Free BiteMarks by Drew Cross Page B

shush-shush as she moves. Economical enough to show off the frilly stockings that she is wearing and, if she is not careful, short enough to display the absence of any other underwear.
    She stops when they reach the familiar corner that meets Woodborough Road, talking to a sharp faced woman with bad teeth and bad skin who is supposed to watch him when his mother is 'busy'.
    A car stops within minutes, his mother lifting her skirt to show the man what's on offer. There is a brief exchange of insincerities, both sounding bored of the charade, then she is gone forever.
    The memory does not anger the fanged man. It has lost the power to do so with that strange obsessive repetition which dilutes all emotional impact. The past is a stranger's photo album for him, a thing of curiosity but without context or meaning. In the present he is almost feverish now, a shark amongst baitfish in a confined tank.
    Having decided on a particular girl, a car had pulled up before he'd reached her and she'd been whisked away, the resonance wasn't lost on him. His second potential target had appeared to be alone in the shadows, until the light from a passing motorbike had caught the gleam of gold on the doorstep behind her, bringing two motionless and muscular young black men into view.
    There had been nights like this before. Nights when the hunt had been doomed to frustration and he'd retreated, striving for some sort of solace through unsatisfactory masturbation until dawn bled in over the window-sill, tired of the obscene spectacle.
    There. The girl is perfect; tall, slim, mocha-skinned and wearing a short tight skirt. The skirt complements her skin tone, a soft purple material that swirls, if pressed you might call the shade lavender.
    “ Hi there honey, I'm Cristal, memorable like the champagne.”
    “ I bet you are. I'll bet you even taste memorable don't you, sweetheart?”
    The connotation lost for now.
    “ You bet I do, babes. You got a car or shall we slip round here out of view?” She gestures to a short alleyway behind her.
    “ I think it'll have to be your place this time, you lead on.”
    She takes a short stroll up the alley, far enough back to be hidden from the road, but close enough to be able to see what they're doing in the unreal light from the lamp-post. “Well here we are honey, now we're alone what would you like to do?” She smiles revealing teeth that are surprisingly white and even.
    “ You have a beautiful smile, Cristal. Would you like to see mine?”
    “ Sure.”
    The grimace that follows belongs to an animal and stays in her mind forever. It is as far removed from what she recognizes as a smile as night is from day. It is not as easy to tear through human flesh with your teeth as you might imagine, even with special implants like the fanged man's. The muscles of the human jaw are not designed to provide the necessary bite pressure to bring down living prey. It takes inhuman strength and an absent heart to tear and gouge the face of a fighting, pleading, screaming person into unrecognizable pulp. 
    For him, though, this is ecstasy. The screams rising from the initial tone of shocked surprise, through the hysteria of agony, then back down to guttural animal squeaks and dull moans, are merely an interesting composition of notes – an organic orchestral arrangement.
    The life giving blood fills his mouth with a pop of teeth through skin and muscle, splashing over his face, running down over his chin and between his sharp fingers, already sticky as it starts to clot between the digits. It tastes like life, it gives life, it is life.
    She stops moving, dead or playing possum; he couldn't care less which, bloodlust sated for now anyway.
    Her open eyes are full of blood, looking at him accusingly.
    “ You want to know why? Because I don't like lavender.”
    Finally he leaves. Few people here even take a second glance at the pale, blood-spattered monster walking past them and melting away into the dark folds of the