The fog weighed on Amalia as if were made of lead. She resented it enormously. She had awoken promptly at nightfall to discover not only that the miserable weather continued to linger, but that a curfew was now in place. That meant no parties, no performances, no presentations on the latest scientific developments. In short, no fun.
The silly curfew did little in the way of preventing her from feeding--not everyone could afford to stay indoors at night, mandate or no--but it left her in a sour mood. She was a fearsome creature of the night now. She could go anywhere, do anything. But there was nothing to do! Bad enough she could only experience the sun through oil landscapes at the National Gallery. It seemed that now she was to be denied even the moon and stars. Feeling personally affronted by the weather, Amalia frowned up at the overcast night sky. If she peered, she could dimly make out the full moon, struggling to be seen through the vapor that seemed to smother it.
Giving an annoyed huff, she renewed her attentions on the exposed neck of her latest victim. Sinking her fangs into his obliging skin provided some measure of relief from her mood. She began to feel calmer and more assured with the robust sailor's blood coursing through her veins. The warm, coppery blood against her tongue felt reassuring familiar as it gushed into her mouth.
She barely noticed the slowing heartbeat of the sailor as she continued to feed. In a better, more controlled mood, Amalia was capable of stopping herself before she had drained her victim to the last drop. This was not to be one of those nights. With a weary little sigh she stepped back, the sailor's body sinking heavily to the ground now that she was no longer supporting him. Wiping daintily at her mouth, she knelt to examine the contents of his pockets, annoyed when there proved to be nothing of interest.
Pulling her hood back over her head, Amalia straightened her black cloak and returned to the main street from the darkened alley. Her feeding had left her feeling alive again, but she struggled with feeling contended. Walking along the Thames, she idly imagined what her evening would look like under different circumstances. She inexplicably found missed the crowds of prostitutes and ne'er-do-wells usually holding court on this street. Passing under a particularly bright streetlamp, she startled at the sight of the sailor's blood on her hands, sticking stubbornly to her fingers despite her best efforts at rubbing the telltale signs off. Cursing under her breath, she hurriedly attempted to clean her hands on the heavy folds of her cloak.