Excerpt: Time's Fool

ABut these nights, more often, they huddled together in inebriated twos and threes, knowing that there was a killer stalking the streets, afraid, unwilling to look strangers in the eye. Still, there would always be two or three, the hardy ones, those who had supped to the point of foolishness, and the few, the truly brave. Shadowing, later, scent and footsteps down a shadowed sidestreet, tonight's, he realised, was one of these. It was a young woman, her step bold and confident, her stumbling only slight. Her sweat was cold on her skin in the nighttime air, and his keen nostrils picked out the scent of her, spilled beer and salt beneath the sharp tang of her anonymous body spray – she had been dancing. He could taste, too, the adrenaline that mingled with the alcohol in her blood, made her hum a little as she walked home, unafraid.

He hesitated. It was always a pity to him to take such ones as these, the bright, the strong, the fearless – the children who did not know how to shiver. They were too fine, surely, to fall prey to his grave bound monstrosity, to his hateful cravings. And yet, their blood, always, was sweeter than that of more craven prey, their hearts beat more vitally against his tongue, their struggles were not born from fear but a defiant desire to live that was, in itself, tantalising. Besides, to their friends, their families, what difference did it make if his victims were plucked from the bold few or the shrinking many? Was there really any morality in refusing to kill one for whom he had some respect? Was it not worse, surely, to prey upon the weak, the hopeless because he, worn for so long by contact with the mass of humanity despised them for having the mentality of prey? Because that, in his cold heart, he knew, was the real distinction that he made. It made no matter. He walked on – teeth beginning to ache themselves longer, ready to rend and tear, fingers curling into claws. His pupils became slitted in flat hazel disks. His stance changed. He knew the city well, soon, he would run his victim to bay, would step out from this parallel street to the one they walked, and then, at least, he would feed.

The woman he hunted jumped back when she saw him, startled but not afraid. She looked at him hard for a moment, then laughed. The laugh was terrible in its familiarity.
“Julian, shit. You scared the life out of me.” Even in the darkness, he could see her long blonde hair, her svelte, muscular frame. He should turn back. A voice in his mind screamed that he should turn back. But with a hunter's impassivity, he knew that it was too late. Silently, he shook his head. She was drunk, she had been drunk when he had taken his leave of Sophia, and had been drinking since then. She did not quite notice the danger. “It is Julian, right?” He took a step towards her, raised one hand. The animal in her snapped alert, she took an asssured step backwards, but slipped on her heels. In a moment, faster than she could see him move, he was beside her, he held her wrist in his iron hard hand. She struggled to pull away, could not. Her eyes showed pain, fierce anger, and blind animal terror. But she did not scream. Briefly, he wondered if it would be kinder to place her in a trance, to steal her life with her bewitched complicity, but he knew that would be a dishonour to her, to her bravery. To her blood. He would not, at least, turn bestial, would spare her friends at least the knowledge of a mangled corpse. This death could be made to appear an accident – he had known the method for so many lifetimes. All it took was a little control.

He let her strike at him, but the blows did not truly hurt, glancing off him. He did not do her the disservice of apologising, of weeping, but merely pressed her into his hard embrace and pierced her veins with his long, sharp teeth.