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I walk along the sidewalk at a brisk pace, my Voittons clapping against the concrete, letting anyone in earshot know I'm here. The street and sidewalk are both empty of people that I can see, and this is to be expected: It is, after all, three in the morning.

I pass under the urine-stain of a street light, then into the inky darkness beyond its unwholesome, humming glow, and into another pool of sickly-yellow light.

Flash-dark-flash-dark. The street lights are my only company, and I almost wish that were not the case. My Versace dress, a knee-length ruby affair of silk, clung to me in all the right ways, and I felt that raw feline power that only a gorgeous outfit outlining my breasts and hips could push forth into me.

Of course, the Ruger P95 nine millimeter handgun in my Prada handbag could be contributing to that.

I hear ahead of me somewhere the sound of distant laughter, and if it could do so, my heart would be speeding up in anticipation. My shiny black tail certainly expressed its enthusiasm. I look ahead, my sharp vison picking out exactly when the group of men, canines all, stepped out of the alley. Their drunkenness is visible from my position, a hundred yards away from them. They are stumbling all over each other and laughing at a joke I missed. They stumble in my direction, and my feet quicken.

Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap. The men look up at the sound of my shoes on the concrete and see me advancing on them. They grin like the predators they think they are, and the four of them believe they will hassle me. This is very clear. One of them, the white Jindo, shouts at me:

"Hey baby," he says, "you're gorgeous! Wanna party with us tonight?" His Laborador friend backs him up with his own pass at me.

"Yeah, we'll show you how to have a real good time, darlin'!" the blond exclaims. The other two, a dingo and another Laborador fool, only giggle drunkenly in agreement. All four wag tails and bump paws in manly agreement. I smile at them, and slow as we begin to merge into one group, stopping when I reach them.

"Hey boys," I say, my sly smile and wink illiciting a fine reaction out of them. In the yellow of the lights, they don't notice my pallor, don't notice the grace in my movements that exceeds what even the most dextrous of my fellow tigers can display. "I think I know how to party plenty well myself; want to see?" The dingo notices the edge of danger in my words and his foolish grin fades. He looks uncertainly at his friends, as if unsure of what he's seeing. I continue anyway.

"I have something right here that will make your adrenaline pump," I say, reaching into my bag. My cool hand caresses the modern answer to the longbow with great familiarity and I fluidly pull it out of my bag and shoot the dingo in the forehead just above his snout. Brain and skull matter splatter the wall behind him as the nine millimeter slug buries itself in brick. Swiftly, I put the gun back and by the time the dead man is hitting the ground, I have slapped the Jindo so hard with a backhand that his skull fractures against the wall; he falls as dead as his dingo friend. By now the two Laboradors have understood that there is something wrong, but there is nothing they can do as I seize one of them so suddenly in a choke hold that he cannot react. He is unconscious in seconds, and his friend has abandoned him, running away from me.

He does not get far.

I catch up with him and immediately grab onto his arm and latch onto the dog's wrist, ripping into the radial artery. It begins spraying blood into my mouth and I eagerly gulp the rich, thick, life-giving elixer down, draining the dog of his entire meager store of blood. I leave him and go to the other, who is beginning once more to rouse. Consuming his friend leaves no trace of crimson anywhere except my lips; I am old enough to know how to be clean about my feeding. So when I lift him up and place him seductively against the wall, he blinks at me in confusion rather than outright alarm. The cutting off of blood to his brain that the choke hold created had apparently made him forget the deafening sound of the handgun.

I place my wet mouth against his, kissing him deeply. At first, he follows suit, hands immediately reaching for my breasts and my ass, but as my tongue enters his mouth, he tastes the salty, metalic substance still filling my mouth and recoils, his eyes widening in alarm.

Shame. Even the Kine can be fun for a romp.

I take this dog's vital essence, his scarlet blood, from the carotid artery, draining him dry in moments. When I finish, I wipe my mouth with his shirt and gaze at the dingo and the Jindo. If their blood could nourish me, I would have taken it too.

"Such a waste," I mutter. Alas, such is the curse of the Ventrue. I pull out my phone and dial Westen's number. He answers on the second ring. I give him my location. "You have a mess to clean up; do it better than last time and I'll feed you extra tomorrow night." He yes-ma'am's me and I hang up. He is my best, smartest, most clever ghoul, but sometimes he needs a little incentive.

I spare one more glance at the carnage before striding off into the darkness. As I walk away, a verse comes unbidden to my mind: Yea though I walk in the shadow of the Valley of Death I shall fear no evil. Ironic that I think of that, considering the apex predator I have become.

I smile to the darkness, a bedediction to the Valley.

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