Simone shook her hair out and smoothed her skirt. The cabbie wasn’t bad. Not great, either, but she could go a little longer with the warmth of his soul spreading from her cunt to her fingertips. Her very fingernails tingled with his vitality.

Still. She’d need more. Soon.

Simone watched Alec. His hair was thickening and lengthening, the cracks in his skin smoothing. The dull steel of his hair darkened, threads of black wove through his tresses. It even appeared he was starting to grow a moustache.

“You’re not looking too bad, toots,” she said, regretfully. He would’ve been a tasty one.

“As a boyar of Wallachia, I was renowned as the handsomest of the voivode’s lieutenants,” Alec said proudly, his head high on a neck no longer bent by age.

Simone was taken aback, impressed despite herself.

“Satan’s ruby balls! Did you serve Vlad Tepes?”

He replied with a courtly bow.

“How does a prince of Dracula end up in Chicago starving and disguised as a priest hitting on floozies?”