Famished
by Amber Averay
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He’d watched her for so long that her routine was burned into his mind. She was a being of the night, a woman who epitomised nyctophilia. She came alive in the moonlight. The stars reflected in her glittering eyes as if entire galaxies existed within her gaze, and her alabaster skin looked as marble but must be as soft and silken as moonbeams. Her dark hair was sensationally thick, and long, a cascade of obsidian pouring to the small of her back, and her eyes were the dark purple of the sky just after sunset. Everything about her screamed night, and shadows, and perfection.
Even her very name was like a fine wine on his tongue every time he spoke it: Ayla. Meaning: moonlight.
Beneath her milky pale flesh her veins were delicate blue tracings, tantalising threads filled with nectar so magnificent it sang to him a siren’s song of temptation and suggestion. Her bone structure was delicate, and close to the surface so slender was her frame and transparent her skin.
He had found her by accident, when she’d been driven home in the earliest hours of the morning by some dull-witted man who was so far beneath her he was less than the muck on the sole of her shoe. She had smelled of rich wine, subtle floral perfume, and that mouth-watering scent of her blood was intoxicating.
The man had pawed at her, kissed her, tried to convince her to let him in. She charmingly refused, and he left, disgruntled, frustrated, agitated, vowing under his breath he would have her, willing or no, before the end of the week.
That certainly wasn’t going to happen! The exsanguinated body was found the next day floating in the harbour. She was upset, obviously, but like a true being of the dark she had a depth of calm and an endless reserve of resilience upon which to draw.
And every time he thought of her he starved. No matter how often he fed, or how much he consumed, he was utterly famished. Nothing sated him – nothing would.
Nothing but her.
He watched, and waited, and learned – until one night he approached her while she was outdoors, drifting with mesmerising fluidity through the moonlight spilling across the land. If his mouth was capable of watering, it would do so. His body yearned for her, his tongue tingled with the anticipation of her blood streaming over it; the blood that called to him so enticingly.
He emerged from the shadows, his eyes dark save for a pinprick of light in the centre, his skin as pale and milky as her own. Long legs carried him faster than was humanly possible to where she swayed and whirled, as if the night itself played a tune to which she couldn’t but submit.
His body ached. His need was a painful emptiness that stabbed at him like sunlight corrupting his flesh.
Before he could touch her, Ayla turned, a beatific smile emphasising her high cheekbones and aquiline nose. ‘I knew you were there,’ she said, and had he breath it would have caught in his throat. She had a singsong voice, so feminine and deliciously arousing. ‘I have been wondering when you would come to me.’ She sashayed closer, filling his head with her scent, and her smile was alluring and inviting and seductive. She paused to stand before him, brushing her hair over her shoulder, baring her throat to him. Her pulse leapt beneath the fragile casing of her skin. ‘I am ready,’ she breathed, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. ‘I will be like you. With you. One of you.’
Her submission made him smile, his sharp eye teeth glinting in the silver light. He leaned close, inhaling the aroma of her hair, her skin, her blood, and she trembled as he ran the tip of his tongue over the base of her throat. ‘I don’t do that,’ he growled, and suddenly she was caged within his viselike arms, his teeth sinking into her flesh. That magnificent bouquet of her blood poured into his mouth, and he drank deeply while she wriggled and fought. He felt not one punch she slung at him, not a single kick she launched landed.
She was delicious, as he knew she would be! He drank, until her body twitched and juddered, and when she was drained he gently lay her down upon the grass where only the moonlight bathed her.
She was utterly perfect. One like her only came about every hundred years.
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