I'm not a very nice person. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that I am.

But don't imagine me the worst of creatures, either. No. There are many far worse than I am, the kind who take the stories seriously, the kind who believe their own press, the kind who revel in the inflicting of pain and the taking of life—the kind for whom killing is more than even a sport. For such people, predation is the nature of what we are, the essence of the true us.

On that issue, I beg to differ.

But neither will I beat around the bush and draw out this tale of what I am. You see, ordinarily this is the part of the story where I, the storyteller, am supposed to play coy, to pretend, however briefly, that I am something other than what I am—all to build tension in order to seduce the reader.

I don't need to do that. Because I don't give three fucks what people think of me. I'm a drinker of blood, and I live the life I choose.

Now that that little morsel is out of the way, I can tell you my tale.

***

I came to Miami to kill a man. For my quarry indeed was a man—although a normal citizen, one such as yourself, might not see him as such. After all, you folks are no more immune to the incessant patter of propaganda than anyone. You've had well over a century of bad literature and a few decades of shitty movies telling you one type of nonsense or another. It's all about the press. Everyone falls for it.

The person I intended to exterminate was a colleague of a fellow who once did me a great wrong, a man who took something of inestimable value from me, and I'd spent the better part of 30 years doing all in my humble ability to heap wanton misery on that wretched sonofabitch. I did so by taking things from him, things that he valued. The soon-to-be-dead colleague was just one of those. The most recent, but most assuredly not the last.

I'm generally a sedate and tolerant individual, you see, but there are some slights even I will not abide. And, alas, once my ire is stoked, there is no quenching it. This outsized need to settle accounts is a shortcoming in my character for which I feel a certain amount of shame—indeed, I do—but not so much shame that I'm willing to mend my ways over it.

Back to the matter at hand.

It took me about three days nosing about to discern that Marion—the man I intended to inter—spent most of his free time at a nightclub called Ramses. My enquiry shouldn't have taken so long. The three-story venue, situated just off Washington on South Beach, was quite the tony establishment, full of the brightest and most beautiful of folk. Marion and his ilk always have been suckers for such baubles, the glamour and the glitz of the high society of the age.

What's more, Marion and his crowd all were laughably nocturnal in their habits. Such predictability made the set-up rather easy. And the execution? There aren't many of our kind, and most of us are old enough to know better. But there are certain weaknesses that come with being an apex-predator, especially one who has lived an abnormally long life: a person simply gets lazy and careless. And it was Marion's inattentiveness upon which I depended.

It wasn't that this chap was a friend of mine, but, even in such a cliquish community as ours, one gets to know one's fellows. It was no secret that Marion fancied himself a connoisseur. But who doesn't, amiright? Show me someone's vanities, and I will show you that person's weak spot.

So when I spotted my quarry and his coterie of lackeys at the club in question, I immediately withdrew. Marion knew me by sight, as no doubt did several of the others. I certainly didn't want him to catch wind of me. Nor did I wish to trigger any alarms. A fellow like Marion was seldom alone, and there always was some sort of security about—what a miserable, cloistered way to live.

I spent several days, at a safe distance, watching, waiting, and planning, charting the comings and goings of Marion and his hangers-on. Patience was always my strong suit.

I had his quarry pegged the first night, a slim young twenty-something with long legs, perfect curves, and a beautifully manufactured frontend. Her face was angelic, with features that were almost girlish in their innocence.

If I wasn't mistaken, Marion was in the first few nights of his pathetic song and dance. Ah, the predictability, and ... well, the sadness of the whole thing. A connoisseur and a romantic, that's how men like Marion saw themselves, carefully and lovingly seducing the object of their longing—before draining them entirely.

Childhood for me was so long ago that I scarcely can remember it, but even I learned that most basic of good manners: don't play with your food.

But the sad spectacle of Marion and his chums would work to my advantage. The pageantry of his pseudo courtship was long and deliberate. As long as he was on the hunt, the man would not relent. If previous experience was any indication, he would keep sniffing around the leggy blonde for another few days, leading her on with his pretentious bullshit, before finally sealing the deal.

Until then, Marion would make great play at being chaste, aloof, and exotic, even unattainable, a Continental gentleman, seething fires of manly passion scarcely veiled beneath a cultured façade, and each night he would bid his young miss adieu at a reasonable and gentlemanly hour.

On the third night of my surveillance, I hopped on my aged Kawasaki and followed the minx home.

For the most fleeting of moments, it entered my mind to drain the lass and leave her superb carcass somewhere for Marion to find. But that wouldn't do. She was my stalking horse, my key to getting close to the man while his guard was down—otherwise, why not just follow Marion home? What's more, her sudden demise in such a graphic fashion would only telegraph my presence to my true prey. In the end, I didn't want Marion frightened. I wanted him dead.

And, of course, I do have a conscience of sorts. Not much of one, I'll grant. But it is buried in there somewhere, down deep. And the young lady in question, who I came to find went by the adorable handle Fallon, seemed nice and appeared genuinely innocent. Well, as innocent as any young woman of wealth, privilege, and heart-stopping good looks could be. No, there was no reason to drag the kid into my sordid plan any more than was necessary. On the contrary, I was rescuing her from a vile and grisly end.

It's nice sometimes to be the good guy, even if just by accident.

Young Fallon was staying at the Blanding, a Five Star hotel right off the water in Mid-Beach, and it being the off-season I was able to get a room there that same night. I had no intention of lodging there fulltime—I'd already taken a room a few miles up the beach—but security at the Blanding was tight, and having a room key gave me an excuse to move in and around the place.

My first move was to sit back and observe. The chance existed, no matter how slim, that Marion had set one of his flunkies to watch the girl. The likelihood of anyone showing up who knew me by sight was even more faint, but always be careful, always blend in. It long ago had become a watchword for me.

When first light dawned, I felt it safe to let down my guard a skosh. There might be lackeys, but Marion would never be caught dead going about in daylight. I felt otherwise and was enough at ease on this balmy morning to step down the street a few blocks and pick up a thing or two, some changes of clothes and what not, to give my pretend room a lived-in feel for the benefit of the housekeeping staff. Always act normal, no matter how inconvenient it might be at times.

After a shower and a change of clothes, I moseyed down to where the hotel veranda merged with a series of bars and restaurants near the beach. It was pleasant and afforded an easy view of the comings and goings around the hotel. I found a place and ordered a drink. Miami, heavens smile upon you. One of the rare places in the world where a person ordering a stiff drink in the early morn raised not a single eyebrow.

I'd grabbed a book on my shopping excursion, a thriller by someone of whom I'd never heard, and I spent the next few hours relaxing, enjoying the sun, and keeping half an eye on my surroundings. I still hadn't formulated a precise plan on how I'd exploit young Fallon. Though I did have a few ideas. It was a delightful day, one spent in leisure and quiet contemplation as I pondered, plotted, and planned. There is no reason one shouldn't relish one's revenge.

That area of the beach and surrounding promenade was remarkably busy. It was interesting, if only somewhat distracting. I'm proud to boast that I do not look at people and think of food, at least not most people and never as a first thought. As shocking as you might find the notion, I like people by and large, and under normal circumstances, I'm more than somewhat gregarious. These last years had been something of an aberration for me, inasmuch as my thoughts had stabbed toward discord far more often than they had toward conviviality.

It was for that very reason I tried not to take notice of a woman who took a seat two tables down from me in the early afternoon. The lass, who I guessed to be a few years shy of 40, had a nice way about her, that kind of effortless beauty that left me suspecting she looked that good right after rolling out of bed in the morning. Even someone like the gorgeous Fallon, who often had been on my mind in recent days (for different reasons), couldn't compare to this woman's physical charms.

And yet ... there was something about the newcomer's allure on which I couldn't quite put my finger. What was it about her exactly? The long dark tresses? The flawless skin? The piercing gray eyes? In the normal course of events, I'm almost always drawn to men. But there are times .... No. I needed to stay focused. It half occurred to me, after a moment's reflection, that the woman's aggressive appeal was at least in part a trick my own hunger was playing on me. I get that way sometimes.

So great was my effort to avoid making eye contact, and to keep pretending to read the book on the table in front of me, that I in fact did find myself reading the book on the table in front of me. It took nearly half an hour to comport myself, but I discovered the paperback really wasn't that bad. The story was something about spies and chemical weapons, neither of which I knew a single fig about. But it was entertaining and lively.

I'd had glimpses of Fallon throughout the day, first that morning on her way to the hotel gym, afterward down on the beach, and later, just before noon, returning to the hotel with an armful of shopping bags. The lass didn't appear to be traveling with anyone, which seemed strange to me. No doubt that isolation was in part what had attracted the attentions of Marion and his crowd. From the looks of it, she was preparing for another night on the town. At the same place? This would be four nights in a row at Ramses. Well, four that I knew of ....

Perhaps she needed a friend? A confidant with whom to share her secrets and her adventures? Maybe to gossip with about boys?

"Can I sketch you?" The voice came totally from the blue and gave me a faint start. I seldom was taken unawares. It was the grey-eyed beauty from two tables down.

Well, fuck it. Why not live a little?

"You don't need my permission," I said in my kindliest of tones.

She turned fully to face me, a lovely smile on her face. "I didn't want you to think I was staring. You have the most stunning profile."

"Well in that case, sketch all you like. And you needn't sit so far away. Come join me."

"I don't want to intrude."

"Don't be silly," said I. "I won't bite. I promise."

It took her but a moment to close the distance, and soon she was in the seat beside me scribbling away on a small sketch pad, looking at me intently all the while.

"Can I get you anything?" I asked.

"No, just that face. You don't need to do a thing."

"Just sit?"

"Mmhmm."

We chatted for some time about nothing in particular. It ends up she was staying at a hotel a block over and was in town for some sort of medical convention. I tried not to stare and tried not to flirt, but not very hard.

"I could have sworn you were native American," she said in response to my telling her my heritage was a dodgy mix of European, Syrian, and Turkish. How to explain that my paternal grandfather was known in the family merely as "the Frank"?

But who was I kidding? I told people the truth all of the time. It wasn't like anyone ever would believe me. When my new friend, who went by the lovely name Freya-Lynn, asked about my skin regimen, I told her the truth.

"No special tricks," I said. "I'm a vampire."