The Slayer Wears Prada

by Leslie Ormandy

My fangs ran out when she teetered by in her Pradas. No, it wasn’t because she was blond, tiny, big-busted and hot; it was because of the sweet bouquet of her blood. I wished, as I had so often, that I could bottle the blood in reusable containers; it would bring me a pretty penny if I could. Not every vampire appreciated having to hunt his own food. But bottled blood always went sour – curdling in the veins and making the drinker puke his guts out. So much for that new show, “True Blood,” I thought bitterly. It would be nice not to have to mainline it out of humans – maybe stretch out the bliss a few hours instead of finishing up in a few pleasurable, but too short, minutes. But then, I thought as I trailed silently behind her waiting for the right moment, I always had liked to milk sensual sensations for every possible pleasure.

I stood across the street in the deep shadows cast by the stunted trees in the tiny neighborhood park. God knows why anyone would see fit to put a park in the heart of New York’s warehouse district, but it had been one of my favorite stalking locations, off and on, for several decades now. Apart from the trees there were a few forlorn benches, one streetlight, and enough sleeping winos to fill a half-way house. I had not enjoyed my beverage prospects until she teetered by.

She pulled out the ever present cell phone – how I hate those modern constantly present creations -- and paused to key in a message. I could see anger cross her pale and pretty face at whatever message she read. I figured a gal like her must be heading for the after-hours club in the warehouse two blocks over. Usually its patrons arrived in cabs but, whatever, “all the better for me to eat you, my pretty…” I muttered wryly. It was, after all, two in the morning, and the only things moving would be predators or prey; but then prey generally was too stupid to know it was prey – Mickey D’s on the hoof so to speak. That meant I had two blocks to make my move.

I jumped as the quiet voice murmured in my ear, “I wouldn’t if I were you, mate, she’s bait.”

Turning around I recognized my old friend Johnny. He was about the only vampire I knew that could waft silently in on a shadow breeze, suddenly appearing literally out of nowhere. Of course, he denied that was what it did. Didn’t do to be marked out as different in our crowd.

“But smell that blood, Johnny, I protested,” loath to give up its sweetness for the foul stale, alcohol and drug laced blood in the park.

“She’s done for Steve, Dwaine, and Christopher lately, all up by the East-side afterhours,” he murmured seriously. “You want your name added on to her life-list?”

“She has? She doesn’t look like she could swat a fly, let alone slay any of us,” I protested in disbelief, before adding drolly, “I could see her in a cat-fight over a pair of shoes.” But suddenly, I had to admit, the stale blood was sounding much better to me. I didn’t think sweet blood was worth dying (again) for. I wasn’t quite ready to test rather we really were the soulless, damned things human-lore made us out to be. I liked this life just fine, thank you very much.

Now that I knew what she was after, it was much more obvious that she was trouble looking for a place to happen. She had been hugging the shadows instead of the pools of light, meandering by alleys instread of scurrying, and just basically making herself available. But boy oh boy did she smell good.

With an irritated expression she folded her phone and snapped it shut, shoving it into her pocket and -- oh so casually -- looking around.

I folded furthur back into the shadows with Johnny. Then when she slowly moved towards the club we eased just as slowly and carefully back towards the park.

Looking down at the sleeping paper-covered men scattered through the park, I was throughly disgusted. The one closest to me stank of urine, puke, and sweat, and it looked as though he hadn't bathed in like forever. Or even longer than I'd been dead. But then, beggers can't be choosers, I reminded myself, kneeling beside him and pulling his lank, greasy hair back from his neck. As I sank my fangs into his neck I could feel the bugs jumping from his hair onto me, but I couldn't pull back. I needed the blood every bit as much as he needed his booze. I finished quickly, and soon Johnny and I staggered towards my daytime shelter arm-in-arm.

The drink may not have been sweet, but boy a quick mainline of booze and drugs will beat being dead, anytime. I paused a moment and murmured to Johnny, "So, the slayer wears Prada. Who knew?"