Fungal Halo

I have a pit where my stomach should be, an endless hole that nothing fills. When my hunger grows out of control and my self-control lapses, I find myself gripping the neck of someone beautiful again, maybe in a dark alley or in their own bedroom, as the light fades from inside.

"There's going to be a gathering," the rumors said, "of the lady vampires who prey on this city." They pointed to a speakeasy in the warehouse district on the weekend of a new moon. Those who didn't dismiss the rumor out of hand vowed to stay away.

But not you, of course.

With a kiss I break the skin, and my tongue comes alive with the distinctly metallic taste of blood. The electric sensation of life itself dances in my mouth, carried by the flow. She whines and flinches, but my grip holds her firmly in place.

My date was such a relentlessly spooky bitch, but I was enjoying myself enough to accept an invitation to her place.

She was, after all, hot as hell, and while I couldn't place her accent right away, I found it somehow irresistible.

She wraps her arms around me just like always, tilting her head to one side, offering me her delicate neck.

We've done this countless times, but she still gives a tiny shiver of anticipation as my lips touch my favorite place and my fangs pierce deep into my thrall.

An angel should have nothing to fear from the typical vampire. With a bit of concentration, her halo can flare with enough dazzling, holy brightness to instantly vaporize those who cannot survive even the mundane light of their local star.