Drive a Dark Horse

     We drive a dark horse. Flesh and bone made steel and chrome, yet at it's heart an engine that still races. Like all successful hunters we have learned to adapt to our prey. We hide in plain sight were they do not see us, our eyes shadowed by makeup, our true nature covered by the most sincere seeming smiles.

     My partner and I have different tastes. I like to think I have a more discerning palate. I prefer my chosen meals to have manners, good breeding, and an IQ in the triple digits. It makes it all so much sweeter when they fall. We crash a posh party, the sort to which my kind have unwritten and standing invitations. Once across the thresh hold we go our separate ways in search of the evenings entertainment. After all what fun is your food if you can't play with it?

     And so it was sometime later I found myself disturbingly comfortable, kneeling in red wine that looked too much like blood, head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle to better see the tall woman clothed in darkness standing above me. Or positions give the illusion that she holds the power between us. I could break her in two with a thought, crush her soul with a wish. For an instant there is something in her eyes that lets me know she understands just how dangerous I am, knees soaking up the stain spreading outward from her feet. I lean forward, just a breaths width, but I can smell her understanding, her fear. It makes me smile and that fear turns to cold terror.