I stop in my tracks at the yelp that echoes through the grounds of the school I'm just passing.
A yelp, but definitely human.
Shake my head, carry on walking. Kids. Just playing.
But still. I look at my watch. Just after eleven o'clock, and on a Saturday night too. At this time?
On this day of the week?
Still, I reason, parents these days don't give a damn about what their kids do at night, or who with.
It's not really my business.
I stop again, attempt to tune my hearing in to whatever I did or did not hear. There's nothing else but the breeze, funnelled east along this long street by the tall buildings on either side.
Not a gang of kids; if it were, I'd hear voices in response, laughter, more of a ruckus.
Not my business, but I should make it so.
There's no harm in checking things out.
The fence lining the school grounds isn't impossible to climb over but is a bit too much to vault. I'm no Superman; I can't bend the bars enough for me to squeeze through. For convenience, I opt to double back on myself and take the public footpath down to the school gates.
I'm under no legal obligation to interfere, but a moral one, yes. I couldn't live with myself if I don't check it out. And it's not like I have anything to be scared of. No human would ever be able to take me in a fight unless they came mob-handed.
Yes. No human.
I reach the school gates in seconds and tilt my head, listening. Definitely no kids. No childish cries. So chances are, it was an adult I'd heard---
"Fucking stay still."
In an instant, I know I've done the right thing in following my suspicions. The low, growling voice came from what I suppose is a bike shed or rain shelter. A concrete oblong plonked in the school grounds mere feet from one of the exits.
Luckily, the gates are open; either the school authorities were careless, or they just couldn't imagine anyone wanting to break into a school or its grounds.
Chances are, whoever came through here before me unbolted them and opened them enough to squeeze through. I'm a tall man, though not too broad in the shoulders, or so I think. I still have to push one half of the gate to squeeze through comfortably myself, and as luck would have it, the damn thing squeals, alerting whoever it is to my presence. All speech and nearly all signs of a struggle immediately cease.
I listen for directional clues; very little incriminating sound reaches my ears but for something that sounds like the scuff of clothing against brickwork.
Definitely the bike shed. That's the obvious place to take someone.
If I had a heartbeat, it would quicken now, even though I have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing mortal can do me any harm without a damn good fight and a healthy dose of good luck.
Nothing mortal indeed.
"Oh dear. I do hope I'm not interrupting anything." I've long since mastered the art of lazy- toned sarcasm. I had a great teacher.
The man holding the obviously reluctant young woman in a twisted embrace freezes. She does not. Whimpering, she struggles. Pointlessly so, as it happens; he has her backed up against the wall of the bicycle shed with one hand clasped around her throat. Even as he turns his head to look over his shoulder at me, he easily keeps her under control, his fingers probably threatening her with an even tighter chokehold.
"What the hell do you want?"
Oh, a brazen one, then. He didn't startle or run away or falter in his limited movements when I announced my presence formally. He stands stock still, exerting barely any pressure to keep his captive under control.
"Forgive me." I bury my hands deep in my trouser pockets in an effort to look casual and near the pair by a few steps. "I was just passing by, and I heard something."
He laughs, teeth flashing in the watery moonlight, which barely makes it into the plain outbuilding. "I'm not in any difficulty at all, thank you very much."
"Looks like she is."
"How about you mind your own fucking business?"
"F..."
His female captive's monosyllabic whisper is enough to grab my attention.
The soft "F" hardens, and she manages to force out more of the word she tried to pronounce.
"F...vam..."
"I guessed as much," I tell her, then look directly at him. I can't smell it; there's no malodorous stink wafting toward me on the evening breeze. No eau de putrefaction. Nothing about him that mirrors the undeadness in me. But his cockiness, that chokehold, the fact he holds a woman captive and isn't tearing her clothes off to use her body in another way, all give evidence of his true nature.
"Not too bothered about being confronted by a vampire, are you?" the man snarls, his words dancing around the border of laughter.
"Not particularly, seeing as I'm..." I let my words trail away. No point in saying I'm a vampire too. That way lies the undead equivalent of a pissing contest, only shades away from the playground-based taunt, my dad's bigger than your dad.
"Ah. Then you'll understand my need to, you know." He nods at his still-struggling victim.
Not victim, I promise. Captive, but only for the moment. And never victim.
"Oh, fuck," she manages to force out.
Adrenaline probably loans her strength and daring.
I try not to think about what that adrenaline would make her thick, warm blood taste like. "Two of them."
"Your lucky night, isn't it?" the other vampire asks. "Well, it would be, if I was willing to share, but I'm not, so if you wouldn't mind...?"
A gentlemanly way of telling me to push off if ever I've heard one, but I'm not going anywhere.
"Doesn't look like your companion is all that keen," I say.
He gives a one-armed Gallic shrug, his opposite hand still occupied with his lady friend.
"Yeah? So?"
"Don't you think you should let her
