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He shivers in the winter weather, but forces himself to watch the young Queen struggling against the storm not four yards from where he stands. The wind is such that she doesn't notice him, despite the fact that he makes an imposing figure in the deserted streets.
He takes a moment to study her straining form. The Queen's brown tabby fur must once have been resplendent, but provides no shelter in the continuing torrent. She's barely larger than a kitten; only recently had she reached maturity. Her tiny, battered paws pick their way slowly across glass and papre strewn everywhere, and her tail wraps itself around thin hind legs.
The ears protruding from either side of her tan-coloured, downcast head provide a sharp contrast. They are black, and seem almost too big for a Queen her size. They flick back and forth, always returning to rest flattened against her head in a rough, primitive emotion that all strays descend to after time.
The red Tom starts from his scrutiny as he realises he has almost lost sight of her. Despite his weakened condition, he succeeds in nearly catching up to her again. This time she notices him; the storm has died a little. She turns suddenly, startles him. He doesn't have time to duck behind anything, so stands devoid of comfort.
After a tense moment, she lets curiousity overtake her and approaches the red Tom, shaky step by trembling paw. He doesn't make a move. He doesn't make a sound.
She whispers a question, what is he doing, he doesn't hear. She becomes nervous; repeats the question. His eyes suddenly, inexplicably, fill with tears and her heart softens at the sight. She approaches further, he returns them, step for step. Now they are almost touching.
His gaze is drawn to the spot of naked flesh behind her ears, mostly hidden. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he moves forward until he is right beside her, confronted by unprotected skin. She makes no move to run, yet she is terrified. She does not resist, yet she longs to.
The hunger becomes too much to bear. He snaps at the back of her neck, she tenses involuntarily. His teeth catch in flesh and rip, causing blood to flow and fill his mouth. She trembles and lets her legs give way; he follows her down. He laps at the red blood swelling from the open wound, he is oblivious to the rain around them, his body is strengthened.
She no longer has energy to resist. Her mortal blood sates his hunger for the moment, he leaves her to stare an empty stare at the gravel underpaw.
His breathing is no longer forced, his body is without weariness. Even in immortality, he retains emotions, feelings advised to be left behind but which he couldn't bear to lose. He lets a tear fall onto her body; nothing else shows.
One more night.
One more victim.
One more drop of guilt on his still-mortal conscience.
Macavity walks into the storm with sated hunger, with a dead life littered from guilt, with the knowledge that he must feed again.
And again.