Moonrise

He knew, without looking, when the moon appeared. Full, half, waning, gibbous … their names mattered little. Even when they could not see Luna, he knew.

Tonight wasn’t for guessing, for her surface glowed orange and red. A blue moon, too, second of the season, second of a kind. Like him.

He smiled. A mouth full of greedy daggers. He moved, up from the dark, out of the cave, across the fields. He slowed only at the lights of the waking kind, the people of the day.

He alit upon a narrow path. A couple paced ahead, hands held, blanket tossed over the shoulder of the male. They leaned in, pulled together by an internal gravity as he was also pulled toward them. He flitted from shadow to shadow, watching, listening, following.

They stopped in a glade, uncut grass tickling their ankles. A children’s playset rusted nearby, swings twisting, squeaking, restless on the breeze.

The male flung out the blanket, laid it on the ground. They sat, hands clasping, sides touching, whispers passed back and forth. Why did they whisper, he wondered.

He stole closer.

They spoke of hopes and dreams, of stars and vistas yet unseen. He found himself entranced, and closer still he crept.

And then he was breathing down their necks, one clawed hand upon each of their outside shoulders. They froze, like prey should, and he inhaled, smiled his bladed smile.

But then, in a surprise to himself, he said, “Death does not come to you this night. Perhaps not the next or the one after, for you have charmed me with your innocence and hope. One day … it will, if not I. Care to not waste your moonrises, for they are as precious as your stars.”

He slid off into the moonlight, for while gracious, he still had appetites to appease.