After he had drained the last drop of blood from the mortal, the vampire made his way to the cellar, where he effortlessly hefted four cans of petrol up the steps and began spilling them on the floor. As he worked, looking down at the corpse of the man who now lay, pale and drained, on the floor in front of him, he wondered fleetingly what the mortal had been thinking of as he drank his blood? On rare occasions a vampire would turn a victim - that is to say, make him one of them - but he personally shied from doing this if he could. Vampires were cold and unfeeling and had no loyalty to one another. Sooner or later, one who was turned would come after you, as the constant struggle for power went on, and he had enough enemies as it was. No point in creating more.

But a long time ago he had been moved to turn a young man, and when he had, purely out of curiosity, asked him what the death experience had been for him, the man had replied that he had seen visions, a drama his brain played out for him as he died, a scenario in which it seemed, to his dying human mind, that he was safe. He wondered if this human had had similar hallucinations? Perhaps he, too, had constructed some elaborate fantasy wherein he became the brave hero who took on, and defeated, the monstrous creature of the night?

He spat, striking the match and letting it fall. Mortals! They thought they were so important, top of the food chain, when all they were in the end was a source of sustenance for beings higher than they could ever hope to be on an evolutionary level, and of whose existence they were completely and blissfully unaware, until it was too late.

This of course was how it had to be, he reflected: his kind must remain in the shadows, for were their existence to become common knowledge, these insects could band together and who knew, even defeat them? His people were powerless, after all, in the daylight, and this would give the mortals a serious advantage. No, his people must remain hidden, which made such subterfuge as he was now carrying out essential: there must be no evidence left behind that might lead anyone to suspect the nature of this man’s death.

There were still three hours to go till sunrise as he slipped out of the back door of the house, melting through the hedges at the back of the garden and over towards the fields. The fire had taken hold by the time he had got halfway across the muddy track that led to side streets he was used to frequenting, and along which he could pass unremarked and unnoticed, especially at this late hour; he saw the ruddy glow on the horizon as he walked unconcernedly away from the scene of the crime. A great shuddering bang shook the house as the fire reached the gas mains, and the horizon was lit up from the explosion. A siren sounded plaintively in the night. It would of course be too late.

He was already at the subway by the time the first fire engine reached the smoking remains of the house. As he waited, a lone figure on the platform, for the night train to arrive, he reflected how arrogant these puny human mortal creatures were. They considered themselves masters of their own destiny, when all they were was food for a far superior race. Ah, the boast of the tallest flower in the garden, secure in its majesty, and completely unaware of the tree towering so high above it! Tragic fools.

As he sat on the train, gazing out the darkened windows, the first blush of dawn slowly seeping into the night sky, but nowhere near strong enough yet to cause his kind any problems, he found his thoughts drifting towards the animals these humans kept and reared for their own sustenance. Cows. Pigs. Sheep. Chickens. He wondered if these creatures harboured similar thoughts of their own superiority over other animals? Did, for instance, cows look down on chickens? Were pigs arrogant towards sheep? What of the multitude of fish the mortals ate? Did those denizens of the sea believe themselves possessed of some grand destiny, before coming ensnared in the trawler’s net or on the angler’s line?

How could humans think themselves the highest form of life on this planet, he asked himself, not for the first time? Others of his kind had reported similar incidents of mortals they had turned, who admitted later to constructing elaborate fantasies and scenarios in which they battled with the monster trying to kill them, and defeated it. Perhaps it was a natural defence put up by their brains, he theorised, as he checked his phone for messages; a way to avoid, deny, hide from the terrible fate that was even then overtaking them.

Well, let them think what they would, he decided, settling back against the hard plastic of the seat, listening to the clicking and sighing of the train as it made its way through the bowels of New York. If it gave them comfort, what did he care? Let them avoid the truth, the hard reality they could not face, that all they were was prey for his kind, food for the vampire race, a never-ending buffet for appetites never satisfied. He had no particular wish to cause them pain or suffering, mental or physical, but the strong must survive, and historically, at the expense of the weak.

Luckily for him and his kind, the best their prey could do was hide behind doors and windows, which were easily breached (who was the idiot human who suggested vampires needed to be invited in to a mortal’s home? Just another way they could avoid the truth, he guessed), rely on a dead god to protect them, and, another way to avoid the horror of the truth, insist such creatures as he did not exist.

Personally, he had been out for a walk which had taken him longer than intended and the hunger had begun. He had selected the first door at random that he had come to. The mortal had no chance; once he had forced it in and kicked the door closed, the feeding had begun. No doubt, at some point before life fled him, that mortal (he had not even known its name, nor did he care) had wondered what ill fortune had made him the victim of a vampire?

Chance, pure chance. It could easily have been its neighbour. He didn’t care. What difference did it make to him which of these feeble lives he chose to snuff out? Old, young, female, male - it was all the same. He personally preferred to keep away from the offspring, the younger ones, not because he had any affinity for them - as if one could care about a mortal! - but because their blood was thin and tasteless, and due to their size there was less of it. He had needed a proper meal, and he felt stronger now for having partaken.

The motion of the train began to lull him into sleep. He was tired, and some way from home yet. The hated sun could do nothing to him for hours, and his kind automatically woke before that disgusting orb was in the sky (one of the few truths to be found hidden in the nonsense of mortal vampire fiction: the sun could destroy him and his kind, if he gave it the opportunity). Feeding made him strong, but it also made him sleepy.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of the all-pervading darkness which was friend to him and all his people.

All in all, not too bad, admitted Viktor as he swiped past the last page, ignoring the “About The Author” section, and stretched in the cold moonlight. On the whole, though, he preferred Grimaire’s last one better. This one took a few liberties. I mean, the whole idea of a vampire having to be held to the Blood Oath by a mortal? Why, that was laughable. There was artistic licence of course, he understood that, but any vampire would know that the Blood Oath did not apply to promises sworn to mortals! Did a mortal worry about keeping a promise it had made, an oath it had sworn to, say, a cow? And as for a mortal beating a vampire at chess? He shook his head. Somewhat badly researched, he felt. And yet, he was a sucker (no pun intended, he grinned to himself) for these kind of trashy novels.

Sighing, he was just about to download the next one when the sound of footsteps and a low murmur of voices came to his ears. He thumbed off the Kindle, its ghostly light dying and returning the alley into the total darkness in which Viktor had waited patiently. He knew how to wait. He slipped the reader into the back pocket of his jeans, and grinned. Mortals were always such easier prey when they were leaving the clubs: drunk, perhaps high, happy and not at all on their guard. It was the easiest thing in the world to catch one, lure them into the alley and then, his hunger, which had been gnawing at him now for several hours, would be satisfied.

Eyeing a particularly well-endowed young blonde woman, who emerged blinking like a cockroach into the darkness, leaving the artificial light of the nightclub behind, he grinned again. Reading could wait for now.

It was time to feed.