My first kill was a beautiful thing. A starlet. I could tell you the whole story, but I'll keep it brief. It was 1936. I heard her crying through the walls of an old studio outlet. I could hear thoughts then. I could look at a building and tell you how many humans were sleeping inside. I was not powerful enough, as I am now, to convince them to come outside. But sometimes I would slip through the window, or leap up onto the balcony-roof from street level and enter their homes. I would preoccupy myself with their possessions. Snuff boxes, little hand mirrors, the latest fashions, and the odd bit of hose or silk. They would sleep not far away; the smell of their blood in my nose as I tried their instruments. A guitar, or violin, too softly for them to wake, loud enough to stir a dream. This woman in particular--this starlet, she was crying when I entered, and I believe she thought me an illusion.

The redness of her eyes met mine, and she whimpered something. A "no," or perhaps a "who?" Maybe even a "where did you come from?" I think she knew me then a creature of hell. Yet she was entranced. I did not know then I had a certain ability to manipulate the will of humans as I do now. That even when she saw me slip through her window, my white fangs shining with hunger--for I had not drank three days due to some pitiable loving sentiment I still held for mortals--she still did not quite believe I was real. I sat by her on the bed, and she simply looked at me in fear and loathing, and a small measure of doubt. I could see then that her director abused her. That he had kissed her on set, made her do things to acquire her latest role, that he had made her swear not to tell anyone; and I felt a burning hatred towards this man. I had a sudden urge to promise myself to her. To protect her. To ensure no harm ever came to her again. I reached over and took her by the wrist, and she--to my surprise--commanded an incredible will.

"No!" She pleaded, hitting me with her bed lamp. It broke across my face, drawing blood. The blood spurted onto my collar, and she at once gasped, slapping her hand to her mouth like one of those old movie characters would. Perfectly theatrical; a lust of regret and concern in her eyes; and a small, bridling fear as she watched as the wound on my cheek vanished. As the blood in my clothes thinned to naught. And when I sat there, dark-eyed, hardly breathing, the red of my lips faintly parted, she let out a long sigh, her shoulders wavering, and fell suddenly into my arms in a dead feint.

She was draped in lace. That was the first thing I remember. Her small, sound body had been ripe with curves and made plush by her nylons. Her hair was a tangled, curly affair, like a Rossetti painting. I held her roughly against me until she woke, and when she did she struggled. Her eyes glared into my own pathetically and it took my hand about her throat to settle her. It was at that moment I perhaps became self-aware about some of my growing power. For as my nails touched her skin and caressed the fatness of her jugular, she went tranquil, like a newborn lamb. Her black eyes pebbled. Her lips had finally formed a curious expression. And she stared into my soul with all the receptiveness of a child. I spoke then, at length, I believe. Perhaps for hours. Reassuring her of her future and how this man would never again harm her; and the more I spoke, the more she softened. Soon she was cradling my fingers to her chest, her warmth against my cold, cuddling my thumb and forefinger, until eventually she grew so enamoured with me that she pressed my knuckles to her cheek and sighed, drinking in my words. And her body extended towards me erotically--throat-first. And I realised by then I was already lowering myself. Already moving for a taste. Before my lips could touch her skin the phone rang and I realised it was the director. I did not know how, but I somehow knew; and her eyes sprang alive with fear and she leaped up into a bundle in my arms, staring at the phone. So I reached across to it and answered and made her speak. And I made her tell him she would never see him again, and that was that, and to never call ever again.

"No, I won't come in. No, and don't ever call here again."

As the words left her lips, they did so robotically, as if possessed. Like a little marionette suspended from my immortal fingers. The director had raged and raged, and I put the phone down for her, and she looked me dead in the eyes and whispered:

"He will kill me for that?"

I looked at her boldly, and she stared back at me. Then in horror and anxiety, she flung herself towards me and huddled herself into my chest, nursing her chin against the folds of my shirt.

She knew, of course, what I knew. That what she had done was no idea of mine. She was the one who'd been thinking it. I had merely coaxed the truth out of her and given it voice. And for that, she hated me; and was elated by me. She looked up at me then in terror and delight, afraid of my potential and drawn by sheer will. She then sank into my chest totally as she searched her thoughts, trying to make sense of the incredible.