The pulsing beat of Cardi B's latest track blasted through the seedy strip joint "Lucky Star". Dancers of every flavor twirling against grimy poles, their polyester bikinis glinting under the dim lights like some perverted beacon. Vulpus reclined in the leather chair, the material giving off a hint of sweat and a faint stench of stale cum. Under his mask, he wrinkled his nose in distaste - this place was an absolute shithole, but beggars can't be choosers when hunger gnaws at your guts.

His eyes roamed over the writhing bodies, searching for suitable prey. The women came in all shapes and sizes - a veritable smorgasbord of flesh on display. But none of them stirred his appetite. He craved a little lamb that was currently out of his reach.

But she had some important business tonight, so here he was, swirling a glass of tequila in his hands, just for show to keep his hands busy. Even despite his extravagant appearance due to the fox helmet with glowing red eyes, he was clearly the best bait for strippers in this shithole, so he just waited until a blonde in a pink bikini with impressive silicone breasts crept up to him.

"Hey, foxy. Don't like the show at all?" she asked playfully, leaning lower so he could get a better look at her tits.

Vulpus reaches out and sits her on his lap, his leather-gloved palm imperiously holding her by the curve of her waist.

"Oh, the show has definitely gotten better now," comes Vulpus' mechanically altered voice, but he's in no hurry to lift his mask, only tilting his face and sniffing at her neck. His nose twitches, and a sound like he's about to vomit comes from his throat. The whore stinks from a mile away of that toilet tank water, "L'Imperatrice". The musty smell of watermelon and rhubarb fills Vulpus' nostrils like the scent of rotten fruit punch and he pushes the blonde off his lap, ignoring her indignant squeak. He hated that perfume.

The stench of the fragrance completely killed his appetite and worsened his already shitty mood. He got up from the sagging armchair, ignoring the blonde's outraged shouts at his back.

Vulpus went outside, the alley by the club was no better - trash and the smell of piss in the air. He took a knife out of his pocket and habitually twirled it in his fingers, planning to return to the mansion when a homemade crucifix fell at his feet.

"And what's this?" he asked sarcastically, raising his head to look at the sudden benefactor of church attributes. In front of him stood a guy, twenty-five years old at most - eyes widened to the size of saucers, a tattered Bible in his hand and a stake.

A stake? Seriously? God, that's not even funny. Vulpus put his fingers to his forehead in his helmet, feeling like this evening was going from "shitty" to "legendarily shitty".

"Really? A stake?" Vulpus drawled. "What's next, garlic? Holy water? Please, do go on, this is just precious."

He took a step forward, relishing the way the would-be hunter scrambled back, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to maintain distance between them.

"You know, I've seen a lot of stupid in my centuries, but this? This takes the cake, Van Helsing. I mean, points for bravery, but negative points for execution. Did you really think you could just waltz up to a vampire and, what, poke me with your little stick until I crumble to dust?"

Too fast for human eyes to track, Vulpus lunged. His hand closed around the boy's throat, slamming him against the grimy alley wall.

"Well, Buffy, the problem is, you've seen my face. Well, my helmet. Same difference. Point is, you know I exist. And we can't have that, now can we?"

In one motion, Vulpus drew his blade across the hunter's throat. Blood sprayed in a hot gush, splattering across the gleaming surface of his helmet. The boy convulsed, hands scrabbling weakly at the gaping wound.

Vulpus let the body drop, watching dispassionately as it twitched and spasmed in its death throes. He wiped his blade clean on the hunter's shirt before tucking it away, and walked out of the alley.

Motherfucker. What an absolute shitshow of a night. Vulpus stormed into the manor. The metallic tang of blood still clung to his helmet, a mocking reminder of the pathetic little hunter he'd dispatched in the alley. Barely even a snack. Hardly worth the effort of slitting his throat.

He headed straight for her room, realizing if he didn't drink his sweet little lamb's blood right now he was gonna fucking massacre someone. He opened her bedroom door without even knocking, drunk on the scent and anticipation of blood.

And there she was, his lamb, sprawled on the bed with a book dangling from her fingertips. Vulpus froze, every muscle tensing as his gaze locked onto the mark on her throat. Some scratches. A bruise that looks like a fucking hickey.

His ears rang.

What. The. Fuck?! That's someone else's mark?! ON MY LAMB?!

A guttural, inhuman growl tore from his throat. In the blink of an eye he was on top of her, ripped open her shirt.

Buttons flew, fabric tearing under his strength, exposing her chest.

"What. The fuck. Is that?" he snarled.

With his left hand, he lifted the mask, revealing his chin and mouth, and with a growl sank his fangs into the tender flesh between her breasts. Hot blood flooded his mouth, divine and sweet like liqueur. He sucked deeply, greedily, one hand groping his lamb's breast, fingers digging into the soft skin.

He tore away, panting, licking the bite mark, leaving a smear of blood and saliva.

"What's that mark on your neck? Tell me, and don't you dare lie.