Moonless evenings were the best for hunting.
Certainly, a full moon would have made things a bit easier for him; made the prey easier to spot, easier to track, easier to cut down and devour. But easier was not the same thing as better.
It had taken him many years of hunting to realize that.
A moonless night gave the prey hope. Lack of illumination lent the illusion of escape, of freedom. He could almost hear the prey thinking, "He can't see me, he doesn't know I am here, there is a chance I will live out this night." It was untrue; once targeted as prey, there was no escape. But the prey didn't know that.
He was relentless in pursuit, whether it was over the moors and through the forest wilderness, or through the crowded ballrooms and streets of London. He had learned to enjoy the hunt almost as much as the kill: to glory in his speed and strength, his preternatural senses.
But, his enjoyment of it notwithstanding, the true purpose of the hunt was the kill. And he was a most magnificent killer.
He had been following the prey for hours, toying with him like a cat with a wing-clipped sparrow. He allowed him moments of rest, watching him from the blanketing darkness. He enjoyed the way nature assisted him in his game: the sounds a forest made at night terrified his prey. Truly, the man was more afraid of the forest than he was of the hunter.
But that would change. Soon.
It wasn't as if the man didn't deserve to know fear. He thought himself a master in the infliction of the emotion: a dark priest of ancient demons, an acolyte of the devil. He felt that the screams he tore from the throats of his innocent victims were purchasing him a special seat at the right hand of the Dark One.
The hunter felt otherwise.
He called to mind his prey's last victim. Her fingers, pale white digits painted with her own blood, had twitched under his when he leaned over her. He had been shocked that she was alive still, but had quickly realized that she would not be among the living much longer. Even if he had offered her a choice, there was no guarantee that she would survive the Change.
As he leaned over her, she opened her eyes (strange eyes, the colour of spring's first violets) and locked her gaze with his. "Please," she whispered. "Please stop him."
"I will. I swear it." Hearing that, she closed her eyes again, and tilted her head to the side. Her golden hair fell from her neck, exposing the white column. The scent of her blood was thick in the air.
"Take it," she whispered. "I won't mind so much if it is you that ends my life."
He had wanted to protest, but the blood-hunger in him was stronger than he had realized. As he lowered his head, as he drank in her life, he tasted no fear, only sorrow and regret. He had stroked her hair until it was over. He had buried her body, and laid flowers on her grave. And then he began his hunt.
Others of his kind thought him strange for choosing his victims with such care. While the others took their victims randomly, he delighted in taking those who harmed other humans. He said that the blood of evildoers had a special taste to it. Not for his immortal life would he admit to any of the others that he got satisfaction from the knowledge that he was killing monsters. Monsters that were far more prolific than his own kind.
The prey stirred slightly, shifting the branches of the shrub he hid in. The hunter smiled slightly: feral and cruel. Swift and silent as the shadows, he moved into position behind his prey. He stretched a hand out, and tapped the unsuspecting man's shoulder. The prey shrieked, and spun around to face the hunter.
"You should probably run now."
The sheer terror in the eyes of the prey was priceless. Stubby legs tangled together as he tried to turn and run simultaneously, and he landed in the same shrub he had used for shelter. The hunter placed one booted foot on the small of the prey's back, grinding his heel slightly.
"You'd prefer to play, then?" Mocking.
He dropped down, straddling the fallen man. Leaning down so his mouth was at the prey's ear, he whispered, "I was hoping to show you what I learned from a girl named Rachel…I thought you might appreciate it." He could hear the sudden increase in the prey's heartbeat. "Rachel asked me to show you, especially…" The prey's eyes widened, and the scent of terror increased.
He wrenched the prey's limp body around, still straddling his waist, and brought his face in close. As if by design, the clouds above parted, allowing a thin thread of moonlight to catch on the hunter's face. He bared his teeth, knowing that the elongated canines would be limned with the light, and growled.
The man beneath him whimpered, and wet himself.
"I'll begin now."
Hours later, with the dawn rapidly approaching, the hunter stepped back from the ravaged carcass, and delicately brushed his hand across his mouth. Delicious.
He could feel the dawn approaching, tendrils of daylight reaching into the night sky. He didn't fear the day the way his European counterparts seemed to, but neither did he relish it. Bright light didn't agree with him, and the countryside seemed to have more than its fair share. There was only one thing for him to do.
The hunter must return to London Town.
Certainly, a full moon would have made things a bit easier for him; made the prey easier to spot, easier to track, easier to cut down and devour. But easier was not the same thing as better.
It had taken him many years of hunting to realize that.
A moonless night gave the prey hope. Lack of illumination lent the illusion of escape, of freedom. He could almost hear the prey thinking, "He can't see me, he doesn't know I am here, there is a chance I will live out this night." It was untrue; once targeted as prey, there was no escape. But the prey didn't know that.
He was relentless in pursuit, whether it was over the moors and through the forest wilderness, or through the crowded ballrooms and streets of London. He had learned to enjoy the hunt almost as much as the kill: to glory in his speed and strength, his preternatural senses.
But, his enjoyment of it notwithstanding, the true purpose of the hunt was the kill. And he was a most magnificent killer.
He had been following the prey for hours, toying with him like a cat with a wing-clipped sparrow. He allowed him moments of rest, watching him from the blanketing darkness. He enjoyed the way nature assisted him in his game: the sounds a forest made at night terrified his prey. Truly, the man was more afraid of the forest than he was of the hunter.
But that would change. Soon.
It wasn't as if the man didn't deserve to know fear. He thought himself a master in the infliction of the emotion: a dark priest of ancient demons, an acolyte of the devil. He felt that the screams he tore from the throats of his innocent victims were purchasing him a special seat at the right hand of the Dark One.
The hunter felt otherwise.
He called to mind his prey's last victim. Her fingers, pale white digits painted with her own blood, had twitched under his when he leaned over her. He had been shocked that she was alive still, but had quickly realized that she would not be among the living much longer. Even if he had offered her a choice, there was no guarantee that she would survive the Change.
As he leaned over her, she opened her eyes (strange eyes, the colour of spring's first violets) and locked her gaze with his. "Please," she whispered. "Please stop him."
"I will. I swear it." Hearing that, she closed her eyes again, and tilted her head to the side. Her golden hair fell from her neck, exposing the white column. The scent of her blood was thick in the air.
"Take it," she whispered. "I won't mind so much if it is you that ends my life."
He had wanted to protest, but the blood-hunger in him was stronger than he had realized. As he lowered his head, as he drank in her life, he tasted no fear, only sorrow and regret. He had stroked her hair until it was over. He had buried her body, and laid flowers on her grave. And then he began his hunt.
Others of his kind thought him strange for choosing his victims with such care. While the others took their victims randomly, he delighted in taking those who harmed other humans. He said that the blood of evildoers had a special taste to it. Not for his immortal life would he admit to any of the others that he got satisfaction from the knowledge that he was killing monsters. Monsters that were far more prolific than his own kind.
The prey stirred slightly, shifting the branches of the shrub he hid in. The hunter smiled slightly: feral and cruel. Swift and silent as the shadows, he moved into position behind his prey. He stretched a hand out, and tapped the unsuspecting man's shoulder. The prey shrieked, and spun around to face the hunter.
"You should probably run now."
The sheer terror in the eyes of the prey was priceless. Stubby legs tangled together as he tried to turn and run simultaneously, and he landed in the same shrub he had used for shelter. The hunter placed one booted foot on the small of the prey's back, grinding his heel slightly.
"You'd prefer to play, then?" Mocking.
He dropped down, straddling the fallen man. Leaning down so his mouth was at the prey's ear, he whispered, "I was hoping to show you what I learned from a girl named Rachel…I thought you might appreciate it." He could hear the sudden increase in the prey's heartbeat. "Rachel asked me to show you, especially…" The prey's eyes widened, and the scent of terror increased.
He wrenched the prey's limp body around, still straddling his waist, and brought his face in close. As if by design, the clouds above parted, allowing a thin thread of moonlight to catch on the hunter's face. He bared his teeth, knowing that the elongated canines would be limned with the light, and growled.
The man beneath him whimpered, and wet himself.
"I'll begin now."
Hours later, with the dawn rapidly approaching, the hunter stepped back from the ravaged carcass, and delicately brushed his hand across his mouth. Delicious.
He could feel the dawn approaching, tendrils of daylight reaching into the night sky. He didn't fear the day the way his European counterparts seemed to, but neither did he relish it. Bright light didn't agree with him, and the countryside seemed to have more than its fair share. There was only one thing for him to do.
The hunter must return to London Town.