I have always preferred to stalk my victims in the winter. I love the early sunsets and the long chill nights which allow a long foreplay to the final ecstasy of sinking my teeth into that vulnerable place, feeling my mouth fill with the gush of warm juice.
Unlike many of my species, I am most fastidious in my choice of meat. My colleagues like to feed downtown, on the homeless and derelict, those who won’t be missed or noticed. I, on the other hand, flinch from biting into an unwashed neck and find a high content of cheap blood alcohol repugnant to my palate. I would no more drink from them than I would have slept with them when I was alive and had an interest in such things. Now that I am dead, or undead to be more accurate, I prefer my meals on the elegant Westside; Beverly Hills matrons, dripping in diamonds, handsome young runners who congregate at Starbucks at all hours, night students on the UCLA campus, hurrying to the parking lot, looking anxiously over their shoulders.
I mix with them all. A little make-up, the right clothes, a conscious effort not to smile, and I can fit right in. I make my donations and attend charity balls. I work out in the evening hours at the Sports Connection. Occasionally I take a university extension course.
I am on my way to dinner, restaurants being excellent places to pick up a meal, when I notice a jogger on San Vicente. Something about the way he holds his head, the curve of his buttocks under his running shorts seems familiar to me. I keep pace with him, slightly to the side to catch a glimpse of his face. In life I was never athletic, my primary form of exercise being a walk from the sofa to the kitchen carrying a good novel. In death however, my cardiovascular endurance has improved, and I jog effortlessly down the grass strip.
He slows and begins a cool-down walk. As he changes direction, I am sure. It is him, a little older, a few gray hairs, but otherwise unchanged from when I knew him in my youth, the Don Juan of our office. I remember him then, exuding charm and sexuality, always interested, always available, with the attention span of a four-year-old. I was drawn then, as a moth to a flame, watching as he captured and broke heart after heart. Such a temptation it had been to see if I could change his nature.
He heads to his car, a black Porsche, this year’s model, of course. He starts the engine. I follow his taillights, jogging into the hills. When he speeds around the turns, I resort to flight; far more efficient. He turns into his driveway, not bothering to put the car into the garage. Going out later, no doubt. I land on the roof and wait for the lights to go on. I locate his bedroom window, hear a shower going.
He has not bothered to close the curtains, and I watch him as he towels the last drops from his body. He is still lean, well muscled with a fine sprinkling of curly dark hair on his chest. I examine the tightly muscled buttocks and thighs. His bedroom is full of mirrors, and I can admire him from all angles as he selects his clothes and dresses, approving himself with a satisfied smile. I imagine him erect, remember the fantasies I once had, and laugh at my former self. I am indifferent to his masculine attributes now but intensely drawn to that throbbing pulse where his shapely neck meets his shoulder. Soon, but not yet, we will finally be intimate in ways he never imagined.
He will have a woman tonight. I know that, as I know him. He locks the door, sets the security pad, and backs his car into the street. I followed him to a restaurant, the newest, most chic, most crowded, this week. He will spend at least five hundred dollars on the meal and drink one or two bottles of expensive wine. He will be there for a while, so I have time to change.
I return in a sleek black dress, cut low on the back, wearing black nylons and high heels. I wear diamonds in my ears, blood red lipstick on my mouth. At the bar, I order a Perrier and scan the room. He is at a corner table with a blonde who hangs on his every word. They are seated side by side. I imagine his hand, hidden under the table, caressing between her thighs. She seems a bit breathless and uninterested in her food. He talks, his eyes avoiding her face while she laughs too loudly.
I follow them out to the parking lot, and they kiss before opening the car doors. A first date. Perhaps a second. His place or hers? I return to the air, following the car. She lives in a condominium with a convenient balcony where I land and blend into the shadows, watching as they enter and she offers the usual refreshments.
He politely declines the coffee but accepts the rest, kneading her breasts with both hands and parting her thighs with his knees. She unzips him with one hand, undoing his belt with the other. My night vision traces his swollen veins, imagines my fangs holding him firmly, sucking his lifeblood from a vessel I normally bypass. His scent drives me wild with hunger. I am not sure I can wait to get him alone. If he does not hurry with this slut and leave, I may have to have them both, but I need not worry. He does not bother with the bedroom but takes her on the floor. I watch the muscles of his jaw clench; the veins stand out firm and irresistible on his neck. My saliva flows.
She invites him to spend the night, but that is too intimate for him. Perhaps on their next date, if he hasn’t lost interest by then. He kisses her, promises to call and replaces his clothes, fastidiously wiping with a tissue before dressing then returns to the Porsche and home. Thank God, I am starving.
I wait for him to undress and slip into a robe. Perhaps the eleven o’clock news before bed? I ring his doorbell.
“May I use your phone to call the Auto Club?” I say. “My car and my phone are dead.”
He opens the door as I knew he would. Damsels in distress are so appealing. He scans my scantily clad body and invites me in.
“Don’t I know you?”
“Perhaps,” I say smiling. “You look familiar.”
I reach out and run a finger down his jaw. He clasps my hand and runs his fingers down my bare arm.
“You’re icy cold,” he says.
“Help me get warmer.”
He reaches for me, pulling me into his embrace. I feel his hands exploring my body. I push the fabric of his robe away from his neck and inhale him; musk, semen, aftershave, warm luscious blood. I am ravenous. Before he realizes he cannot warm the undead, I extrude my fangs and strike.
Bio:
Paula Bernstein is a physician, a scientist, and the author of the medically themed series Hannah Kline Mysteries and the medical thriller Remote Control. Her short stories have been included in the anthologies LAst Resort, Avenging Angelinos, A New York State of Crime, Angel City Beat, Made in L.A., Hollywood Adjacent, and Drop Dead Gorgeous-Daughters of Dread. They have also been published in Short-Story.me, Fiction on the Web, Persimmon Tree, and Calliope. She is an active member of Sisters in Crime and served as President of the Los Angeles Chapter and Chair of the California Crime Writers Conference.
Her website is PaulaBernsteinBooks.com