Judas had never had to live off of any kind of blood substitute. The idea disgusted him, truthfully. Humans constantly moaned about processed food, and this was no different. They were vampires. Human blood is what they were built for; the same way humans were built to eat their foods. He wondered what would happen if cows ever gained the ability to speak. Would the humans realize how utterly hypocritical they were? Very probably not. They did not have a tremendously pleasing track record with such self-aware realizations. Some might swear off cow meat, or even all meat in general, as some humans already seemed to. Others, very probably most of them, would justify their food choices and continue eating the same cows that could now speak out against being killed and eaten. It was the same with vampires, when you got right down to it. Judas wasn’t ashamed to admit that he wanted his food to taste good. Artificial food, on the whole, did not.
There was also the hunt. There was a dark pleasure in it, though it was not the same for him as it was for others of his kind. For him, his most enjoyable hunts were the sensual, seductive, and dark. Why was that the case? Judas liked to tell himself the reasons were complex, but in truth, at its heart, his reasoning was viciously simple: Anger, pain, and the need to lash out. Once upon a time, he had helped a man he loved like a brother save humanity from the very same sins he now tempted them into. For his troubles, he was spurned and cast out, turned into an abomination and left to wander alone for eternity. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and when the rage and pain twisted him beyond his breaking point, he began to see the joy in tempting His children back to the darkness they had been saved from. He gave them back the dark pleasures they had not been allowed to partake in since then. Judas liked to imagine that infuriated his former friend, and the great celestial hypocrite up in his eternal paradise, and that thought, however juvenile and asinine, gave him a deep sense of vindictive pleasure.
Over the years, though, another reason had cropped up. It was just as simple, but nowhere near as vicious: Loneliness. He was a true immortal, and would not ever receive the peace of death that others did. Even when this planet sat picked clean, when its bones were nothing more than cosmic space dust, he would live. Perhaps he would simply float in space, or perhaps he would end up on some other planet to continue the cycle. He wasn’t sure. The problem with such a thing was how truly lonely it left him. His particular condition and the reputation that came along with his name had left him with no possibility for companionship. It had warped his mind in monstrous ways, but also in tragic ones. No one could truly understand that particular kind of loneliness, and while he did not simper or whine about his pain as so many modern vampires seemed to, it was no less present and far more potent, given how long it had to become concentrated and refined.
It was what drew him to the women he’d been drawn to throughout time. The “harpies”, as modern retellings of Stoker’s novel would label them, were failures in that regard. Once upon a time, they had captivated him, but they turned out to be little more than politicking little bitches. He had not truly cared when Abraham had separated their heads from their bodies. It was the very same loneliness that had drawn him to Mina. And it was the same loneliness that had drawn him to New Orleans, and his only real child, Mary. Perhaps it was because of this loneliness that he had realized what was best for Mary. Perhaps it was that same pain which allowed him to see past his own rage and grant her the humanity she desired, even at the cost of being immolated by the bright, flaming star. Perhaps not. Judas wasn’t sure, and did not wish to dwell upon it now.