Scoffing at her question, Richie didn't really intend to answer it. The majority of what he knew about what he was were all things she could visibly see if she really looked at him, though the dim lighting of the alley made it harder to see. The only things she wouldn't be able to see were things Richie didn't even really know how to control like his mild psychic premonition shit or that ability to briefly look like a person he'd fed on or whatever the process is called. "I'm no Count Dracula, so you can get the image out of your head for one. And I don't do stupid accents."
Besides, if Richie was going to have to do an accent, it would have to be some kind of racist Spanish-Mexican kind of thing since he was apparently some ancient Mayan snake-like vampire thing or at least, that's what he thought he remembered hearing from Santanico when she felt the need to tell him her whole sob story. Why she decided to do that while he was dying on the floor, he couldn't say, but he could point out that he didn't really remember half of it because of it. Poor timing in her part, but Richie wouldn't have really listened if he hadn't been stuck there, bleeding out on the floor so...
"Didn't intend to kill you," he pointed out, rolling his shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension that started to build up in him. "Just need a little donation." Richie wanted to emphasise that the longer he stood there waiting, the harder it might be for him to actually take what he needed and not kill her, but he was starting to lose his train of thought more frequently now, finding himself distracted by the sound of her heartbeat.