Thorne

Day One
Addison Thorne stood outside the unimposing apartment building and looked up. Lights were on in the corner apartment on the fourth floor, which meant Carl Foster was home and still awake. Thorne knew Foster was home in any event, but it was better he didn't have to wake the man.
He walked up the short flight of steps and entered the complex. It lacked a security system, which was a minor relief, but not insurmountable even if one existed. If necessary, he could have climbed up the side of the building. No one was in the hallway this late in the evening, although the drone of late night television seeped through several doors as he walked down the hall, then up more stairs. Thorne wasn't concerned about waking curious neighbors, but it was best no one see him arrive and leave.
The halls on the fourth floor were empty as well. Thorne walked to the door at the end on the right, knocked softly and whispered, "Foster."
No one in the neighboring apartments could hear him, but Foster would. He had no choice. Thorne heard the volume from the television dim, then approaching footsteps. "Yes?" Foster asked as he opened the door.
Even though Foster outweighed him by over one hundred pounds, Thorne pushed him back with one finger, then closed and locked the door behind him. "You alone?"
The accountant's eyes grew large as he nodded.
"Good." Thorne began removing his coat as he followed Foster into the other room. Thorne noted with some satisfaction that nothing significant had changed since he had used Foster some eight months previous. A slight layer of dust on the bookcase, several men's magazines strewn on the floor, a jacket tossed over a chair; the accountant clearly still did not enjoy a permanent relationship with a woman. Which, for his purposes, was just as well. He also noted the overflowing ashtray in the table near the television and frowned. "So you're smoking again. I asked you to quit."
Foster tried to smile but then gave up and sat limply on the couch.
"Have you been drinking?" Thorne asked as he began to remove his shirt.
"No. Well, a glass of wine with supper."
Thorne paused at the button on his right cuff. "When?"
"Around six."
"Good." Anything in Foster's system could affect Thorne. It was one reason why he chose his herd so carefully. Thorne removed the shirt and draped it over a nearby chair so he wouldn't get Foster's blood on it, then turned. "Take off your shirt."
Foster's chubby fingers struggled with the buttons. This could take all night, Thorne thought, so, sighing, he knelt in front of Foster and finished the job. In the flickering light from the television, Foster's skin looked unnaturally pale. "You should exercise more," Thorne said, poking him in the stomach with a forefinger.
"Yes," Foster whispered. Already he was leaning back, his eyes closed and head to the side to provide easier access.
"You will remember nothing of this. The wound will be from ..." Thorne paused. "You helped a neighbor get her cat out of a tree. The animal jumped on you and bit you before you could grab it. Call in sick tomorrow; you'll need your rest."
"Yes."
Only then did Thorne will his fangs to emerge, then bent forward and bit into Foster's right shoulder. Almost immediately he tasted the sharp tang of the accountant's blood. Foster had told him the truth about the wine, he realized -- not that the accountant had any other choice. Only the slightest remnant of alcohol remained. Thorne and his breed were extremely susceptible to drugs, legal or not, if they were in their contributor's bloodstream. And Thorne still had too many things to do this night to be battling the effects of alcohol as well.
Thorne allowed himself to feed for five minutes, then reluctantly stepped back. The blood seeping out was already clotting, but scabs could come loose, causing potential problems, so Thorne went to Foster's small bathroom and returned with sterile gauze and tape. Within minutes he had dressed the wound, then put Foster's shirt back on him.