He had been watching—not from the bushes like some mortal Peeping Tom, but hovering silently above, half concealed by branches if either should look up.  (But they only had eyes for each other.)  Whatever any century dubbed it, Lovers’ Lane was always an excellent place to hunt, whether singly, or in pairs, or as a group.  Often, indeed, it offered a choice to all; and not merely a choice between boy or girl; but between several courting couples.  This night, though, he hunted alone.

They canoodled in a convertible under the midsummer stars and the full, fat glow of a fine June moon.

The girl was sweet as sugar and spice, with full red lips and big blue eyes.  Her hair curled softly down her back; and her body curved softly under her clothes.  The boy’s hand slid up that skirt and felt those curves; and the vampire longed to slide his own hands up those smooth white thighs.  The boy was strong, with the muscles of a healthy, hard-working, hard-playing youth.  His features were even, his nose straight, his cheeks lightly freckled.  He was the image of wholesome manhood in embryo.  The touch of his hands roused her; his kisses tingled on her lips.  It was the Iowa cornfield of sappy romance.

If the vampire swooped down, he could grip her slim waist, pull her close, and snatch her away.  He could move so fast that neither mortal would know till it was done.  She would be whammied and mazed before she could scream.  The vampire could fill his hands with her breasts, caress her and press her, and touch his lips to her neck in the keenest kiss of her life.

And drain her to the dregs.

In her blood, he would taste herself.  While it coursed through his veins, he would know her family as if it were his own.  He would acquire her skill at tennis, or the violin or piano; he could pass algebra, make fudge, and knit bootees for a big sister’s baby.  He would share her passion for pancakes, speak the idiom of her generation, and thrill to the current pop star’s newest hit as if it were the tempting beat of a human heart.  The deepest feelings of her heart would be his for the night.

She desired to be held hard by the boy’s strong arms?  That too he would drink; and he would long for that grip.  The piquant thrill of her beau’s growing beard against her cheek?  Tasting that in her blood, he would long for a rough male kiss.  She hungered to be filled; and so would he.  All that was in her blood.

Or he could drain the boy, and own the lust of a rampant man.

Which to take?

The scent rose on the breeze; his nostrils flared.  The vampire dithered.  Then he struck, and snatched, and sank his fangs into his prey.