steps measured, deliberate. He crouched beside her. “You hardly drank anything.” Antoine heard the words as clearly as if the man were standing beside him. “And yet here you lie, helpless. A gift.”

The man looked over his shoulder, as if confirming they were alone.

The alley remained silent. “I think you owe me,” the man murmured, though whether to himself or the woman, Antoine wasn’t sure.

The man reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her unresponsive face, then trailed his fingers down over her cheek, along her neck, to her throat.

He didn’t seem to notice the mark Antoine had left; the wound had already healed, the remnants subtle, and the alley was dimly lit.

But the gloom was no impediment to Antoine, who saw everything with perfect clarity as the man’s hand trailed lower, flicking open the top button of her blouse.

Antoine clenched his jaw. She was merely chattel, his latest prey. Nothing more.

So why was he still here?

He didn’t linger with mortals. He didn’t watch them afterward. Yet now, crouched above, seeing the man’s fingers trail lower, something about the scene needled at him.

Perhaps it was the way her body remained limp, left like discarded prey. Or the fact that she’d still be walking upright if not for him.

Whatever it was, it coiled low in his gut and refused to dislodge.

She was a fighter, a warrior, which he could respect.

She wouldn’t be in this situation if not for him.

A man like this wouldn’t have come anywhere near her under normal circumstances—which likely explained why she was walking home alone.

A jilted lover? No, she wouldn’t have risked the alley.

An ex? No. He couldn’t imagine her ever lowering herself to that.

Ah. A rejection.

That better fit the man’s mutterings.

And yet he’d followed her. With such haste.

The man slipped another button free. Still she didn’t stir. A hint of dark blue lace glimpsed against her smooth, creamy skin, and his fingers unfastened the next button.

Antoine dropped from the roof top.

He landed behind the man, who, unlike the woman, never even sensed his presence. His attention was wholly on her, prey he had no right to hunt. Prey he could never hope to subdue if Antoine hadn’t done it for him.

A simple motion. A twist of his hands.

The snap echoed from the alley walls and faded into the night. Antoine caught the man’s body before it could slump onto the woman, then let it collapse to the ground.

She still hadn’t fully regained consciousness, but her eyelids fluttered.

What was he doing? Lingering. Delaying. Risking her detecting him with every passing breath.

He leaned over her, refastening the three buttons the man had undone, his fingers working with all his speed yet keeping his touch as light as possible.

In but a second, he was finished. Grasping the man’s suit and shirt in his fist, he leaped once more for the seclusion of the rooftop. The extra weight meant little.

From above, Antoine watched her stir. She pushed herself upright, a hand rising to her head as if to steady herself. For a while, she simply sat there, dazed, before finally struggling to her feet.

She stared at her fallen purse, then bent to reclaim it before stumbling down the alleyway, one hand trailing the wall for support. Continuing on with her journey. With her life.

Antoine observed until she disappeared around the corner.

Then he looked at the corpse beside him. The man’s lifeless eyes stared skyward, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Not just one of his rules broken tonight, but several.

Not merely broken. Shattered. Belle would’ve been so pleased.

He hoisted the body over his shoulder, indifferent to the encumbrance.

There were two commercial trash incinerators in the wider Allston area, and Antoine knew where they both were.

This was his territory, after all.