He set the empty glass down, and my eyes were glued to it, watching the residue blood slip down the sides of the glass. No way I wanted to look at his face… his fangs. I recalled how he had drunk from his women donors. He approached them from behind—the actual standard way a vampire feeds, not the way they do it in the movies. His fangs were so large I imagined it was like being bitten by a lion. But they were pointy at the ends, reminding me of those pointed Gothic fences you see around turn-of-the century houses. I knew how it felt to be bitten by him, now that I thought about it. He had bitten me—nicked me, actually—the first time when he tried to make me his paramour.
“So, tell me,” his voice startled me out of my thoughts, “since I got the news second hand, you ran out in the middle
