A/N: NEW CHAPTER! GodDAMNit, I hate this chapter. It took me the longest time just getting it down the first time, and then revising it - it was like pulling teeth. The end was what killed me, and I think I might have given up, so I do apologize that it's not my best work. I may need to step back from this for a bit - it's getting so I can't see the forest for the trees, and that's never a good thing. But I do hope you enjoy it, I really do. PEACE!

Thank you to Esha Napoleon, therealchamps, and BigRedMachineUK for your reviews! I really do appreciate it! HUGS! HUGS AND PUPPIES!

Chapter 3: A New Breed

"I've come to bring you hell..." - Fuel, "Won't Back Down"

The bedroom door swung open, and Beth strode in, removing her compound bow and quiver from the modified holder on her back. Cena followed her, quietly closing the door behind them, unbuckling his gun belt and removing the pair of Desert Eagle .44s from their holsters.

For the next several minutes, neither one of them said anything; merely busied themselves in silence with the habitual chore of unloaded and cleaning their weapons before storing the equipment in its designated spots - the bow on a set of hooks screwed into the wall; the arrows, empty guns, and ammunition on top of an old wardrobe. Hope was at that age where she was getting into everything, and none of them - Dave most of all - wanted her to accidentally discover a handgun with an unused round in the chamber while she was playing.

Beth finished first, reaching up to tug her elastic hand band loose, her golden tresses falling down around her face. She ran both hands through her hair, then turned away with a sigh, unbuttoning the front of her leather vest and gingerly shrugging - her shoulder was still a throbbing knot of pain from where the vamp had thrown her against the dirt wall, and she was more than certain that it was going to be stiff and swollen by nightfall.

Cena glanced over at her, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Something on your mind, Beth?"

The female Hunter paused, unable to suppress a shiver that was almost acutely painful in its intensity. This was the only time that the lead Hunter ever called her by her first name - here, safely back at base, shut away from the other members of the group - the only time that their relationship transformed into something other than that of a leader and his subordinate.

It was strange; the conflicting mixture of emotions that rose up inside her during these moments. On the one hand, she craved it; craved the warmth, the intimacy, after so much time spent in the dark and cold - but at the same time, she feared it.

Feared it not just because it reminded her of what she had lost...but because that until this war was won, until there was a reason to stop fighting, love would always be one of those things she could not afford to carry with her.

Beth bowed her head. "Nothing - just-" She hesitated, choosing her next words carefully, lifting her gaze up to stare at the wall ahead of her, which was decorated with several examples of Hope's artwork. "-I can't stop thinking about those kids we saved - about how the police and probably even their parents are going to tell that they're wrong; that they didn't see vampires down there; that they'd be better off just forgetting what they saw. And some of them will...but some of them - like that boy who ran after us-" She drew in a deep shuddering breath. "-some of them won't."

The blond woman squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. "And I wonder...how many of them are going to grow up angry and bitter and scarred, letting what they saw fester inside them - so that as soon as they get old enough, they go out searching for answers the same way that you and I did?"

The lead Hunter, in the process of removing his Kevlar vest, stopped and stared at her, the room's faint illumination leaving half of his strongly-featured face in shadow. "What are you saying - that we shouldn't have saved them?" His tone was flat, but there was a hint of anger lurking at the edges of it.

The female Hunter rapidly shook her head. 'No! Of course not! But even you have to agree that this life--" She turned a little, gesturing between the two of them. "-shouldn't be anyone's destiny." Tears suddenly climbed up her throat, choking her, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, her shoulders hitching slightly as she struggled to stifle them.

Cena, perhaps finally sensing the full extent of the emotional turmoil taking place inside her, stepped forward, his face registering sympathy. "Beth-"

Beth's head shot up at the sound of his voice, her eyes bright with involuntary anger behind the veil of tears, her own tone low and bitter. "We could have waited until nightfall. You know that we could dipshits - they only got the upper hand on us because they can see in the dark and we can't - but they would have been no match for Dave; he would have torn them apart."

The female Hunter swallowed hard, shaking her head slowly. "But no, you had to be stubborn, just like you always are - and because of that, I almost got killed-"

"Don't do that," There was anger in Cena's voice now, too; genuine ire that he was clearly trying to hold back. "Don't try and act like this is all my fault; like I forced you to go down into that cellar." The lead Hunter's boots thudded against the warped floorboards as he came toward her. "You're a big girl, Beth; you can take care of yourself. You know the risks that we face every time we head out-"

"I know that!" Beth shot back. "But with Dave on our team, we have an advantage - so why the hell aren't we using it?" She stepped forward until she was face-to-face with Cena, staring up at him with absolutely no intimidation - in this room, there was no distinction between leader and subordinate; in this room, they were equals. "He's saved your life, my life, all of us, more times than we can count. We're a team, we're supposed to trust one another - but how can we do that if you don't trust him?"

"Would you keep your voice down?" the lead Hunter hissed, his voice low, but no less furious.

"Why?" Beth retorted, her tone brimming with sarcasm. "It's not like he doesn't know already! You're not exactly subtle; all of us see the way you treat him."

Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper."In fact, it's amazing that Hope hasn't picked up on it by now-"

As soon as she mentioned the little girl's name, Beth knew that she had crossed a line. Cena drew back, his expression shutting down into that unreadable countenance that she hated; that blank mask that was both a facade and a crutch. "Don't drag her into this-"

"Why do you hate him so much?" Beth pressed. In the back of her mind, she was aware that she was treading dangerously close to the point of no return, but she kept going.. "It's not just because of what he is."

Her pale blue eyes narrowed. "It's because of Mickie...isn't it?"

For a moment, a heartbeat of time, something dark and ugly flickered across Cena's face like a shadow cast by candlelight, and the blond woman found herself involuntarily taking a step back. "Mickie's dead," the lead Hunter eventually spat, his tone lifeless. "She's dead, she's gone - and she's got nothing to do with this-"

"No," The female Hunter shook her head. Her countenance had become just as impassive as Cena's, but her eyes blazed blue fire. "No...she has everything to do with this, and we both know it."

As soon as she said it, Beth knew that she had gone too far. Snapping her mouth closed and averting her gaze, she stormed over toward the pair of cots in the sleeping area, angrily stripping off her dusty clothes. She sank down onto her cot, removing her boots and pants before swinging her legs up onto the bed frame and turning her back on Cena.

The abrupt motion sent another hot lightning bolt of pain rocketing across her bruised shoulder, and the blond woman sucked in a sharp breath, reaching back to gently massage it with her fingertips. Her cautious explorations brought another bright hot bubble of pain bursting forth, and Beth let out a reflexive pain-filled gasp.

She heard the quiet thud of the lead Hunter's footsteps behind her, but she didn't turn around - she was still too angry; not just at Cena for his stubbornness...but at herself for thinking that, even after twelve years together, she could conceivably change his mind.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cena's Kevlar vest hit the floor, followed by his black t-shirt, then Beth felt the cot sag a bit as the lead Hunter sank down behind her. His hands touched her shoulders, his thumbs gently massaging the base of her neck. The blond woman stiffened, but only for a moment, before gradually relaxing as Cena slowly but methodically worked the tension and stiffness out of her shoulders, back, and neck.

Beth closed her eyes, a soft contented sigh escaping her throat as the soreness finally began to depart her solidly-build frame. As she did, she felt the lead Hunter inch closer, felt the heat from his body soak into hers as his chest pressed against her back, his hands slipping around around to rest against the flat plane of her abdomen.

The female Hunter trailed her hands along the contours of his muscular forearms, her fingers finding and intertwining with his. Cena dipped his head down, his lips caressing the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. Beth heard a low moan escape her as that feeling surged up inside her - that sensation that was far too intimate to be lust, but yet wasn't love because they weren't in love; they were just two lost souls trying to find a little bit of warmth, a little bit of heat, in all this darkness and cold.

Languidly, she turned her head, and Cena captured her mouth with his, his tongue sliding into her mouth, tangling with hers. The blond woman rotated her body around until she was facing him, running her hands slowly down his chest as she kissed him back, her fingertips finding familiar scar tissue and deciphering it like a blind person reading Braille.

This a daybreak in Kansas City. This an ambush in Denver. This, and this, and this...

Through the drowsy dizzyingly haze that was already beginning to fall over her, she let Cena ease her down onto the cot, aiding him as he peeled away her underwear. She could feel his desire, his urgency, in every kiss and touch and gentle nip that he bestowed on her, but there was no haste, no roughness - as though his only wish was to return the pleasure she was giving him.

It was strange - he was so cold and distant most of the time, but then there were moments like this when he could be so unbelievably tender and loving. When they made love - it was like she could almost see the real him; could almost glimpse the man he had been before the tragedy that had turned his heart to stone.

Cena ran his hands slowly up along the inner skin of her thighs, pushing her legs apart. Beth heard him unbuckling his pants, and closed her eyes, unable to bite back a soft cry as he entered her. The lead Hunter pulled her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and the blond woman clung to him, riding the rhythm of his thrusts, trying to stifle her moans as his tempo increased.

I trust you... - she thought to herself - ...with my life. I'd die for you. Maybe part of me even loves you, for whatever that's worth...but at the same time, I still know almost nothing about you - and that scares me, because it means that you haven't let the past go...

None of us have, really, but I think that you're keeping yours alive, deep down, and that's dangerous; the PAST is DANGEROUS-

And then all of her doubts - along with everything else - ceased to matter as the orgasm crashed over her.

Miami, Florida

It was a few minutes past one. At this time of night, the bars and nightclubs of South Beach were still in full swing, colored strobe lights flashing, loud music of every variety blaring out of open doors and windows, and even though the nightspots weren't as crowded as they would be on a weekend, they all still boasted lines of enthusiastic revelers hoping to gain admission, some stretching as long as a city block.

All of them...except for one.

Unlike the honky-tonk bar on its left, and the discotheque on its right, the front doors of this club were closed, blinds drawn across the large plate-glass windows, the neon sign spelling out its name - LAYCOOL - in large pink cursive letters turned off. In this part of the city, most establishments stayed open until dawn, but here, it wasn't unusual for the bouncers to start herding club-goers out around midnight; locking the doors, closing the blinds, and then vacating the premises along with the rest of the staff.

Over the years, rumors had circulated about what exactly went on within LayCool's walls once everyone had gone. The theories ranged from the mundane to the ridiculous - from drugs to satanic rites - but whatever the reason truly was, it was clear that only the club's employees knew for certain...and they all knew better than to talk.

Inside, the club was sleek and modern - glass-topped furniture, brightly-colored laser lights crisscrossing across the space, a wooden dance floor in front of an ultra-high tech DJ booth - but just like its exterior, was almost completely deserted. Speakers set into the walls poured out the uptempo beats of a Rihanna song - the singer's vocals nearly drowned out by the high-pitched cackling emanating from the VIP booth in the far corner of the club, followed by a sharp directive:

"Hey, bartender! Get your scrawny ass over here!"

Over behind the polished dark wood bar, the employee in question lifted his gaze at the order, but said nothing. Even though he had only been tending bar at LayCool for a few weeks, he had already figured out that his bosses generally barked worse than they bit, but at this time of night - once the club's doors had closed and everyone was gone - they were also at their most unpredictable, and that rare bite could come swiftly and without warning.

And these bitches bit hard.

The bartender looked back down at what he was doing, sprinkling a pinch of sugar into a pitcher of freshly made mojitos. Outwardly, he was unremarkable - average height, wiry build. His dark hair, worn a little bit long, was slicked back, and his dark beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. The only things about his appearance that hinted at a rebellious lifestyle were the few visible tattoos - DRUG FREE across the knuckles of both hands, the number 31 up behind his left ear - and the ring through his lower lip.

He stirred the mixture, then laid the stirring stick aside without tasting the drink - unlike the other bartenders, he never sampled his concoctions - and set the pitcher onto a tray. Hefting it up, he balanced it expertly on one hand while lifting up the hinged section of the bar with the other, his sneaker soles squeaking softly against the wood floor as he headed back toward the VIP area.

The two young women occupying the booth could not have been more different - one was tall and blond, while the other was diminutive and brunette. Their energetic conversing did not slow one iota as the bartender approached their table; their gazes didn't so much as shift in his direction - to them, he might as well have been just another piece of furniture.

The bartender's hazel eyes slid over the details of the scene - the neat lines of pale red powder laid out on the glass tabletop, the rolled-up dollar bill clenched between the blond's thumb and index finger - his countenance unreadable. Taking the pitcher off the tray, he refilled the two glasses before setting it down and picking up its empty twin.

As he did, the blond woman's focus finally shifted his way, her azure irises registering disinterested disdain at his presence. "Took you long enough," Michelle McCool sneered. Lifting the rolled-up bill to her nose, she bent down and snorted a line of the pinkish powder off the table, then sat back, handing the makeshift straw to her companion, sniffing and rubbing her nose with the back of her hand as the mixture of cocaine and powdered blood took effect. Her lips drew back, revealing the tapered tips of her fangs. "Jesus Christ - how much time does it take to make a goddamn mojito, Paul?"

The bartender's mouth twitched with what could have almost been amusement, and he absently scratched his bearded chin. "Actually, it's Phil-"

"Whatever," Michelle cut him off, waving her hand dismissively as though the first name of her employee was a mere insignificant detail. "I know that you haven't been here all that long, but it's a fairly simple concept - as you work here, you work for us, whichmeans...you do what we say."

The blond vampire propped her elbows on the table, linking her fingers together and resting her chin on her hands as she peered scornfully at her subordinate. "So when are you going to get it through your thick skull that when Lay and I tell you to move your ass, you better fucking move your ass?"

Across the table, Layla El giggled, dipping her head down to inhale a line of the chemically enhanced plasma. "You would think, at the rate he's moving, that he's got something more important to do than catering to our needs." She flicked her gaze toward the bartender, her large dark eyes briefly flashing red. "Perhaps he needs a little...motivation."

Michelle's focus, however, remained fixed on the bartender, her blue eyes like glittering chips of ice. "Or maybe, Lay..." she remarked, "...you and I should just consider hiring better help." Her voice, coated with a thick Southern drawl, was casual, almost pleasant...but there was no mistaking the implied threat hovering at the edges of her words.

If Phil was at all intimidated by her warning, he didn't show it - instead, he tucked the tray under his other arm, glancing from one vampire to the other. "Will there be anything else...ladies?" His tone, just like his expression, was perfectly neutral - save for the sarcastic lilt to those last two syllables; barely noticeable...but there nonetheless.

It was also not lost on either vampire, despite their narcotic intoxication; both of them stiffened, sitting up just a little bit straighter. Layla's dark eyes narrowed, boring a hole through their employee. "Yeah..." the brunette bloodsucker replied. Even though she had left London ages ago, she had never quite been able to lose the British accent that clung to her voice, making each syllable sound clipped and brusque. "There is, in fact..."

Her gaze swept over the bartender, lingering on his attire - zipped-up hooded sweatshirt, black cargo shorts, sneakers with no socks - before focusing once more on his face. Her full lips curved up in a haughty smirk. "This is a classy place - so please try not to look like you just came from the skate park."

Michelle let out a snort of laughter, but Phil merely lifted one eyebrow, his countenance still registering nothing. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks." he replied, his tone level. Before the brunette bloodsucker could add anything further, he turned around, heading back toward the bar. "I'll be in the back washing dishes, so make sure to yell extra-loud if you need something."

He paused, then added sotto voce: "Not that volume has ever been a problem for the two of you."

His words - obviously meant to be heard - had precisely the desired effect; both of the female vampires' smirks vanished, replaced by expressions of pure hate. Layla actually rose up out of her seat, but Michelle reached across the table, grabbing the brunette's wrist with both hands and yanking her back down. "Sit down." the blond bloodsucker commanded.

Layla shot her friend a furiously incredulous look. "Didn't you hear what he said? That disrespectful bastard-"

"I heard it," Michelle answered, forcing an even tone through clenched teeth. "and I'm telling you - sit...the fuck...down."

The British vampire's lips pulled back from her teeth in a fanged snarl, but she nevertheless obeyed, settling back down into the padded booth and wrenching her hand free. Together, the two of them watched as Phil disappeared through the swinging doors into the back room, then Layla crossed both arms over her chest, pouting. "I don't trust him," she finally muttered after several long minutes had gone by. "You've seen the way he looks at us - it's not just that he doesn't respect us; he's not afraid of us, either. Plus...he doesn't drink - how can you trust a bartender who doesn't drink?"

Layla shook her head, her dark eyes narrowing. "If you ask me, we'd be better off opening his jugular-"

"I agree with you," Michelle interrupted, her voice cold and terse. "But we can't afford to have another employee go missing - the police come 'round here enough as it is-"

The brunette bloodsucker scoffed, her upper lip curling in contempt. "Who cares about the cops? They know to look the other way - that's what they get paid for-"

"And who do you think pays them?" the blood vampire shot back. She gestured between the two of them. "It's not like it's you or me, Lay. You were there during that last conference call; you heard what she said - one more...incident, like the one with Trent last month, and we're cut off. Period."

Michelle leaned in, her voice growing softer, her demeanor sobering. "That means no more allowance, no more cushy apartment, no more LayCool." She cocked her head to the side. "Is that what you want, Lay? To survive on the streets? To sleep in Dumpsters and feed off of homeless like some sort of...animal?"

The British vampire swallowed hard. "Maryse wouldn't do that," she replied. Her voice, however, was slightly more shaky and high-pitched than it had been a moment ago, and there was a hint of fear glimmering in her dark irises. "Not to us."

"You know that she would." Michelle's tone was flat, emotionless. Her countenance didn't outwardly change...but looking at her face, Layla could see the same instinctual terror flickering at the edges of it. "Ever since she took over, she's been different - that stuff's eating away at her brain-"

The blond bloodsucker stopped, drawing in a breath, the agitation in her eyes reverting back to irritation as she abruptly changed the subject. "Besides - why am I even getting roped into this? I wasn't the one who killed Trent-"

Indignation flashed across Layla's delicate features. "Excuse me? I distinctly remember you taking a couple sips once the blood started flowing! And even if I was, I wasn't the one who left his body in the street for some tourist to stumble over!"

Michelle bristled, her azure eyes narrowing to tiny slits. "Oh, so that's how it's going to be, huh? You're just going to throw me under the bus, like you did during that conference call-"

"Throw you?" Layla retorted hotly. "The way you were talking, you made it sound like the whole thing was my fault-"

Their voices increased in rate and volume, rising up and filling the air above them with the shrill clamor of argument...and then abruptly died away into silence as the bell above the front door tinkled softly.

The two vampires exchanged a look, their mouths dropping open almost in unison. "What did I tell you?" Layla stammered when she had finally recovered her voice. "He's arrogant, he's rude - and now he's leaving the fucking door unlocked-"

Without warning, she jumped up, shoving the table back, the motion rattling the melting ice in the empty glasses and disturbing the thin lines of pale red powder, her stiletto-heeled boots clacking loudly against the wooden floorboards as she stormed toward the front of the club. "Excuse me!" the brunette bloodsucker spat. "Can't you fucking read? We're closed!"

The only thing she could see of the new arrival above the tops of the booth was their black motorcycle helmet, laser lights gleaming dully off its polished surface. The figure reached up, taking hold of the protective gear with both hands, and tugged it off, a thick shock of disheveled golden blond hair tumbling free.

Drawing herself up to her full height - an admittedly less-than-imposing five feet two inches tall - the British vampire closed the distance between her and the newly arrived stranger in less than a second, then suddenly stopped, words momentarily deserting her as she realized with a faint flicker of surprise that their uninvited guest was female.

Despite the two silver rings through her lower lip and a sullen expression that seemed to be etched into her face, the unknown woman was pretty; beautiful, even, with delicately sculpted features and flawless translucent skin. Her blond hair fell to just above shoulder-length, the ends ragged and uneven, as though she'd hacked it off herself, and streaked with hand-dyed stripes of black and neon pink. With her ripped jeans and battered leather jacket, hands encased in black fingerless gloves, the heel of one of her chunky motorcycle boots tipped up against the rung of the barstool, she looked like a bit player from Sons of Anarchy.

More than that...she looked like trouble.

As she stood there, Layla felt a smothering sensation - like being thrown into a burlap sack and shoved underwater - tamp down over her; a total absence of anything that suffocated her senses and made it difficult to string thoughts together. At first, she thought it was the coke kicking in in an unexpected way, but as the feeling persisted, she gradually registered that it wasn't coming from her...but from the strange woman less than a foot away from her.

Human beings weren't nearly as clever as they imagined themselves to be - unbeknownst to them, they walked through life surrounded by an aura of thoughts, feelings, and fears that even the most naive newborn could pick up on. But this chick...it was as though the inner walls of her psyche were lined with lead and walled up with brick because the only thing emanating from her was silence; absolute, unnerving, dead.

The blond woman's attention was not fixed on her - in fact, she had yet to even acknowledge the brunette bloodsucker's presence - but on the bar top, and in spite of her mental disorientation, Layla realized that she had helped herself to a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, which she was presently pouring into a shot glass.

A bolt of incredulous fury surged through the British vampire, jolting her back to the present, and her hand shot out, latching onto the strange woman's wrist, splashing the dark amber liquid onto her and the wooden surface of the bar. "You stupid bitch," the brunette bloodsucker snarled. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Her full lips drew back, baring her fangs. "You picked the wrong place to come barging into-"

Her angry stream of invectives trailed off uncertainly into silence as the blond woman slowly turned her head, her gaze falling on the vampire for the first time. Layla noticed, almost as an afterthought, that her eyes were neither green nor blue, but that nebulous shade somewhere in between - and they were completely dead; no warmth, no life, just unending emptiness.

Layla's first thought was: Drugs, has to be - this chick's stoned out of her gourd... but even before the notion had finished coalescing, she knew that it was false; a lie generated by her mind to stave off the irrational but increasing feeling of unease digging its cold claws into her insides. The blue-green irises staring back at her were far too alert, far too aware, and with each passing second, the vacancy in their depths seemed less like the delayed reaction of a narcotic haze and more like the cold unwavering stare of a snake right before it strikes.

The woman's lips barely moved as she spoke, her voice just as flat and emotionless as her gaze: "Oh, I'm pretty sure I picked the right place."

With a speed that didn't seem possible given her human limitations, she lashed out, grabbing a handful of Layla's thick dark tresses and slamming her face against the bar. There was a faint crack as the brunette vampire's nose broke, and the world around her suddenly became bright and hazy with pain.

Through the cloudy amalgamation of agony, dizziness, and surprise threatening to engulf her, Layla glimpsed a flash off in the peripherals of her vision - the glint of neon light off of metal - and then the pain surrounding her abruptly ratcheted up to a nearly intolerable level as the blade pierced her skin.

Layla howled, the shrill sound more animal than human, looking down in stunned disbelief at the butterfly knife sticking up out of her hand, pinning it to the bar like some fleshy fluttering insect. Dark red blood, thick and hot, streamed from the wound, along with wispy tendrils of smoke - her skin was actually searing whenever it came in contact with the blade.

In spite of the agony overwhelming her, the British bloodsucker's eyes narrowed. Silver. Not only had this bitch come into her club, helped herself to a drink, broke her nose, stabbed her - but she'd had the audacity, the unmitigated gall to use a knife coated with silver.

She looked back up, garbled sounds escaping her throat, all rationality and eloquence reduced to the most rudimentary expressions of rage and hatred. The blond woman met her gaze unflinchingly with a look of detached amusement, as though the vampire was nothing more than a particularly interesting species of bug she was going to enjoy pulling the legs off of.

She cocked her head to the side, flipping back a thick lock of black- and pink-dyed hair with a single slight nod, the hint of what could almost be a smile hovering at the edges of her lips. "And it's Ashley...in case you were wondering."

An unearthly scream cut through the air, accompanied by a colorful blur of motion - Michelle, coming to her friend's rescue. Tearing her gaze away from Layla's, Ashley snatched her motorcycle helmet off the bar and swung it backward, catching the blond vampire right in the jaw.

The CRACK that accompanied it was loud and nasty, like a sledgehammer smashing into an egg. Michelle stumbled back several steps, blood already pouring from her mouth. Before she could even bring her hand up to cover her face, Ashley struck again, the curved surface of the helmet connecting with the point of the vampire's chin.

Michelle's head jerked up sharply, a strangled pain-filled grunt escaping her throat, one pointed tooth actually flying out of her mouth and sailing through the air in a lazy arc. She staggered backward drunkenly, bumping into a nearby table, collapsing onto it. The table, unable to support the sudden change in weight, upended, sending both her and it crashing to the floor.

Ashley let go of the helmet, which thudded against the floor boards, cracking her neck back and forth as she surveyed the results of her handiwork. Satisfied that she had at least temporarily decommissioned the blond bloodsucker, she turned back toward Layla - only to eat a hard kick to the face that spun her around and knocked her down to her knees.

The British vampire loomed over her, breathing hard, red eyes glaring through the curtain of dark tresses hanging in her face. Her injured hand hung at her side, blood running down her slender fingers and pooling on the floor; in the other, she gripped the butterfly knife. Letting out a feral hiss, she drove the pointed toe of her boot into Ashley's ribs, driving the blond woman all the way down to the floor.

Ashley didn't cry out; the only sound that emerged from her was a muffled PAH as the air was forcibly expelled from her lungs. Her hands gripped the floor, the tips of her fingers pressing down so hard that the knuckles flushed white. "You shouldn't have done that," Her voice was thick and labored, but otherwise as flatly emotionless as before.

With effort, she looked back over her shoulder, her blue-green irises locking onto Layla's dark ones, and in spite of the hot blanket of rage enveloping her, the brunette bloodsucker felt a chill creep over her skin. Where there had been nothing in the blond woman's gaze a minute ago, there was now a murderous determination - as though the fact that she was on her stomach, clearly overpowered, was but an inconsequential detail - and Layla found herself wondering if the surly little punk rock chick at her feet was completely out of her mind.

And in that moment, the British vampire realized that she was afraid.

Layla quickly gave herself a mental slap, forcing her mind back to the present. Clearly this irrational foreboding was nothing more than a residual aftereffect of the coke. This bitch Ashley might act all tough, might even have taken her by surprise a moment ago, but even she had to know that it was over now; that there was only one possible way for this to play out.

The brunette bloodsucker pointed the tip of the knife at her assailant. "Oh, I shouldn't?" she echoed mockingly. Despite the unease churning her insides, she forced a sneer onto her face as she slowly shook her head. "You dumb cunt - you have no idea who you're dealing with-"

The roar of the gun drowned out everything else. Layla's petite frame jerked violently, the knife slipping from her fingers. Letting out a wet gurgling sound that was somewhere between a hiccup and a cough, she looked down at the large ragged hole that had inexplicably materialized in her torso with a look of almost comical surprise.

"How about a couple of twats who've overstayed their welcome?"

With the profoundest effort, the British vampire turned toward the source of the voice, her dark irises growing wide as they met the twin black barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. Scuffed and scarred, with duct tape wrapped around the butt, the weapon had obviously seen better days, but the unblinking eyes of its muzzle never wavered, and letting out a stifled whimper, Layla forced her gaze back toward its owner.

Her mouth moved soundlessly in astonishment, opening and closing like a fish. "Paul?"

The newest LayCool bartender sighed, shaking his head almost pityingly. "Like I keep telling you - it's Phil-" He pulled the trigger a second time, and Layla's head disintegrated into a thick mist of blood, brain matter, and skull fragments; all of it reverting into a cloud of ash as it descended toward the floor. The headless body remained standing for an instant or two, then collapsed, crumbling into dust and losing its distinction.

Phil swung the shotgun back to rest against his shoulder, his mouth twisting up in a sardonic half-smile. "-but you can really just call me Punk." he finished. "Everyone does."

No response greeted his remark, and the bearded bartender shifted his gaze to the diminutive figure of Ashley, who by now had made it back to her hands and knees, seemingly unaware of the pale gray ash coating her back and clinging to her ragged golden hair. Punk shook his head, clucking his tongue in mock reprove. "What a mess - no finesse, whatsoever."

The blond woman rolled her eyes. "Says the man with the shotgun." she shot back. She got to her feet, kicking Layla's dusty clothes to the side, massaging her shoulder joint as she rolled her right arm around in its socket.

Punk peered at her, his expression softening a touch. "You all right?"

He got no reply; only a withering look. The tattooed man held up his palm in a relenting gesture. "Sorry - forget I asked. Far be it from me to actually show concern." He drummed his fingers against the duct-taped butt of the shotgun. "It's your own fault, anyway - I told you to wait out back while I took care of them."

Ashley turned around to face him, planting her hands on her hips, her pretty face fixed in a look even more contemptuous than the first. "And let you have all the fun? I don't think so-"

A low groan suddenly rose up from the upended table where Michelle had fallen. The blond vampire sat up, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and moaning. Her mouth was a swollen bloody mess; her face and hair were streaked and smeared with red. "What...what happened?" Her voice was distorted and almost unintelligible. "Lay? Are you all-"

Her voice trailed off as she opened her eyes, her blue irises widening and filled with tears as they focused on the irregular heap of dust and clothing. "Lay?" A sob burst out of her, and she crawled forward awkwardly on hands and knees, sinking her hands into the silty remains of her best friend. "Oh my God, Lay! Layla!" The blond bloodsucker broke down crying, covering her face with her soot-covered fingers as she wept..

The barrel of the shotgun pressed against her head, and Michelle looked up, sniffing, her miserable gaze meeting Punk's neutrally distant one. "Who...who are you?"

Punk shrugged, a faint smirk touching his mouth. "Who, us?" He gestured between himself and Ashley. "We're just here to read the meter."

Very slowly, Michelle drew back, pushing herself backward a few inches with her hands, her focus alternating between Punk and the gun. "You're...you're making a big mistake." There was no response to her declaration, and the blond vampire's voice grew just a touch shriller with panic. "I'm serious! If you kill me, there'll be trouble. You have no idea. You shouldn't have touched us - those are the rules-"

The bartender chuckled; a hollow, empty sound. "Rules?" Punk took a step forward, keeping the barrel of the shotgun trained on Michelle. "Look at me." He nodded his chin in the direction of his female partner. "Look at Ash. Do either of us look like people who give a flying fuck about the rules?"

Behind the blond vampire, Ashley smirked, hooking her thumb into one of her belt loops. Punk went on. "Besides...I'm not the one who brought a fucking Hunter into my club and didn't realize it until he pulled out a shotgun and started shooting."

His voice dropped to a soft relentless murmur. "You honestly think that blond bitch is going to protect you - once she finds out how incompetent you are? Me blowing your brains out - it's probably a mercy compared to what she'll do."

Michelle swallowed hard, perhaps finally grasping that any immunity from harm she might have possessed was rapidly slipping away. "Listen..." she began, her voice skittering upward an octave or two. "You don't have to do this. You could just...let me go - I won't tell anyone about you, I swear!" She pushed herself up to her knees, staring pleadingly up at Punk. "Can't we make some sort of arrangement-"

The bartender, however, was already shaking his head. "Believe me, bitch - there's nothing you have that I want."

"Are you sure?" the blond bloodsucker pressed desperately. "Money? Or information?" At this, the tattooed man rolled his eyes, and Michelle rushed on. "I'm serious! Maryse...she paid me and Lay to listen - and that's what we did; we listened. We-" Her voice faltered a bit as she remembered that she was using the wrong pronoun. "-I heard a lot of things - some of them leading all the way back to her-"

Punk turned his head to the side, peering at the blond vampire out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. "Really?" He crouched down to his haunches. resting the shotgun on his knees, its barrel still aimed in Michelle's direction. "Go on."

Michelle didn't move. "If I tell you..." she whispered hesitantly. "...will you let me live?"

The bartender shrugged. "It couldn't hurt your chances." He gestured impatiently with the gun. "Talk. Now."

The blond bloodsucker swallowed hard, her frightened blue eyes fastened on the shotgun as she spoke. "A couple years ago, something bad happened up north. Something important got lost or stolen - I don't know; I wasn't really paying attention. But ever since then, Maryse told us to keep an eye out for this one particular Hunter and his team - said that she wanted him captured alive; he had taken something that belonged to her."

Michelle averted her gaze for a moment, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "This guy and his crew...they're like fucking Seal Team Six. You don't see them coming, you don't even know they're there until it's too late-"

She hesitated, her gaze drifting briefly over the remains of her best friend with a sort of numb detachment. "-there's even a rumor that they have a vampire helping them; some big guy with metal fangs-"

Punk's hazel eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Does this mythical vampire slayer have a name?" he asked, his voice faintly sarcastic.

Michelle's azure irises flicked up, meeting his once more. Her voice was soft, almost inaudible: "John Cena."

A long tense minute of silence crept by. Finally, Punk let out his breath in a long slow exhale and stood, his knee joints popping faintly. "All right, then." He glanced back toward his female partner. "Ash? You wanna do the honors?"

The blond vampire looked back and forth between the two of them frantically, her blue eyes practically popping out of her skull as it gradually dawned on her that, despite all her effort, this was really and truly the end. "No...wait...wait! You promised! You said you'd let me live-"

"No," Punk interjected, his tone gently patronizing, as though he was correcting a very small child. "I said that it couldn't hurt your chances." He swung the shotgun back, tapping the barrel lightly against the palm of his other hand. "Truth is...I was gonna kill you either way."

Michelle's jaw trembled, tears brimming in her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief. "No...no-" Her wailing abruptly ceased as Ashley reached into her leather jacket and pulled out a 9mm handgun, pressing it against the back of the vampire's skull and pulling the trigger.

The round tore through Michelle's head, bursting through her forehead, and obliterating what remained of her face. Ashley deftly stepped around the twitching body as it deteriorated into ash, flipping the gun up and blowing imaginary smoke from the muzzle. Her blue-green irises slid toward Punk almost perfunctorily. "You were saying something about finesse?" Her tone was faintly mocking.

The tattooed Hunter lifted one eyebrow, his mouth curling up into a half-smile. "Always have to have the last word, don't you?"

Ashley arched her eyebrows slightly, but didn't return the grin. "Always." She brushed past Punk, stopping briefly to retrieve her discarded butterfly knife before heading back to the bar.

The bartender followed her, resting his shotgun on the back of his neck and draping both arms over it. "So...what'd you think of poor departed Michelle's little fairy tale?"

The blond woman let out a derisive snort, wiping the knife blade off on her jeans before flipping it closed and returning it to its hiding spot within an inner fold of her boot. "I think that fanged bitch would have said or done anything to keep you from blowing her head off."

She pulled the half-empty Jack Daniels bottle toward her, touching its neck to the rim of the shot glass and pouring herself another drink. "John Cena's like the bloodsucker equivalent of the Boogeyman - every vamp's got a story about him, and most of them are probably bullshit." Ashley shook her head. "My guess? He's dead. Dead...or he never existed to begin with."

Punk lifted up one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "Maybe, but..." He strolled toward the blond woman, biting his lip thoughtfully. "...what if it's the truth? What if he did take something from that cock-juggling thundercunt, and now he's off the grid, hiding so far underground that he's become a myth, a bedtime story, a morality tale for bad little vampires to take heed of?"

Ashley lifted up the glass of whiskey, downing it before slamming it rim down on the bar top. Grimacing a little as the fiery alcohol burned its way down her esophagus, she rolled her eyes toward the tattooed Hunter. "What are you getting at?" she asked, her tone suspicious.

The bartender gave another slight shrug, his expression a picture of unwitting innocence. "Just that...maybe we should find out for ourselves if this guy and his crew are as good as rumor seems to think they are."

At this, Ashley froze, turning around to face her partner fully, staring at him with what could only be incredulous disdain. "You're insane." she remarked flatly. "You really are. You realize that, if we do find them and we do team up with them, we might as well be putting ourselves at the top of the 'Most Wanted' list - every vamp in the world is going to be after us-"

"-and you'd be loving every second of it," the tattooed Hunter interrupted, a note of affection creeping into his tone. "Admit it - the hunt has always been what really turns you on...and I know you're tired as I am of knocking off liquor stores and tending bar in shitboxes like this." He set the shotgun down on the counter next to the whiskey bottle, leaning in and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, even though it was only the two of them in the club. "And if the stories are true - if Cena really did take something from the HBIC; something she's willing to dedicate all resources to getting back-"

Punk smiled...but his hazel irises remained cold and calculating. "-then who knows - maybe we can use it to our advantage..."