The Bolshevik's blood was sweet.
Fangs clicking back into place as harmless human canines, the Englishman sighed nostalgically. Like the sweetest, headiest wine.
It was almost a damn shame to drain the Bolshevik nearly dry, but once the Englishman's fangs sank into that pale neck it was easy to lose control, almost as if he were newly turned and sloppy.
Well, the pretty Bolshevik looked a right mess, throat all but mangled with all that blood still gushing out from between the torn ends of his flesh. The distasteful gurgles had quieted somewhat, but the poor sod was still breathing. Shallow and sharp. And by the devil, his heart was still beating.
A fighter, this one.
The Englishman gave him a once-over, lying there in the filthy ground of the alley. His silver hair was obscenely long for a man's, and those pretty eyelashes he'd batted in that inn, out of sight from all the other patrons, were nearly as long as a woman's. He was a student, he'd said in surprisingly fluent English. After that he'd spoken as though he were one of the dozen hardened revolutionaries in the inn, spouting the same slogans they all shouted in the streets before the Czar's men ran them down.
Once the Englishman told the man he was not a Royalist, those blue eyes shone like stars, and the Englishman's suspicions were confirmed. After all, the Bolshevik looked like he was starving for more than just a friendly chat, so it was no use to Glamour him.
Slow, calm blood tasted bland. Fear tasted sour. Rapid, lusting blood tasted like paradise, something the Englishman wasn't going to experience anytime soon. The Bolshevik would, once that stubborn heart stopped its quivering.
And God, its owner had quivered in his arms after some hushed words from the Englishman, leading him to the deserted alley where the human had boldly embraced him, kissing him with a passion that would have been enjoyable were the Englishman not so hungry.
After that it was easy to overpower the poor lad, and he likely didn't even realize it, even as the light left his eyes and the warmth left his body.
It was a memory the Englishman would relish for the next thousand years, at least. Just as with all those other times. Every drop from every human he'd drained down to the last, dead drop.
Ah. He'd spent too much time remembering. He ended up missing that last heartbeat. A shame. The Bolshevik was a lovely one. Almost in an unearthly way. Were their roles reversed, the Englishman might have been the one dying in a filthy alley.
But for now he was drunk on glorious, angelic blood, losing track of how much time had passed. Minutes. Hours. It was all the same to a vampire.
Anyone might have mistaken him and the corpse beside him for two drunks, a single pair out of many in Saint Petersburg.
The Englishman let out a laugh at that, licking the drop of blood that trickled out of his mouth.
Less than a second later his own black blood burst out of his mouth when something sank through his chest, and the smell of silver and burning flesh filled his nose as he stared into the Bolshevik's blue eyes.
The Englishman's last thought was that he could hear no heartbeat.