Blood was a scent stronger than distance. From miles away, and for days, the scent of the blood of an outsider had dangled in front of his nose, lingered on the wood that surrounded the Satanic Ministry he held so dear. He couldn’t prey on those within the establishment, but he needed to sustain himself. For that reason, his mother had given him a compromise: whatever lurked in the woods, human or animal, was fair game.

After an entire week of waiting, he set out into the woods. The scent was sweet, delicate, and constantly being refreshed. The blood of someone pure; something sweet, kind. It tasted better than that of a sinner, and so he preferred the lost souls.

Finally, after hours and hours passed, he heard the small, quiet footsteps. Nearby. His hearing was that of the vampire—keen, tuned to the sound of vulnerability. He approached the little sounds, belonging to someone heavier than a bunny but weighing no more than a small buck. Slipping through the trees deftly, he ran towards the source, lip curled back to expose fangs. His eyes, pupils shrunk into small black buttons, suddenly widened.

A child.

He couldn’t kill a child. No, not a child with those wide innocent eyes, that lower lip pulled out into the softest of pouts. They were frightened. He was frightening, and unlike the gazes of his adult victims, the look inspired guilt within him. He heard them sniffle, saw those crystalline tears take their place on the delicate precipice of their lower eyelid.

“Shh… sh, little one,” his voice was low, raspy, and he approached them, extending a cloaked arm to their smaller hand. “Come.” Why were they in the woods?