He drew the back of his hand across his mouth, glancing idly at the results. The contrast of the blood against his pale, thin, fingers was elegant, if short-lived. His flesh was already growing ruddy, and he could feel the warmth from the blood in his belly flowing outwards towards his limbs. He had eaten well. The compulsion had been strong, this time. The hunger had gnawed at him . Even now, the blood on his fingers smelled delicious, iron mingled with salt, promising warmth and life and a full belly. With a single sharp gesture he flicked the blood from his fingers, watching it spatter against the brick wall, dark under the sodium glow of the streetlamp. It was then that the woman tumbled into him.

He found himself sprawled on the asphalt, his dignity evaporating. The woman was already sitting up, rubbing one leather-clad elbow. She was young, very young, and the biker jacket added a touch of hardness that clashed with her childishly round face. He supposed that the jacket was an attempt at maturity, but the maidenly white dress she wore under it rather diminished the effect.

"Gosh, buddy, I'm sorry," the girl said, running a hand through her hair, a sea of dark curls.

He was on his feet by now, the smoothness of his gesture leaving the young woman blinking in confusion. He adjusted the ruffles of his cravat, and brushed off his velvet sleeves.

"No harm done," he said. He tasted the air as he spoke. An intoxicating mixture of red wine and candy rolled off the girl. If he had not fed, the scent would have attracted him, like a moth to a flame, but his belly was full, and warmth was coursing through his veins. Besides, she was so terribly young.

The woman looked him up and down. She must have realised his clothing was unusual, because she said, "I think maybe I had too much to drink.'

He shrugged, and gestured towards the main street, where warm pools of bright light beckoned. He was very nearly successful – she very nearly turned to go. But instead, she caught sight of the slinking, amphibian reflection of orange lamplight on dark blood.

"My God," she exclaimed, clapping a plump hand over her mouth.

He looked over his shoulder. He smiled, just enough that the points on his teeth caught the light, gleaming. "I can't imagine that God had much to do with it."

The woman stumbled backwards, her eyes growing wide. "Did you – you couldn't have – is that guy dead?"

He stepped towards her, smiling, looking into her eyes. A woman this young should be easy to calm, easy to direct. "I assure you that he was an extremely -" he paused, searching for the right, distasteful word, "an extremely unpleasant person. Things are better this way"

"Leave me alone!" she exclaimed, her fingers scrabbling at her neckline.

Her fear excited him. He could feel his heart pounding against the walls of his chest, and he tested one fang with the tip of his tongue. Her scent, wine and chocolate, rolled over him like a wave. He was tempted, tempted so badly his stomach ached with yearning, but he fought it down. He had promised himself long ago never to allow the compulsion to drive him. He supposed that the vow was an attempt to save his soul – a misguided, futile attempt, given what he was. Just the same, he rarely fed, and he killed even more rarely. And he was full.

"I know what you are!" The girl's fingers had found their goal beneath the collar of her dress. Her fingers clutched a tiny golden crucifix. She held it out as far as the chain would allow.

He nearly laughed, and raised just one finely arched eyebrow. "That only works if you believe, my dear."

"Who says I don't?" she spat out.

He looked directly into her eyes, radiating good wishes, kindness, warmth. "Well, I will not argue the point. Perhaps you are right about that. But you are mistaken about what I am. About what you saw."

Nervously, she glanced over his shoulder. "I can still see it!"

Gritting his teeth, he tried again. He seemed almost to grow in size, looming over her. "You are mistaken."

The woman shrank back against the brick wall, and reached into her handbag. She pulled out a coin purse.

"I'm not mugging you," he said, his words uncertain, hesitant. "I do not intend to harm you."

"Like Hell you don't!" She exclaimed. Her hands moved like lightening, tearing open the coin purse and tipping the coins onto the asphalt. A cascade of small circles glistened in the lamplight, clattering as they landed. At the same time, the girl turned and ran, back towards the main street, with its pools of coloured light and its promise of people and safety.

He knew he had to follow her. She knew what he was. She knew what he had done. She had to be convinced that she was in error, or she had to be eliminated. He knew this. But the coins! So many small, round objects. He tried to pull his eyes away from the coins, to follow the girl's flight, but it proved impossible. His body would not obey the commands of his mind. Disgust roiling in the pit of his stomach, he fell to his knees, and gave in to his desire. He picked up a small, silver coin, and then another.

"One," he said. "Two."

There were eighty-seven coins. By the time he had counted them all, the young woman was long gone, her scent fading on the wind. As he got to his feet, the warm glow from his feeding already starting to dissipate, he sighed. The girl was out there, somewhere among the lights and people, and she knew. For him, the city was no longer safe.