vampire_compton (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} vampire_compton) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} silverage, |
"I completely understand the need to get out," he chirped. And he did - he had once spent a winter night in 1942 walking from his home outside Savannah to Brighton Beach without even realizing it, and had to spend the day under a decrepit farmhouse. He had fed on a ranch hand the next night, almost until he died. He had had to glamor the man quite extensively, and was never quite able to erase the incident completely from his mind - Bill had taken a rather large chunk out of the man's neck.
With the memory of the ranch hand's blood (B positive, it tasted like) fresh in his mind, he made a conscious effort to stop staring at the girl's neck. These thoughts would be completely blank to Betsy, however - although he was not aware of it, and would not be for several decades, he and all vampires were immune to telepathy, though she could catch a few traces of emotion should she put forth the effort.
He took her hand, and gently brought his lips to it.
"William Compton. Bill." he replied, "Please, call me Bill." He straightened, and cleared his throat. "Are you headed any place in particular? I happen to be heading towards 59th and 5th, myself."