crows loose end

It’s surprising how invisible a tall, powerful-looking man can be when he is perfectly at ease. You sit in the back of a car in a nighttime carpark, waiting for its owner to come and help tie up a loose end.

Waiting could be boring. The glow of a mobile would make you conspicuous and you’re not the kind to sit still. So you stretch your astral legs, stalking the nearby streets in as great a degree of clarity as you can manage. So you spot her a couple of streets away.

She’s dressed in her civvies. Army-green skirt over thick tights, a black long-sleeved top, all under mid-length black coat. You wonder if she will throw it in the back seat and so discover the familiar man sitting in the back of her car, but decide you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

Soon she rounds the corner. You focus on being unobtrusive, allowing your presence to fuzz slightly at the edges. She might spot you anyway, but again, you’ll cross that bridge when you get there. She’s intuitive, but she’s still only human.

You needn’t have worried. The suspension shifts as she climbs into the car. A BMW of some description. Are you a car man? Maybe you’d know the model at a glance. The coat finds its way to the passenger seat, so you’re safe for now. Her eyes flicker up to check the rear-view mirror. The shadows hide you.

She pulls off.

The city slips by. It’s a smooth ride. Central high street diminishes via old-looking buildings housing legal and accounting firms to suburban overpasses, and finally the countryside. Radio 4 keeps you both company, the news and a shipping forecast and The Archers.

She’s almost home. The traffic is light out here. When she stops at a set of lights you hear the hand brake ratchet into place and make your move.

Her reflexes are good but she is smaller than you. When you lean between the front seats she gasps convulsively but swings an elbow. You accept the poorly angled blow across your chest and clamp that arm where it landed.

“Get off me im— who the fuck are— Crow?!” That last word spoken with horror. Workmanlike, you hit the button to unfasten her seatbelt then draw her captive arm towards the passenger seat. She struggles with all her power but in her compromised position she goes where you want. Strength built from hard work and the bodies of countless prey doesn’t hurt, either. “Please, no, I’ll do anything—”

“If it’s any consolation, Officer Hurst, you were right.” She bucks and fights against your hold but ends up leant across both front seats. You pin her down. “Even when there was no good reason to suspect me, you got a feeling, didn’t you?”

She gets a feeling now. Your lips kiss her pulse and then your fangs smoothly drill down into it.

Blood and air pour from her: a gush of red contained and directed down your throat by diastolic pressure alone, and a scream. In the cab of the car she throws all her energy into the scream, and it reverberates. You let it. No one can hear. It makes you feel feral. You bite deeper and guzzle at the fountain that bursts from her throat.

Her scream breaks with her voice as more of her pours from the front seat to the back, leaving her shaking body and entering a tight little chamber locked behind sinewy abs. You release the bite while she’s still breathing to catch your own breath.

Her blood fills your stomach, pushing your gut out into your clothes. It brings with it a delightful heartburn sensation: partly brute stretch, partly due to the latent ability you also pulled from her with every swallow.

“You know, I thought you were a practitioner at first, Officer Hurst,” you say, licking her blood from your lips. She shivers and bleeds, promoting you to lick up a faltering river of crimson. “Your instincts were too uncanny. But you taste like a natural. You would have been powerful had you sought out knowledge.” She whimpers, perhaps not comprehending. You lick your lips again and lower your head. “Oh well. My gain. Goodbye, Officer Hurst.”

She lives far longer than she should into the draining, like her soul knows to cling to the flesh. She is like a rabbit, darting away at incredible speed, changing direction unpredictably. But as you drink her heart’s blood, is not like you’re even a wolf: you are as inevitable as cruel winter. You drink and drink and when there is nothing left to drink you ease her fighting soul down your gore-slick throat. It tingles inside you in a way that makes you breathless, makes you hard.

There are two things that are difficult to do in a car: have sex and drag someone from their seat. You technically try both simultaneously, even if it’s only sex with yourself. As the frenzy sets in you close your fanged mouth around her unseeing head and start chugging her down like the world’s most inconvenient noodle. Gripped by the sensory overload of her supple body entering yours and the potent spirit fraying and screaming within, you bring yourself to a shuddering orgasm that nearly chokes you on her hips. You paint the gearstick with your cum and finish the job of devouring the poor police officer. It’s a good thing she was already dead: her joints crack and displace as your body squeezes her awkwardly into place.

Once she is gone and her unshod tights have slipped between your still-bloody lips, you lie back and stare at the fabric of the car roof. You’re so fat you might not be able to get out of the car door and there’s DNA everywhere. You have solved one problem, you reflect; but your greed has just given you a bunch more.

~Hic-gwooOOaAaucklllp~