(This is from my novel Prey Of Midnight, which I’m rewriting at the moment.)
"He's about my age."
Damian says, clutching his black coat tightly around his shivering body. He hops from foot to foot, trying to keep them from going numb as his teeth chattered.
It was a chilly 20 degrees tonight. Not cold enough for snow, but instead the weather produced a freezing drizzle, causing his brown curls to stick to his forehead.
Ash, however, was unfazed by the freezing temperature. He didn’t blink when the rain fell in his eyes nor did he shiver as the cold breeze swept through his perfectly combed back hair. He stood rim rod straight, his hand casually resting in his pockets as he stared down at the unfortunate victim.
The man’s eye brows furrowed causing cracks in his smooth pale forehead—the only indication that he wasn’t a statue— and a small frown graced his colorless lips.
The whole alleyway was thick with the smell of fresh blood. Not even the rain washed it away. It made his teeth ache. He absentmindedly licked his sharpened canines.
It was time for dinner.
