TITLE: "Spooks" (2/?)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly
FEEDBACK: a food group?
DISTRIBUTION: Nummytreats, my site. Anyone else, just ask first.
DISCLAIMER: Joss, not me. No infringement intended.
NOTE: I didn't expect much for three paragraphs. I'm making it a full story now.
Thanks for the wonderful feedback!
SUMMARY: What was that noise?

The razor blade scratches against his skin, digging sharply into his stubble through
the too-white cream. It comes loudly to my ears, and interrupts my quiet monitoring
of his heartbeat. Steady. The bathroom light glares at me as I hide, so close, in the
security of the darkness outside the door. The lingering steam warms my face and I
dare take a step closer, watching, mesmerized. It's a luxury I often indulge in. The
boy is so bent on the notion that he's worth nothing, he makes it absurdly easy for
me to foster a fixation.

I lean against the door frame, and he stops mid-movement, razor against his throat.
The sudden stench of fear floods my senses and I smirk listlessly, waiting. He doesn't
move. Gulps once, and there's a little blood where the blade slices delicately into the
skin. He doesn't feel it. Me, it drives me wild. I bite the inside of my cheek; gotta stay
still. Just a little while longer.

I can see the short hair rising in the back of his neck. His heartbeat is going at a
hundred miles an hour. His breathing is panicked. I drink it all in, going crazy at the
feeling, at how sharply I can taste him. Then I'm at his throat.

He stares at me, eyes wide and unblinking, his breath coming in short panicked gasps
as my hand crushes his windpipe, not too much, just enough. He can't move, trapped
between the ceramic tiles of the wall and the very immediate threat of a recently
dechipped nasty at his throat. Razor in hand, it doesn't occur to him to use it on me.
Drunk on the ripples of fear coming off him, I lean in, demon doned, until our faces
are a mere inch apart. He's trembling. I forgot how good this felt.

I peer down at his throat, where blood mixes lazily with shaving cream. Mmm. With a
thumb I wipe the pink stuff away in one sure swipe, and there it is, the little nick
amidst dark stubble. A pearl of thick, rich blood lingers there, tantalizing. My hand
tightens its grip under his jaw and he stifles a whimper. Brave boy. Scared witless. I
bend down and put my lips to the tiny wound, tongue darting at the sweet nectar. So
little of it. I can feel the thuds of his struggling heart in his jugular against my palm.
His whole body shakes, expecting fangs to puncture skin at any moment, perhaps
anticipating the release of death. But that would be too easy. No. Not yet.

Instead I trail a sharp tooth against the cut, first just scratching, then slicing as the
skin gives. A fine trail of blood comes pouring, but I catch it with a moist bottom lip
and lick the wound close. There. Marked. For everyone to see. A crescent-shaped
scar gently cupping the healing jab. I peer back up at his eyes, and he stares back,
finding a thread of defiance through the jumbled mess of fright and pain. I hold his
gaze for a moment and the next I'm gone. I don't hunt for three days, his taste rolling
still on my tongue.