The predator prowls the streets. So many of these creatures. Their skins and scents. Their textures and tastes.

A priest in his confessional, or a lonely Texan socialite, or that wizened old woman in her gated apartment with her sour little yapping dogs. Or the subway ticketmaster with a pleasing smile, or the syphilitic sailor lying dying on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, with those glimpses of faraway shores. And children—whole glorious flocks of them, laughing, scrambling, crying, squabbling, begging in rags or spoiled in sailor suits before the boundless, vibrant gift of their blood. And the rich and the ugly. The beautiful and the poor. Gamblers and drinkers. Dried-up lawyers and self-believing politicians. Gangsters, zealots, and whores. The mad, the blind, and the selflessly good.

People, the sacrifice, the quarry, teeming through these bright-lit night streets in their endless, heedless, helpless herds. Arm-in-arm couples. Solitary stragglers. The drunk and the preening. The happy and the lost. The streets, theatres, speakeasies, and brothels, all full to the brim with the delicious birdcage, monkeyhouse clamour of them. So many, the choice is often dizzying. But tonight, everything is deliciously clear.

“Hey, honey…?”

Daisy Thompson sways out from her garbage-strewn alley toward the predator with a lip-smacking pout.