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The Blood was still warm, but cooling rapidly in the snow laden air. It dripped thickly between its fingers like treacle, fingers almost, but not quite human.

It held them up to the moonlight, turning them close to its mouth, suffused in rows of razor wicked teeth. The sharp metallic tang of her blood lingered on its tongue.

The blood was rich, coppery tasting, and stronger than most, as if it had been her time. A wave of nausea pressed at the back of its throat, but it swallowed, licking at its fingers with a grey rasping tongue. Only beneath its nails did any trace of her remain - tatters of stripped flesh.

It could feel her in its own blood now, coursing, aching through its system, tendrils of pain, probing and searching its body, its very being. It was all too much to bear and it sank to its knees, head lolling back on its neck.

If it had voice it would sing to the nebulous dark above, but no voice equalled the beauty: No lilting voice was worthy of its splendour tonight. No voice, not human and certainly not this lowly creature, kneeling in the corner of a children's park over the shredded shell of a whore.

It allowed the bloodlust to wane slightly, the way that even the thickest fog yields to persistent sunlight, and bent over the woman, its talons poised high, ready to flay her delicate frame.

Its mind was awash with pleasure and delight, as true and bright as a storm-tossed of beacons.

There was anger, but beyond that, pulsing faintly was fear; always the same. That such a beauty should be given so selflessly to him, continued to amaze and astound him. The fear of losing that beauty beat as surely as her own cruel heart.

As he passed along the street, by the pub in which they were to have met, he began to worry. It was the same nagging concern that gripped him each time she smiled at him, each time she raised her grey-blue eyes to his, a dark deliberation flitting beneath her gaze.

He was as malleable in her hands as clay: As cold, grey and shapeless. She knew and understood the dynamics of this power and used him as deftly as she used her sex.

He climbed into his battered Ford and ground the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered to life and he guided the car away from the kerb, slipping easily into the light traffic.

He drove slowly, scanning the pavement for any sign of her. If she was to walk down, this was the only possible route she could have taken; unless....

He clenched the steering wheel tighter. As he drove he could smell her in the car; the faintly sweet metallic tang of her pores beneath a haze of musk perfume.

He drove on. He should go home, he knew this with the same sense of certainty which painted his behaviour neurotic and patently futile. But to go home would be, he was sure, to confirm his suspicions.

She was welcome to return to him reeking of another's cologne, that was fine. Cheap odours rinsed easily from flesh, even flesh as hungry as hers. Lies were easy to digest, betrayal suspected, was honest and sincere.

But to witness, to have his fears made real. That would be simply too much. No, he would drive for a while longer and forget all that she was. It was easier to love her this way.

The lights of the town receded into the darkness, growing smaller, distant like sheathed fangs in his rearview mirror. He was travelling towards his house, but in an evasive, cyclic manner. He passed by the Birches Funeral Parlour twice, and averted his eyes at the sight of an old homeless women sprawled on the pavement, her upturned trolley lying beside her.

The soiled treasures of her trolley were spilled around her like a swathe of blood. He stopped the car at the kerb next to the children's playground, a mile or so from his home and turned off the engine. He had no reason for stopping there, other than the dogs scrapping in the bushes that poked through the railings.

They were snapping caustically, jostling for a better position over their quarry. He jumped out of the car and raced into the park, running at the dogs with flagging arms. They scattered in a flurry of greasy fur and bloody dripping maws.

One remained though, a grizzled black and tan Alsatian cross, towering guardedly over its prize. A long ribbon of tattered meat dangled loosely from its teeth, like a red, sopping rag.

Its lips were curled back over its teeth, revealing black gums and yellowed fangs. It was growling softly. The sound emanated in its chest and reverberated from its mouth in a low throaty growl.

It was then that he knew.

The dread was suddenly at the back of his throat, pressing heavily. He wanted to choke, to scream, to cry out. He parted his lips and offered the pain a release.

There was no sound, only the weight at the back of his throat. It throbbed now, in time to the explosive beating of his heart. He had to see.

The dog, seeming to sense this sidled awkwardly away from the bundle and lurched into a dense copse of tree opposite. He watched the dog disappear and took a step forwards, his head swimming, impossibly light.

Although her face had been shredded into strips of meat; though a bloody crater had been slashed into her chest; though the pale glint of her femur flashed out of a tattered, pulpy mess of bloodied raw thigh flesh and muscle, he knew her. He knew the scheming, deliberate way her lips had once curled, though now they hung loosely by a pocket of fat and muscle to her face.

The clouds parted for a moment and the moon-light kissed the snow laden ground, an eerie tenderness.

The dense, wiry black hairs on his arms bristled stiffly, the feral darkness in his eyes, glinting wickedly. His flared nostrils sucked in the night air and suddenly the dull phosphoresce of the moon, its ashen curse, was once again in his blood.

The night was once more glorious, resplendent in its seamless beauty. He wished to praise it, but this was no night for a lowly creature.

The dogs crept out from the trees and approached quietly, their tails nervously slashing back and forth. They locked their respectful gaze at his feet.

Kindred souls.