He was good. None of them could deny it. Miro was respectful to his clients. Gentle. He always gave them a choice. If they said “no”, he stopped. The problem was, they hardly ever said it. They wanted him to go on because he promised even more pleasure. Miro never lied, it was more, it was pleasure to die for…

The hour of moonrise was his. He put on a black silk shirt, left the top buttons undone, they liked that. Miro’s slick, torn jeans wrapped his tight bottom and displayed his masculine qualities nicely. Stylish, modern, and edgy. A bad boy vibe. They loved it. He looked casual, yet festive. It was a celebration. A feast.

He didn’t need all that much blood. One or two ladies a month was enough. He couldn’t say the same about pleasure. That Miro needed more. Blood and pleasure fed him. Not food or water, not even sunlight, cursed it be!

Miro looked into the mirror. Immortality had preserved him in his prime. A twenty-one-year-old, just like 400 years ago. An Alchemist’s apprentice obsessed with finding immortality. He found it. But not the way he expected.

They didn’t make the mirrors like they used to! No silver meant he could see his reflection. Masculine, always clean-shaven, wavy coal-black hair, pale. And the fangs? Oh, his vampire fangs only appeared when he was about to bite. Did it frighten the ladies? No, not really. The ones who were driven to madness with pleasure urged him to proceed desperately. They enjoyed every minute of their blood being drained. What a grand way to die! He made it the climax of his performance. They said, the pleasure he gave could transform women for life. Only he knew sometimes it transformed them to death…

Miro was known as the best of his trade, though he never labelled himself under the shameful name of a “gigolo”. He was a creature of the night, an artist painting their bodies in the bold hues of pleasure.

Miro was getting ready to head out. Flawless, as always. He had a talent for deceit and a certain reputation. Miro didn’t need to promote himself; word of mouth recommendations did the trick. Well, at least from the ones who survived.

He didn’t ask for a fixed sum. Somehow these women found out the cost of Escort services, and they would leave the money, although he never asked for it. Money provided Miro with better clothes and entrance fees to elite nightclubs.

He checked out the bathroom – everything was set for the ‘clean up’. This modern age made his life ridiculously easy! Nobody asked questions, nobody wondered why he came out only at nights. Why he never stayed in one place longer than a week. Why did he choose such an occupation. It was acceptable. Miro loved and loathed the twenty first century, for no moral standards meant he could do whatever he pleased, and nobody would dare to call it a perversion. Now he wasn’t a monster, he was an artist.

When some of the women went missing from time to time, they made up explanations on their own. In the age of lonely men and women, Miro had his hands free. No police knocked on his hotel door.

Miro usually chose the lonely, the love-hungry, the craving, the abandoned, the middle-aged. Not necessarily beautiful. He saw the hidden beauty in every woman. He was the one who chose.

Sometimes young ones found him. Students wanting to experiment. Bridesmates invited him for the hen parties. He usually refused them. No young, inexperienced ones, although he could have them easily. They’d be begging for him to sink his teeth into their necks without a question, but Miro was merciful. He knew the value of life. He never killed the ones who had their whole lives ahead of them.

But what about the bodies? Miro was a schooled vampire. As an Alchemist’s apprentice he knew his herbs. No, no magic potions, please! Only a very rare acid from a plant growing deep in the Amazon jungle. Miro went to Brazil once a year. The locals called him “the child of the moonrise” and that he truly was. Kind people. They never judged him. They said, “Every man has a monster inside.” They provided him with his herbs. Once the body of the dead woman was put in the bath with these herbs, it disintegrated within minutes. The acid from this peculiar herb affected only organic tissue – human flesh, leather, organic clothing. Even if the authorities found a trace leading to him, nobody could prove anything with no body.

He tipped the security guy at the entrance to Saturn, his favourite club in this town.

“Good evening, Mr. Dimitrie.” The man knew him well. Maybe Miro went to this club far too often. His black, rented Corvette was his signature. Maybe he should change it once in a while? Miro was a man of habit.

“Yo, Miro! Back in town again, huh? You hear that, ladies?!” Pauley the bartender was his buddy. Not a real friend. “A creature of the night has no friends,” they said when he agreed to obtain immortality. The men from the Luna Ortus society, Miro wouldn’t stop until he found them. Four hundred years ago he was a reckless, stubborn boy. Now when he knew the bitter taste of his immortal lifestyle, Miro had matured into a cold-blooded manipulator.

“‘Evening, Paul!” Miro bumped fists with the fun-loving bartender, “the usual.”

“Sure thing,” Pauley already got to his order. No, not Bloody Mary, Miro wasn’t that trivial! He enjoyed his Tequila Sunrise with extra Grenadine syrup, for the colour. Yeah, maybe Miro missed the sunrise a bit. But he didn’t need it. Just like food. He could eat or drink whatever he wanted, but it never satisfied him or quenched his thirst. Only a woman’s body could feed him – both with the pleasure and the blood it gave him.

Miro sipped his drink, observing the bodies dancing in the blue lights. Pauley didn’t have to announce his arrival, news travelled fast. Several women eyed him with a hungry stare. Miro’s reputation did all the work for him. He wasn’t surprised at all when a stunning woman in her mid-forties sat next to him and ordered the same drink. She looked like Miro’s usual clientele. A fit, beautiful, businesswoman, probably came to the club straight from her office.

“Good evening, Mr. Dimitrie,” she said giving him a business card. “My name is Estelle Blackwood and I’m interested in your services.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Blackwood,” Miro replied coldly. He knew who she was. Her face graced the gossip magazines which Miro read out of boredom. Mostly he read books. He was a well-read man, but they didn’t care about his intellect.

The woman couldn’t be his client. He never chose the famous ones. Their disappearance would draw too much attention. This one had married the old multi-millionaire Mr. John Blackwood just a month prior.

“Did your Honeymoon end early, Mrs. Blackwood?” Miro didn’t hold back ridicule. He wasn’t afraid to offend her since he wasn’t planning to choose her.

She smirked for a reply.

“I know what you are, Mr. Miro Dimitrie, the child of moonrise. My brother was connected to the Luna Ortus. You do a very clean job. They’re keeping an eye on you. They provided me with the information of your whereabouts.”

Miro cleared his throat and looked around discreetly.

“Then you should know I do not serve famous women, such as you.”

“Oh, it’s not for me.” She gave an innocent smile, but Miro saw the malicious intent behind it. “It’s for my dearest stepdaughter. She’s turning 21 soon and I want to give her a very special present.” The woman took a sip of her drink.

“She’s my husband’s bastard. He keeps her hidden from the press. A result of a one-night stand. John feels guilty about ignoring her all these years. She’s the first in line to inherit his empire.”

“And if she’s gone…”

“I’ll be the devastated widow and the sole owner of John’s money, yes, Mr. Dimitrie, it’s all about the money and power.”

“And what if I refuse? I don’t usually choose the young ones.”

“Then the Luna Ortus would not be happy. They promised you’ll help. You don’t want to make them liars,” the woman said with the kindest smile.

Miro clenched his jaw. Now he definitely didn’t want this. Over the hundreds of years he lived, Miro had always deemed himself free in his choices. Apparently, it had been an illusion. He was allowed to feel free, while the Luna Ortus observed him…

He knew well disobedience would cost him more than life. It was either eternal existence as a creature of the night, or death and the eternal fire of hell. No heaven waited for him. Miro lost that option when he joined the Luna Ortus.

“What if she says no? I never force them.”

“Well, you have to make sure she says yes. You probably know ample ways to seduce.”

Miro saw the woman’s hungry eyes caress his manly frame with the dirtiest hunger.

“Will she know I’m hired to please her?”

“Yes. Lisa is still a virgin at her age.” Estelle Blackwood rolled her eyes. “She’s shy and ugly, but her new status has presented her with unbelievable opportunities. Her father got her into an Ivy League college. She’s dating one of the Spenser offspring, but she doesn’t want to be a virgin when their relationship moves on. I convinced her the boy wouldn’t like that.”

“Why would she believe you?”

“I’m her best friend. She sees a mother in me, since the bitch that birthed her died.”

Miro gave her a cold smile.

“The evil stepmother.”

“Oh, let’s not delve into trivialities, Mr. Dimitrie. All you need to know is in here.” She pushed a large, black envelope toward him. “The girl is well aware of my gift. I told her I’ll find a professional. Make sure she disappears. Do a clean job, please. The rest is none of your concern.”

Miro didn’t say a word. The woman got up and left.

“Whoa, job booked, huh? Living the dream, man! Maybe I should change profession, Miro?” Pauley came up to him, staring at the woman’s tight ass.

“It all comes with a cost, Pauley! Trust me, you’re better where you are.”

“If you say so, man.”

Miro got back to his hotel suite annoyed and hungry. He had expected a different outcome tonight. He opened the envelope and laid out its contents on the white marble coffee table, starting with a black-and-white photo of a smiling girl. An average observer wouldn’t call her beautiful, but Miro saw behind her dark-framed glasses and wild curls. She looked sweet and very young. Way too young to be Miro’s client. He was no hitman, damn it, he was just a vampire! Miro smashed a glass against the wall. This was plain and blatant murder. No way to put it gently.

Next to the photo he placed a note with the date and time, the address of their meeting place, the key to an exclusive rented apartment, and, of course, a stack of money. Estelle Blackwood knew his methods well – he preferred cash and isolated places. There was also a short biography of the girl. “Loves books” Miro read with a smirk. Charming.