Carpathian 03 - Dark Gold

the alley, he sent forth a call. He didn't need to do so. The moment the men spotted him, they would have attempted to attack him. But this way would be calmer. Although the predator in him would welcome a battle, brief as it would be, he didn't have the time to indulge his nature just now. In any case, having come so close to the edge of madness and transformation to vampire by waiting so many centuries for his mate, and so soon after the killing battle with Paul Yohenstria, he would not allow himself to explode into violence. He had a purpose now, a reason for existing, and he would not allow his predatory nature to overcome his intelligence and will.
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    One of the trio had just lit a cigarette, its pungent aroma wafting along the street, but abruptly he turned and began to shuffle out of the alley. The other two followed him, one cleaning his greasy fingernails with the point of a pocketknife. Their eyes were slightly glazed, as if they were drugged. Aidan frowned, unhappy that the prey was using narcotics, but blood was blood, and the drugs wouldn't affect him.

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    "It is cold out on the street," Aidan said softly, slipping an arm around the smoker's shoulders.
    He led the men back into the darkened alley, away from prying eyes, and bent his head to drink.
    The other two waited like cattle, pushing close to him for their turn. Their unwashed bodies and rather useless minds sickened him, but he had to feed. Sometimes he wondered why humans like these were allowed to exist. They seemed little different from those of his race who had chosen to forfeit their souls and turn vampire, preying on those less powerful than themselves. Why didn't someone stop these humans? Why had God created them? Why had he given the gift of breath to them, knowing they would fail to live a life of honor and integrity? Carpathian males endured for hundreds—some of them thousands—of years before they sought the dawn and self-destruction or made the decision to turn renegade and lose their souls for all time. Yet some human males could not endure even beyond their teen years.
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    Aidan dropped the first victim carelessly on the ground, his hand curling around the nape of the next donor. The man came to him easily, under hypnotic trance, eager to please. Aidan fed voraciously, heedless that the three men would be weak and helpless for some time. He needed the nourishment, and he was disgusted with their existence. Men like these searched to exploit those weaker than themselves. They were cruel to their women and avoided their obligations to their most precious treasure in life, their children. Who cared how they got this way? Aidan was a firm believer in choosing one's own destiny, not taking the easy way out. Carpathian males had all the instincts of a predator, sometimes more dangerous than wild animals, yet they would never abuse a woman or a child. They held to a strict code of honor even in their oftentimes kill-or-be-killed world. All of them knew the consequences of their actions, and they accepted the responsibility of their gifts. In Aidan's race men such as these three would soon be exterminated. As powerful as Carpathians were, they could not be allowed to abuse those weaker than themselves.
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    The second victim swayed and fell nearly on top of the first. Aidan dragged the knife-wielding man close. The man looked up at him. "Are we going to party?" the reprobate asked with a crude laugh.
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    "One of us is," Aidan agreed softly, and he bent his head to find the pulsing jugular.
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    The first ripple of unease hit him. He lifted his head for a moment, and his prey's blood spurted out. He bent once more to his task, this time all efficiency and quickness. It was Alexandria. He could feel the first wave of pain hitting her.
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    He meticulously closed the wound, ensuring that there was no evidence on the man's neck to betray the presence of his kind in the area, and allowed his prey to sink to the ground. To anyone passing by all three men would appear drunk. Doubtless the trail of blood down one man's shirt would be attributed to a bloody nose.
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    It was starting within Alexandria, as he knew it would. The conversion. And, ultimately, if inadvertently, he was responsible. The guilt didn't sit well with him. He had observed two wounds on Alexandria's neck, which could only mean one thing: the vampire had bitten her twice, made his