The only sound to be heard is an ancient boiler grumbling away in the distance. Then another sound comes, the creak and slam of a door, footsteps far away and drawing near. A shortness of breath, a tightening of the shoulders comes over her as she listens to the sound of a heavy person trying to walk lightly. She thinks of all the horror stories she has ever read, and shudders; she is all alone, and does not want to be. She wants a companion, someone with more courage or better fighting skills than she. Fear and hunger war for control of her consciousness; if she gives into the former she will break and run, if she gives into the latter she will faint. She creeps down the corridor, trying to be quiet, but her breath betrays her. It is whistling high in her throat, the tightness of the muscles as they spasm forcing her to breathe in short gasps. She wobbles but remains upright. The footsteps behind her quicken. The man has heard her.
She starts walking as quickly as she can, forcibly resisting the temptation to duck into one of the classrooms. Not yet, not time yet, she whispers in her head. There's time still . . . The footsteps behind her are running, and she is too--she must be faster than her is, she's gaining some ground . . . but the fear and the twisting agony in her gut and head slow her down.
She ducks into an unlighted alcove that looks to be another corridor and runs into a dead end. She moves to retrace her steps, but the man is right outside and she huddles back into darkness, trying to be as silent as a cat on the hunt. Yet her breath betrays her once again. The man stops outside the alcove, and seeing her despite the gloom, approaches. She looks defenseless, a hunched figure with long hair and a slight body. Her wide eyes follow his every move as he advances, a snake sure that its prey is mesmerized by its unblinking gaze. He is hulking and his mouth is twisted into a permanent, sadistic grin. His tongue darts out and wets his thin lips.
She schools herself to calm, although every alarm in her body is going off in deafening clangor. She concentrates on her hands, pouring all her awareness and the power that she has left into them. She concentrates on the pale scars, the silver bands, the silver bracelet with an amethyst crystal in it. The small hairs on the backs of her hands are standing up, and the hunger rises to an almost unbearable pitch. She braces her feet and tenses imperceptibly. He lunges at her but she is much, much quicker. She flows from her huddled position and delivers the first blow with her open, slightly glowing hand.
The energy in her hand discharges, the rings in her fingers flashing with purple-tinged light. The man roars like a wounded bull and grabs for her, seeking to hold her still, but she is lightning and quicksilver in his grasp, the hunger and two hundred years' worth of trained reflexes slipping her deftly from his grasp. She dances for a moment just out of reach, then closes with all the decisiveness of a falcon streaking to earth, slapping him with her other hand, and all of his muscles go lax. She has snuffed his life-flame as easily as another would put out a candle.
She stands above the body, drinking in the energy released by his death. Her outline shimmers as she feeds, the rings on her finger winking incandescent as stars. The hunger that has driven her for the past month has been sated for the time being. Her face shows a strange mixture of revulsion and sheer orgasmic pleasure. Her mouth works in silent recitation of her first law: "The honorable hunt only other predators." Finally, she stumbles away, sick at what she has done and, as always, horrified as the terrible pleasure she takes in it. She leaves the body where it fell. There is silence, and she stops shimmering. She walks unsteadily down the hall, drunk on the fear of the world.