Free Call of Shadows: A Fearless Series Short Story (The Fearless Book 0) by Terry Maggert Page B

would slow as the disappointment of the place lulled them into a contemplative crouch, or a shuffling walk back to the empty car. Defeat, so visible from any distance, was playing about their silhouette, and curving their backs with the crushing reality that, at least for another night, they would remain anonymous, free from notoriety, and the victim of yet another lie.
    They never hear her feet. No matter where, she was silent, streaking across the space between her hiding place and their backs, or sides, or shocked faces. In an instant she was wrapped around them, pallid legs grapevined around their bodies as they jerked upright in terror while she worried at their fluttering defenses. It was never long before they would collapse from fear and exertion, and her weight, folding obediently, while being rolled and shaken in her ecstasy. Her feet, her hands, and her ropy arms all rhythmically grinding them into her grasp, constricting their bodies as a rictus of gore spread in a joyous, moist slash across her petite features.
    Leaning against a pine bole I see the comforting reflection of her greasy eyes, brightening now as the car tires crunch to a halt and a single figure walks, flashlight in hand, to the cross. I know she watches him—a lanky boy, really-- from the shadows, her languid pose gone as she contracts into a malevolent weapon, still and venomous. I recall one frosty night where I snapped her bones like wind chimes in my lust, rutting viciously into her while one arm flopped wildly against her pale shoulder. I feel the memory of dew-slicked grasses in the highway median where I pinned her under a silvered moon, and drove her face into a stone with my passion, blood spooling from her broken nose as she cooed lovingly to me between heated gasps. How many times have I raced to the wet sucking noises that would be so lewd were it not for the coppery spray of blood in the air as she fed?  I feel myself stiffen in anticipation. I think of her smooth yield even as she hisses in defiance.
    As the boy walks forward, I see her tense, just as I remove my belt and prepare for our coupling. Delicious uncertainty floods my nerves in an electric jolt; never am I more alive than in the moment of wonder edging towards the first gouts of blood. Not every youth who approaches our little call to the shadows is completely detached from their hindbrain. Over the years, several have turned and whirled as the crescendo of elemental fear caused their terrified flight. We have been left painfully unsatisfied in the dust of some forgotten roadway, hungry due to that rare reconnection between the civilized mind and eons of instinct. I watch carefully, my lips moistened again and again by a nervous tongue. Finally, the teen walks forward for the last time, taking a fortifying swig from an unseen bottle. My need grows acute, and I can smell the musk of her readiness in the air. In seconds, our union will begin. Like me, she is a monster, merely of a different strain. I am moving fast now, leaving no whispers in the grasses as she springs at the silhouetted boy frowning in confusion at the cross. I cannot help myself. I love her. I feed her, she feeds me, and we take as we give, in blood, and flesh, and the perfect submission of her moist depth under my hips. As she leaps at the boy, I think: She is very hungry tonight, and so am I.