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The hunt. To some it symbolized everything wrong with vampire-kind. To others it was a hassle, infringing on their time, something to be dodged and circumvented by vampiric powers such as those held by Necromancers. Some found it just another part of the humdrum their undead existence consisted of. To vampires like Trahir it was the best part of the Requiem. It was a time he could release the bloodlust within. He lived for it, figuratively speaking. He awakens in the sarcophagus, now heavily cushioned where prior to meeting Dominique it had been simple stone, and looks over his rousing, and arousing bedmate. He takes in every curve of her magnificent body, every hue of every bit of ink adorning her skin. As she is waking still he chooses a target spot, the crook of a slender arm and, taking her hand in his he extends her arm past his face and sinks his fangs into the soft flesh at the inner bend of her elbow. Just a sip, a lick to seal the wound and a kiss on supple skin to start his evening. Immediately the euphoric taste and feeling hits him, followed by the intoxicating scent of her as he inhales sharply through both nose and mouth.

He can almost see something in his mind when he sips from her, as though some vital part of that which makes her who she is waiting to be shared with him through the blood if he can just find the key to unlock it.

The hunting of Jane had been long and not without cost. It had changed them both in ways neither of them had expected. They found in their bond a mutual exchange of power in the blood, adapting around each other and developing powers and weaknesses as they had danced through the violent nights after their first fateful meeting. It had not happened at all how Trahir had intended. She had interrupted his feeding. He had decided to teach her a lesson for doing so. Upon learning she was the vampiric version of a breatharian, Trahir had endeavored to corrupt her. He has taken it upon himself to make her feed, knowing the potency of the act, the intimacy of it would awaken the Darkness within her.

In that sense it had been a resounding success, all for the part where the Darkness in her called out to the Darkness in him and forever altered them both. Blood and shadows now bound them together in ways no second hand emotion could hope to achieve. He could feel emotions stirring within him as she felt them and his bloodlust seemed to have awakened its mirror image within her. As opposite as they were they were becoming reflected within each other.

Dracula ******* Trahison (as she had once, unbeknownst to Trahir, thought of him) had found in her his three brides wrapped up into one inked goddess. The lioness within her had been brought out at his not so gentle goading and in turn, the man within him had been brought back to life at her own prodding.

It was a perfect example of Beauty and the Beast. As Trahir forced Jane to become more monstrous, she in turn brought to him a sense of humanity. They were so opposite they created a balance of sorts within their counterpart. At this point it was clear Trahir was the predator, but at the same time Jane was not truly prey any longer. She was complicit and within her submission to the Killer laying next to her and the one that dwelled within her own soul, Trahir found that she had gained some sort of sway over him. It was a curious symbiosis, one that kept Trahir off guard and guessing, never knowing how she would react but confident that in the end it would strengthen their bond.

Their bond. Blood. Such a simple thing. A fluid flowing through the veins of the living. The source of immortality for the undead. It carried within it everything needed by the vampire to survive even as the taking of it robbed the owner of their very life. Not so with them. They exchanged small amounts of blood frequently over the past few nights, usually during carnal acts, the feeding from one another part of the pleasure given to and taken from one another. Trahir wondered if that had an effect on their powers developing in seeming response to each other. They were definitely becoming entwined in ways Trahir had not known were possible. Not just between the sheets so to speak either.

Releasing her arm he waits for her to turn toward him and gives her a soft kiss, flavored with their combined blood courtesy of a fang slipped into his own lip, an action he has become accustomed to since their relationship turned from physical violence to physical pleasuring.

"I feel like being social." Trahir's version of social involves going to a social event, museum, club or bar and selecting a victim. Once selected he waits for them to leave, stalks them back to where they live and studies them. Once he has determined if they are a suitable vessel from observation he decides if he can get away with killing them during the feeding and begins to plan the actual murder and cover up/clean up all before executing the plan usually several nights later.

In the meantime Trahir usually resorts to his usual feeding grounds, the slums, where missing persons are expected and rarely draw the eye of the public. All one usually has to do is drink, seal the wound and shoot the victim with any gun one can find in the gangland slums. As long as one is careful not to leave a witness the killing goes down as gang-related and that's the end of it.

Not many mourn the loss of another career criminal. One would be lost shortly, a different type, a much worse type. That would however simply be a detour before the real hunt. Criminals should really stay in Newborough... they didn't belong in Old Town or Cherrydale.

Being social involves a lot more planning and foresight than the standard stalk and grab method Trahir had seen Jane engage in. It is art to Trahir. A way to hone his mind, pitting himself against the mortal authorities, the police, the press, detectives, hunters, all of them. It is the difference between a thug doing a smash and grab at a break in or a cat burglar heisting the crown jewels.

When killing, he rarely uses the same method twice. Doing so is a way to be alert humans to the presence of a serial killer in their midst and create a pattern in one's behavior that investigators and other authorities can use to start building a profile. That has led to more that one otherwise undetectable serial killer getting caught. That was the reason for the detour tonight. A serial killer had gotten sloppy. Serial killers caused panic amongst the herd and a spooked herd made predation difficult.

No, Trahir avoided patterns for the most part. Most of the time he left no body to be discovered. He was responsible for more than his share of the faces adorning missing persons flyers and plastered on the back of milk cartons though.

"Would you like to come with me?" He asks Jane as he draws back from her lips, his eyes shifting as they seek hers from blue to gold, the pupil becoming the vertical slit of the nocturnal predatory reptile. Her blood always awakens this reaction within him. Even the slightest taste like the one he had just sipped brought out the beast within the vampire.

It never failed to bring the desire for the hunt to the forefront of his brain, to excite the part of him that controlled his baser urges.

It was hunt or ****. The mounting lust within needed an outlet and it would be one or the other if not both.

That evening it would be hunt. Dominique reminded him she had business in Toronto. Something for her shop. She didn't explain, as was her custom and Trahir didn't try to interfere or press her for information as was his custom. He trusted Jane. He knew only what little of her past he had gleaned from hearsay and rumor, but disregarded it as it was second or third hand information. He judged her solely on what interaction lay between them and he knew her to be upfront and honest with him, guarded sometimes, but always honest. More importantly, she was ~his~.

After she assured him she would return before sunrise, the two parted ways. Trahir prepared for his planned evening. There was something he'd been meaning to get rid of for a while floating around Cherrydale. Vermin. Vermin needed to be exterminated...

Three hours later...

In his living room at his home in Cherrydale Mr. McPherson sat up straight in a chair. He didn't slouch, his posture was like his business suit, immaculate. A couple short hours ago he had been sitting at his favorite watering hole, hitting on the young hotties who came in to find their next sugar daddy. Mr. Timothy McPherson, owner of one of Harper Rock's funeral homes had money in abundance. Business as they say, was good in Harper Rock. The thing he lacked was a ***** to spend it on. It was voluntary to a decree. He was not going to tie himself down to an old hag. Nor a stupid ho. It was hard to find a woman who both looked good and had a brain. At this point he was mostly focused on them looking good and putting out a DTF vibe.

His M.O. was pretty simple. He would get the chick he targeted a drink, slip in next to her talking on the phone to an imaginary person and make sure that by the end of the "call" the young ***** next to him knew he was a wealthy man. He dated the women that his co-workers and friends set him up with but there was no chance of him staying with them. He really wasn't looking for a permanent relationship anyway. These dates didn't last long because he didn't try to let them.

There were things his friends and workers didn't know about him.

He loved a warm body beside him but he was more inclined toward a cold one. Mr. McPherson was a necrophiliac. He had been at the club getting another top shelf appletini when his nights conquest came in through the doors. She was smoking hot. Tattooed, brunette, nice slim waist, hips *** and tits to die for and a gorgeous face to match her figure. Her long legs needed to be wrapped around him.

He loved taking a young dumb whore like this one home. They were always vapid gold diggers, useless to talk to but easy to outsmart and impress with a little show of wealth. He would take them home after offering them a drink. The cocktail would be spiked of course. Rohypnol.

Once he was done with them living he would smother them or choke them while he reached the height of his passion. He always tried to time his orgasm so it came as the life left their terrified eyes. So far he had only succeeded once.

The bodies he kept around to play with for a few days before he took them down to his basement and dumped them into one of the twenty or so fifty gallon drums he keeps around for his trophies, twelve of which are full. They were all so well preserved... the room smelled of embalming fluid and car air fresheners. The things dangled from the ceiling by the thousands it seemed. He liked the smell of them.

That was two hours ago... now...

He looks straight forward, staring at a black-clad younger man sitting nearby. He tries to get up, to move but his body won't respond. It isn't just the Rohypnol flowing through his system. The guy across from him had wavy brown hair, blue eyes and impossibly white teeth. He was handsome, maybe women would even find him hot. Mr. McPherson figured the dude likely got more than his share of pussy. He wonders briefly why his limbs won't move.

"Wha-why are you doing this?" Mr. McPherson stuttered out to the other man. "What do you want with me?"

The other man says nothing for the moment. He merely watches as the woman from the bar, the ho from the bar with all the tats, comes out from the kitchen. She has a roll of duct tape in her hand.

"If it's money, you can take it! I won't tell anyone!"

The other man stares impassively as the woman steps around McPherson, the sound of duct tape being pulled loose from the roll fills his ear right next to his head. Then she is knelt down, strapping his wrists and upper forearms to the arm of the chair, then his legs at the ankle and upper shin.. Once all four limbs are individually restrained, the woman walks in front of him and starts to wrap his chest, strapping his torso to the chair as well right underneath the armpits and then again at the waist.

"Don't do this, don't do this!! Please, let me go!" McPherson blubbered to the pair in front of him. "I don't want to die, please don't do this!!"

That is when the man across from the crying serial killer rose to his feet and walked over to the chair. He stepped around McPherson and out of his sight. A moment later the chair tilted back and stopped in its backward motion, caught by a dolly. The man begins to wheel McPherson toward the steps leading down to his basement.

"Bring the truck." he instructs the tattooed woman.

McPherson struggles ineffectively against his bonds as he goes down each step with a dull thud of the wheels of the dolly landing on each one. The man behind him gives no sounds of exertion from the task of lowering his 200 lbs frame the fourteen steps down and then he is wheeled toward the barrels, but then McPherson is yelling too loudly to have heard him if he did.

The man walks around his hostage and opens the top of one of the barrels before walking back to McPherson and lifting both him and the chair he is secured to up and into the container with impossible ease then delivering a slap to the side of Tim's head that leaves him hearing a dull ringing in his ears and cuts of his hollering.

The man leans down to eye level and smiles at McPherson, who is neatly in the container all but his head sticking out of it. With that little twisted grin the man walks out of sight once more, returning with the hose that leads to the container of embalming fluid. McPherson's eyes widen as he realizes what his captor intends. The hose drops into the barrel with him.

"Mr. McPherson, Tim, is it okay if I call you Tim? You were going to rape, murder and then further engage in sexual relations with Nicolette, the lovely young lady upstairs. I've been watching you Tim. Don't bother denying it." The man grins again. "I've been planning to come for you you see, but the issue is I needed an invitation into your house. Thanks for that by the way. Switching the drink at the bar you had intended for Nicolette for your own and then her driving you home while you were messed up was genius wasn't it? You extended the invitation just to be able to lie down. Drugs are bad Tim they make you do stupid things, stupid mistakes."

In the chair, surrounded by the sides of the fifty gallon drum, Tim McPherson discovers an entirely new level of hopelessness and fear as he sees the man's eyes for the first time, really sees them. They are the eyes of those he has see so often on his work table, empty, cold, dead. He begins to scream.

His captor gets up and walks over to the container for the embalming fluid. "It was bad enough when you were doing your thing to the bodies you were working on. But then you decided you needed fresh ones. I'm not judging you on that scale Tim. Killing is part of life. But you never should have gone after my Nicolette."

As he speaks he wraps several passes of duct tape over the mortal's mouth, muffling his protestations.

The end of the hose sputters and spurts a second or two before the embalming fluid begins to flood out into the barrel. "At least you'll be fresh when they find you Tim. Maybe you'll luck out and whoever handles your body with have the same tastes you do. Wouldn't that be just lovely for you?"

Mr. McPherson continues his muffled screams.

Once the barrel is filled to a half inch from the top, Trahir takes the lid and secures it, pushing Tim's head down, submerging the man in the formaldehyde he used for his own victims. Tahir turns and walks to the back door. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you Tim. See you later." With that Trahir leaves the man in the barrel and exits the house.

The snowflakes looked like stars falling from the sky when one looked up into the blackness above as Trahir stepped out from the house. The nights came on faster now than in the heat of the summer and now winter loomed on the horizon. It was yet to make its full presence known to the denizens of Harper Rock but with the light accumulation of the white powder from the heavens the message was clear. It was on the way.

Trahir, hater of all things winter, had left the side of his former adversary and current lover to hunt while she handled business out of town for her shop. Trahir Trahison did not dig into her business matters. Besides if Dominique felt he should know, she would tell him. Trahir respected that she was a private person. He was not in the habit of divulging his business either unless it served a purpose. The absence of his constant companion of late weighs on him for some reason. Despite being a solitary creature, Trahir finds himself missing her.

Already in the beginning phases of a bad mood, the weather, the lack of prey inhabiting the streets and the man now pickling in embalming fluid being too disgusting for Trahir to want to drink from all come together to add further to his frustration. He has only hunted during the spring and summer months to this point when prey is abundant enough to keep a vampire glutted. The dearth of humans out and about during the first snowfall that seems to be sticking is an unwelcome reality to the stalking Killer.

As he watches the falling flakes Nicolette backs a U-Haul truck up the driveway and stops near the basement door. It takes only moments for Trahir to load the barrels from MacPherson's basement into the back of the truck with his preternatural strength and speed. Before locking and closing the door behind him he flicks an old coin found in the sewers onto the floor over where the barrels had been. Let the paladins take the wrap if questions are asked.

After sending Nicolette off to drop the U-Haul off at the farm and then to handle her human necessities for the week, such as grocery shopping, he heads down the street a few blocks to the big grey 1925 Rolls Royce Phantom parked outside the gas station. Getting in he brings the engine to life with the turn of a key and lets the car idle a few minutes to warm up.

Turning on the radio he fills the car with the sounds of Mozart and pulls out from the parking lot, maneuvering the beautiful antique car south out of Cherrydale where Mr. McPherson resided until moments ago and heads toward Coastside. Thinking of where to try finding a feed he decides to try out the High Noon Saloon, he had heard the name spoken In the slums. Perhaps he will try his luck there. He has no havens in that immediate area and Coastside has been good to him in the past as far as feeding went. He ends up looking up at the ironically named establishment and figures with a name like that it has to be either hunter or vampire owned. Either way, prey may lurk within. He parks the car and steps out.

The humor of a vampire walking into the High Noon Is not lost on the young Killer and he smiles slightly at the thought. Then he makes his way Into the western themed bar, pulling open the door leading in. Perhaps inside he will find a suitable vessel to slake his thirst.

At least he may fit in with his black boots and black duster even though his car looks very out of place outside of it.

Flurries floated thru the air settling on the large inanimate object leaning against the fence of the corral. It did not give off enough heat to melt the crystalline flakes gathering in small mounds, slowly encapsulating it. It was almost as though the von Drols had found one of the old seven foot tobacco wooden indian statues on E-bay, and left it out in the pasture. Before it two horses gamboled in the fresh white blanket that coated their playland. One a massive shire, the other a rather diminutive gypsy, both moving easily as they turned and circled through the paddock. A familiar scent caught the olfactory senses of the shire on and inhale, which he quickly snorted out, his head disappearing in a cloud of steam. The large roman nosed stallion swung its head to stare at the snow covered statue, then with slow stately steps stomped its way towards the rails. Towering over the snow coated object the shire stallion lowered its head and drew a deep breath then stamped his left from hoof as he exhaled with an explosive snort. Flurries blasted into the air as the top portion of the effigy appeared revealing glittering heterochromic eyes and a faint smile. The lips parted and a rumbling “Leviathan…” slipped out as a hand rose to stroke the majestic head.

Mordechai straightened, standing up to his full seven foot three as he shook the remnants of snow from his duster and leaned into the stallion’s neck patting it firmly. Weeks of hunting and killing in Elmhurst had slowly drained the last of his emotions from him. The killer had not seen his kennedy for a recharge and his perceptions had narrowed to black and white, prey and predator, nothing in between. His world had narrowed into what he did best, efficiently eliminating those he had deemed unnecessary from the face of the earth. It had reached the point that he had no interaction with any others, other than the nightly slap on the wrist when he caught the necromancer that lead the Tytonidae trying to slip her hands into his pockets. Stepping forward he pressed his shoulder up into Leviathan’s chest using his preternatural strength to force the stallion back a step before it lowered its head, digging its mighty hoofs into the frozen turf and pushing back, his New Rocks sliding, cleats leaving scars in the soil as they once more played the game of push - o - war. The smile deepened. It had been months since last he came to visit Leviathan at the von Drol stables. For so long they had practiced and trained until Mordechai had been called to help with an eradication, one that seemed to go on with no end in sight. His life outside of hunting had been neglected, forgotten. That needed to change.

He had stepped out of the castle, the flurries in the air capturing his attention, he had looked up into the sky, then without a word leapt towards the clouds. His form had shimmered then resolved into a massive harpy eagle, winging higher and higher into the clouds. The snow in the air had soon obscured him from sight, and he had winged his way west. The freedom of flight had reminded him of the majestic shire tucked away in the farms outside of Cherrydale, and he circled winging his way easily through the night skies to descend upon the boarding stables and visit his stallion.

Fisting a handful of mane, the killer leapt easily onto the shires back, for once his brobdingnagian proportions not appearing out of sync with his environment. The shire stood eighteen and two at the withers, not the largest ever, but large enough to carry the Sangue killer with ease. Guiding the well trained steed with his knees, and a bit of a lean, Mordechai turned Leviathan along the classic post and rail fence and kicked him up into an easy canter. The triple hoof beat of the canter echoed across the rolling fields, their combined weight topped twenty six hundred and the iron shod hooves kicked up divots of soil as the Leviathan’s thick feathers fluffed clouds of flurries back up into the crisp air. Mordechai gave the big horse a sound workout before directing him into the stables where he slipped from the shires back, and gave him a thorough rub down, drying the sweat and massaging the muscles before turning him loose again. The killer needed to make the time to finish Leviathan’s training, and then keep his promise to Iris and her sire.

Watching as his shire sidled up next to kennedy’s little cob, Mordechai once more leapt, and transformed. He was not done this night, and circled south winging his way to one of his favorite perches, atop the smokestack of the abandoned power plant in Coastside. The flurries in the air had no effect on the sharp eyes of the harpy as it ruffled its feathers for warmth and watched closely the humans and pyres that made their way into Prudence’s business venture. He occasionally worked security with J.J at the High Noon and between that and his natural proclivities, Mordechai always had an eye on the patrons and the door when he was near. The eagle stretched his wings, a few tentative flaps shaking the snow from his wings as he prepared to launch once more, when a face in the crowd caught his eye.

Trahir Trahison. Instead of launching up into the air, the harpy folded its wings and rolled forward, coasting in an easy dive that culminated in a shimmering of the air as the eagle became man, landing behind the Saloon with the thud of two New Rocks slamming into the macadam. It seemed that ‘that’ male was turning up more and more. Every time Mordechai had left the solitude of the castle lately, he crossed trails with the fledgling killer, almost as if the male was searching him out. Maybe it was time. Time to end the speculation. Maybe to end something more. With a nod to J.J. Mordechai silently slipped down the entrance hall.

Trahir looked around at the clientele of the establishment. He was a fussy eater, preferring to select his prey carefully, on the occasions he took to the town and socialized. He had never been to the High Noon Saloon previously and it was looking to be somewhere he should have placed on his list of haunts long before now. The atmosphere is laid back, the women seem to be here to be picked up. It looks like an easy place to find a feed compared to some of the other venues he has lent his patronage while on the prowl for sustenance. As he lets his gaze travel, seeking the one who will quench the eternally present thirst that drives him out of the safety of his haven each night his eyes find themselves alighting on the large frame of a vampire he has seen now several times throughout the city. Mordechai.

Trahir had bid on the man,and lost in that bidding war when he was told his family was not participating in the event. The young Killer feels the urge to remove himself from the place, the Darkness within him recognizing perhaps a more powerful predator, one who could, if he so desired, pose more than a minor threat to Trahir. Mordechai was capable of dismantling Trahir where he stood. Worse was the fact they both knew it.

Trahir doesn’t know if the giant is a regular at this place or if he is following him for whatever reason but he decides finding out would be prudent. He casually walks toward Mordechai, giving him a single tilt of his chin upward in recognition. The gesture is also one crocodiles use to acknowledge a stronger crocodile, tilting the head up is a gesture stating I know you can take me. He is fairly sure that the other vampire, even if angered for whatever reason, is not going to leap to the attack here in front of all the humans present in the busy establishment.

He makes his way through the crowd and upon arriving where Mordechai inhabits a substantial amount of space, Trahir leans against the wall and looks up to the man. “How are you doing Mordechai?” In truth Trahir had planned to seek out the big man at a future date to discuss something with him, but there is no time like the present. “Do you enjoy hunting?”