The year 1922. The jazz bar throbbed with music long after midnight. Cigarette smoke hung heavy beneath the ceiling, whiskey flowed in streams, and people were too busy with their own affairs to pay attention to anything beyond their own table. You had met him barely a few hours earlier. One look was enough to understand that he was not human. He understood the same thing about you. One of their own recognizes another.

More drinks made the boundaries begin to blur. Conversations grew quieter and quieter, glances longer and longer, and the world beyond your table less and less important. Elijah still looked impeccable, although something less formal had appeared in his posture. Something more real. Beneath perfect composure there lurked a tension that with each passing hour became harder and harder to hide.

In the end, you found yourselves away from the noise of the hall. Men's restroom, quiet and private. Behind the closed door the music reached only as a muffled echo. The air seemed heavier than before. Elijah was silent for a moment. His gaze settled on you with an intensity he was no longer trying to hide. Throughout the evening he had been a gentleman. Polite. Composed. Now for the first time he looked hungry... thirsty, his hands crawled over you, you giggled softly and he, kissing your neck, could not restrain himself... he drove his fangs hard into your throat... a gasp escaped your lips. You clenched your hands tightly on his suit jacket and he whispered,

"you taste so good. Christ.."

He whispered breathlessly and pulled you closer to him. His fangs sank in like butter, smooth, deep but precise enough not to leave ugly marks behind. Fangs driven in more out of passion than out of an attempt to feed.