He was a very old vampire, weary of living, weary of coming alive only in the darkness of the night.
For three hundred years he had wandered the unending road of his life alone, his existence maintained at the expense of unwary mortals, until the advent of blood banks made it possible to satisfy his unholy hunger without preying on the lives of the innocent and unsuspecting.
And yet there were times, as now, when the need to savor blood taken from a living, breathing soul was overwhelming. To feel his fangs sink into human flesh, to feel the warm rush of fresh blood flowing over his tongue. It was a high like no other; a craving he fought against, but didn't always win.
Tonight, he stood in the dim shadows outside the Ahmanson, watching groups of happy, well-dressed people exit the theater. He listened to snatches of their conversation as they discussed the play. He had seen the show numerous times; perhaps, he thought wryly, because he could so easily sympathize with the plight of the Phantom of the Opera. Like Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's tragic hero, he, too, was forced to live in the shadows, cursed to shun the light and warmth of the sun, unable to reveal his true identity.
And so he lurked on the outskirts of mortality, breathing in the fragrance of the warm-blooded creatures who passed him by. They hurried along, laughing and talking, blissfully unaware that a monster was watching. It took no effort at all to drink in the myriad smells of their humanity - a blend of perfume and sweat, shampoo and toothpaste, face powder and deodorant. He sensed their happiness, their sorrows, their deepest fears.
He waited until the crowds had thinned, and then he began to follow one of the numerous street beggars who had been hustling the theater patrons for money and cigarettes. There were hundreds of homeless men roaming the dark streets of the City of Angels. On any given night, you could find a dozen or more panhandlers lingering outside the Ahmanson, hoping to score a few dollars that would enable them to buy a bottle of cheap booze and a few hours of forgetfulness. If only he could drown his own past in a pint of whiskey.
Silent as a shadow, he ghosted up behind his prey.
After tonight, there would be one less beggar haunting Hope Street.