Path of the Vampire forum

Myk should have understood by now that some needs are optional and some are not.

The Telepath could put off his cravings with lesser pleasures, but only for a time. Sleep was more a luxury than a necessity these nights, even if he was capable of tiring. Music was a beautiful motivator and cathartic influence too, but it could be drowned out by the serenading of the streets. Sexual satiation - even from the most arbitrary of places and people - was a fleeting escape. And every tiny jewel that Myk could set his pewter eyes upon quickly dulled with age and experience. These small things were mere distractions in the face of his desires, and inevitably - fatefully - Myk would always feel that hunger. It was that hunger - that growing ache that reached his innards and left him humming with fever and complaint - which Myk could never escape.

It was raining that night. The scent of life washed away with the pounding water, rinsing the world of its sins. From his silent stance beneath the stone overhang of a baroque archway, the Telepath relished the sights and sounds surrounding him. It was always a pleasant feeling to mix amongst these strange, oblivious folk. One of Myk’s favourite past-times was people watching and he often dressed purposely to stimulate responses. The Telepath’s wardrobe featured a wide range of outfits, from the damn-right terrifying, to mildly quirky, and occasionally normal, casual attire. Myk’s wardrobe had many styles as well, with Circus ware, Gothic-chic, Victorian themes, Steampunk, Kawaii, Cyberpunk, Fetish, and Visual Kei featuring predominantly. Just as spontaneous and varied, was Myk’s selection of make-up, accessories, hair styles, and shoes. As it happened, however, on this night Myk was absorbed in the shadows of reticence.

The Telepath was dressed rather plainly in stone-wash jeans, a long-sleeved, hooded shirt, and heavy-duty boots. His hair was ironed flat in rivulets that poured down to his navel like milk; a sharp contrast to the black of his attire. His features were quiet; white foundation perfected his cashmere complexion while smoky eye-liner, rose eyeshadow, and a layer of mascara framed his pewter eyes. His lips were unnaturally pale at the edges, but were kissed with the softest hint of rose in the centre; a common ombre lipstick trend in Asian countries. All his features were proportionate and striking; highlighted and shadowed with expert contouring. The balance of masculinity and femininity was so even that he straddled the line of androgyny and sexlessness - something unnatural and alien to the world.

Myk took in a breath as he closed his eyes; the oxygen wasn’t needed of course, but the habit was there. The inhale of damp, sweet air was also calming. The Telepath’s shoulders slumped and his back pressed against the wall. He could stay here for hours, undisturbed, unwatched, and unwanted. Ordinarily these sentiments might have made the Vampire fret, but tonight, Myk needed to be alone. Yet, the comforting, clean scent of rain was soon dominated with blood, and the soothing patter of each heavy drop was drowned out by the beating of human hearts. The Telepath finally opened his eyes to gaze out at the city, pewter orbs full of contempt for any and all who dared to entreat on his attention.

Thump, thump, thump…

That sound. That all-encompassing sound was closer now.

Thump-thump-thump…

And quicker still.

Myk glared at those who scurried by him like frightened mice, but just like the lightning in the skies above, it all disappeared. All was silent once more - save for the rain - and the Telepath closed his eyes again.

The first sensation Myk could place as the dregs of a dreamless sleep crept away from him was the tug on his sleeve. Pewter eyes dripped down his own arm, crooning past the ripped and layered black fabric to the discrete, long-fingered hand that settled its weight on Myk’s elbow. Myk lifted his head suddenly and the force of the motion made his pewter eyes roll drunkenly in his skull. A high-pitched tone droned on in Myk’s ears, drowning out the voices of those around him. It was difficult to focus for a few moments, but Myk made out a prominent face amongst so much fog and darkness. Two piercing blue eyes pulled out of a roundish face, a square jaw hung low amid two boulder-sized shoulders. A torso, cloaked in a staunch grey overalls, lit up the part of Myk’s brain that recognised symbols. Pewter eyes, now clear and sharp, looked back to the janitor’s pug-like face with a scowl.

“You can’t sleep here, sir.”

Myk frowned, his movements sluggish and trembling and his mind bewildered. When he tried to remember the events of this night though, his memories scattered and floated away like paper scraps caught in an updraft. Myk snatched at the soaring memories, determined to remember, but he couldn’t collect enough to form a comprehensible picture. The first thing he could keep hold of was the memory of the rain and how he’d taken shelter beneath an archway near Cedar Court. He remembered the lightning flash and nothing more, nothing more than waking to this man leering at him and gripping his arm tightly as he woke, finding himself seated at a table in the middle of a library. The young thumping hearts of students and the frailer heart of janitor were keeping him alarmed, but the anxious looks on their faces made him bitter and jealous.

Myk tried to pull away, pewter eyes narrowing, but the janitor would not release him.

“Are you… ok?” the man continued to ask.

“No,” Myk seethed in return. “You’re hurting me.”

“I’m sorry...”

Finally the grip on his arm ceased and Myk felt a breath of air pull out of his lungs like it was attached to the man’s sleeve. He hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath or that he had been so tense as to claw into the wooden desk beneath him with his razor-sharp fingernails. Pewter eyes glared relentlessly into the small blue orbs that sank away into the man’s face as he whispered warnings directly into his skull. The mind of this mortal was as malleable as wet sand and when the Telepath applied the right amount of pressure, he shaped it into a palace to rule from. Those piercing blue eyes became dull, scuffed over like old marbles, and his arms dropped to his side like a marionette.

“I’m sorry,” the janitor repeated. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

And just like that, the bewitched mortal turned his back and left the white-haired Vampire to his devices. He took a moment to survey the area. The room had a chessboard floor and about fifty shelves fanning out from a central reception area. Six or seven people were sitting at tables, working. A man in a thickly knitted sweater was reading Fisherman's Week. There was a woman prowling through the hardback books, running her manicured nails along the spines as she passed. Myk ran his fingers through his hair, teasing his scalp with his talons, and sighed deeply. He hadn’t the foggiest idea of how he’d gotten here or why, but he did know that he had to get back home before his prey escaped…

The manicured nails lady was organizing the books on the shelf, or as Librarians call it, shelf-reading. She obviously worked there. And she was working with half heart, obviously bored from the mind-numbing task.
The only sounds were whispers, books shuffling, and computer typing.

Then the silence was pierced by tbe front door opening. Another woman entered, drenched from the rainfall. She took off her hood and showed wet slick back hair. The customer was a chocolate skinned lanky woman, very skinny, in early or mid-thirties.

0 patrons looked up as the door opened and closed, then went back to their business. But most did not register it. One of the staff made eye contact and nodded, acknowledging her, but said nothing.

The wet woman walked gracefully with fast paces on flat shoes to the newspaper and magazines rack, which happened to be next to the couch where Myk was sitting on. They briefly made eye contact, but the woman quickly averted her eyes and focused on the rack.

She has large eyes and a mix of black and middle eastern appearance. She has delicate features, in a waifish sort of way. Narrow shoulders, slim waist, and skinny limbs define her like a stickman figure.

She browsed the newspapers.
...
She picked up the Sunday newspaper and went to a nearby sofa and opened the paper.
...
A few minutes passed with minor shuffling back and forth. Then she dropped the paper and walked to the nearby librarian.

She approached the librarian, who was shelf-reading, and asked:
"Excuse me. The Sunday newspaper is missing the Classified section. Do you keep it separate?"
Her voice is soft and low, and quite pleasant to hear. The staff looked up, not expecting a question. She pointed towards the rack. "It should be here."
"Is someone browsing it right now?"
"Uhm... Maybe there? Or... " trailed the librarian, then she pointed out at a messy stack of newspaper on a nearby table.
"Thanks" responded the customer and went to check the stack.

With the corner of her eye, she noticed that Myk was following her movement. She sat at the table and browsed, till she found the Classified section, with a large clipping that takes over one quarter of the page. She let an exasperated sigh, pulled her phone out, and dialed.

Lowering her voice, she started her call.
"Hey, it's me."
"Yeah it's still pouring and I'm soaking wet from the rain."
"No. Anyway, I can't find the ad. The newspaper is missing a large section on the Classified pages. Someone took a large clipping, and it wouldn't surprise me if they were after the same ad as us."

Oblivious to her surroundings, she didn't hear the librarian looking straight at her.
"No phone calls allowed here, miss. You have to take it outside."
Ignoring her, the customer continued:
"Okay, you check online. I will check last week's newspaper."
"Miss, no cell phones, please." Snapped the librarian, with a more serious tone.
At this point, the customer turned to the librarian, nodded, then went back to her conversation.
"I gotta go now. Love ya. Bye." and hung up before hearing the response. And turned to the librarian.
"Where can I find last week's newspaper?
You'll have to ask the front desk to bring it to you. And you will need to leave a collateral."
"Thanks." She responded, as she was started to get up.

Libraries were supposed to be places of quiet contemplation and learning disturbed only by the sound of turning pages, pencils scraping against paper, and the stroke of plastic keys. There might otherwise have been the occasional cough or mutter, perhaps a sneeze as the decades-old dust was disturbed by new life, but there was very rarely chatter - there’s a certain etiquette to observe afterall. It wasn’t the woman’s obnoxious voice carrying across the room, annexed by the whispered response of her companion on the other line, that made the white haired Vampire’s nose wrinkle or forced his brow into a frown out of repulsion for the broken code of conduct. What had Myk grimacing and massaging his temples with both sets of index and middle fingers was the scratchy, metallic howl of the digital device in her hand as she continued her phone call.

It was something in the way the signals carried and how they interfered with his aspiring neurons and brain chemicals. As a Vampire on the path of the Telepath, Myk was naturally predisposed to a kind of sensitivity to energies, consciousness, and waves. In the same way that mobile phones converted the Human voice from sound waves into electrical waves and then radio waves before being beamed back into its original source at the receiver’s end, Myk’s brain could convert energies, signals, thoughts and feelings into sound, light, and various other experiences. He was not always in control of these interactions and the effect wasn’t particularly thematic or predictable. Still, he quickly likened the sound currently in his head to the dial-up tone of late 90s internet.

Myk squeezed his eyes shut and his jaw locked tight into a grimace. Had anyone been looking at him or paying attention to the strange white-haired man, they might have noticed how his body appeared to flash and flicker between a solid, 3D form to a translucent, 2D form, and then nothing within milliseconds. It was as if there had been a glitch in the matrix and the command that loaded the Myk.png function was not being rendered correctly. Perhaps in response, or perhaps by perfect coincidence, the lights had begun to flicker too - though only marginally. The light dimmed by a fraction and at such speeds that to blink would be to miss it. And then, without any apparent connection or trigger, it all seemed to stop and the sound in his head dissolved into the gravelly din of turning pages and heart beats.

Pewter eyes returned from their vacation into the void to look upon a world which had moved again. He now stood directly across from the woman who had been on the phone; their location within the narrow passage between bookshelves felt like prison walls that trapped them both. The look on his face failed to portray his confusion or surprise - or any emotion, for that matter. Instead, his perfectly poised and doll-like features were so passive and even-tempered that had he not blinked regularly, he might have appeared inanimate. Myk didn’t breathe unless he needed to, he had no working circulatory that he was aware of, and his entire physical body appeared to be nothing more than a beautiful container for his undying soul and his rapturous brain. The latter, of course, had programmed his eyes to examine the woman in front of him to ascertain surface-level data, scanning her from her toes to her head before they settled on her obsidian eyes.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” Myk asked; the words unfurling from his lips certainly sounded a lot more composed than he thought capable and were coated in a fine Parisian accent like milk chocolate that is coated in a sugary shell. Again, he didn’t show his surprise for his own actions and instead offered the woman a gentle smile from the same distance. “Unless you’re looking for your horoscope, then the local newspapers aren’t going to be much of a help. Libraries can be pretty indispensable places, though. When I visit.”

The librarian glared at the accusation and while the Telepath felt the emotion bristle on his skin, he treated it like a gust of wind and smiled into the warm sensation.

The woman stared at the blonde man with wide eyes and a slight open mouth. Her big luminous eyes blinked a couple times, showing confusion of how he managed to come this close to her space without her noticing it.
At close space, her face is gaunt with sunken cheeks. Her features are delicate, in a waifish sort of way. If anyone was trying to assume her racial background, it would be a mix of African and Indian decent. She is not wearing any makeup (thanks to the rain) and her teeth are straight. She is wearing a faint perfume, though the musk is likely unnoticeable inder wet clothes.

After a brief moment of awkward silence, her face relaxed and she offered a faint smile and answered his query. "I am looking for a specific advertisement on the newspaper. I paid for a four-by-ten inch ad to show on the Sunday paper. But I can't find it because someone tore that portion." she shows him the ripped piece of the newspaper, with clear hand-made cuts, proof of vandalism, or proof that someone did not want to pay for their own paper and decided to steal from the local library.

Her voice low enough not to disturb other patrons or the elder bun-haired librarian.
"If the staff here would pay more attention, none of this would happen. It is practically impossible to find the Sunday newspaper now. I have to contact the publisher or search online. And bith options will cost me. I already paid $400 for the ad, and all I want is to see if my ad made it to the paper. I should have started receiving calls regarding the sale of my husband's car."

At that point, her eyes quickly dart to see the librarian losing interest in them and going back to organizing the books on the shelf: a monotonous but necessary task.
She returns her attention to Myk. The expression on her face changes to blank as she studies Myk's unreadable expression. "Do you need the newspaper? I am done with it." she proceeds to put the pages back together and fold the paper.

Sensing that she ranted more than she should have, she changed the subject. "I am glad this storm has not downed the electricity or internet in this part of town. I am having an outage now at home." She brushes a strand of straight hair behind the ear, a habitual unconscious move that she does when she gets nervous or flustered. With that said, she finishs folding the newspaper and offers it to Myk, if he wants it. Her fingers are long and lithe, her nails are fairly long and not manicured, and she is wearing a plain gold wedding band.

Whatever force had pressed its will into the white-haired man this evening had dialled up his observations past the point of tolerance. His pewter eyes looked at every square observable inch of her, down to the finest hairs that traced the contour of her cheek. Meanwhile, the sound of heart beats and turning pages clipped his ears and the scent of the rain and mingling mortal sweat teased his nostrils. It was suffocating to receive so much sensory stimulation and so, for a moment at least, the sound of her voice mottled into the surrounding din like so many feathers inside a silk pillow held over his face. And then it was ripped away and he saw again as he would always see people; through rose-tinted spectacles.

Myk shifted his weight to the left side, his right arm coming up to rest a palm on his hip as he watched her speak and heard her speak and felt her speak. It all seemed to make sense; it all seemed genuine. There certainly was a question of the mundanity of it all, but then again, he was his father’s son and he understood that perspective; one person’s papercut was another person’s laceration. Myk’s brow twitched in thought.

“Hmm,” he hummed as he mulled it all over in his head, much like a sommelier might ponder the complexities of wine as it washed around the inside of his mouth before expelling it. “That is quite unfortunate,” he offered after only a few moments.

When she offered him the newspaper, Myk raised his hand to politely decline and his eyes drew to the flash of ivory paper and black ink. Oh, the mundanity of it all. And while Myk knew very little about the price of vehicles, advertisements, and the value of money in general, something still struck him as rather odd about this whole affair. His pewter gaze returned to the woman.

“Is the vehicle… rare?” he asked, one slender brow quirked with curiosity. “If you’re going to spend so much money on an advert to sell a car, it must be a very expensive car… And, so, why the Sunday newspaper? You would certainly have much more luck with a specialised dealer.”

And then Myk began to laugh and a shadow formed behind her: six foot tall and as solid as tar. The librarian, who turned to scowl in their direction, seemed completely oblivious to the man-shaped mass of blackness behind the young lady, however - as they all would be. Very few mortals were aware of the inky spirits known as Wraiths; in fact, only a select handful of Vampires were aware of them these nights. Myk supposed that Rutherford preferred it that way, which was part of the reason why he too ignored the Wraith’s existence when he appeared behind the lady with the newspaper in her slender grasp.

“Well, good luck at any rate,” he said and smiled, baring the top row of incisors and a pair of wolfish teeth. He stepped aside as if to let her pass, let her leave. “I hope you find a buyer. Toodles.”

All colors were gone from Natalie's face as she saw Myk's predatory smile. His eyes reminded her of sharks: cold, black, and hungry. Everything about this exotic man screamed death, though Natalie was unsure if he was a man or woman. A primitive part in her mind was yearning for this wonderful creature to kill her. That part of her mind was telling her that n this striking and exotic creature is a man.

Her mind raced with a multitude of thoughts, yet she always prided herself for being realistic and introspective, and she knew her limits, and that social interactions were not her strongest suite. In fact, she was aware that she is a social wallflower, and she cannot engage in prolonged conversations with almost anyone.

Yet this man approached her and pried in her business, so she didn't have to entertain or humor him. She blamed her weak composure for her irrational fear of the blond steely eyed man.
Her rational conscious self wanted to prove that she is in control of her fears. And that she can prove to herself that she is in control of her fears, feelings, and passion. So, she decided to satisfy his curiosity.

"The Sunday paper is the best day to put ads. Most potential buyers browse them on Wednesdays so they can have a walk-in or test drive on Friday and Saturday." Her explanation of how marketing works was quick and she didn't do to take a breath. She paused and swallowed a knot in her throat, with her eyes locked on Myk's, then continued:" And a dealership pays at least three thousand less than third party buyer. The cost of convenience."

As she finished, she suddenly had the strange feeling that she is being watched, and the fine hair of her arms and on the back of her neck stood. Her irrational fear kicked back, same as before. She wanted to turn her head to look behind, then run as fast as possible from this place. But she was too afraid to take her eyes off Myk. So she rose slowly, with a faint fixated smile, and took a couple steps backward, to get a better view at her surroundings. All patrons were minding their own businesses. Then she nodded to Myk and said: "Nice meeting you." She took the newspaper and placed it back on the rack, and headed to the exit.

Initially she planned on using the internet to check the newspaper website, but she wasn't too keen on spending money on that anyway. And now, she is too flustered and feels unsafe in this public place. And she felt that she had to leave as soon as possible.

As soon as the door opened, cold rain whiplash against her lanky frame. She shivered slightly as she put on her hoodie and opened her umbrella while heading outside. With the corner of her eye, she glimpsed back, but did not dare look at Myk's direction. She didn't want to know if he lost interest in her or not yet.

Outside, her senses were swallowed by the feeling of cold rain splashing, noise from the rainfall, the late evening traffic and cars, the large billboards, the smell of smog and dirt coupled with wet garbage from the streets, her own footsteps, and the reassuring faint yellow neon light from light poles.
She was going to be safe...
Or so she thought...

Walking fast under the rain without looking back was not reassuring at all. She felt exposed, unsafe... And watched. Then the sound of a car honking startled her. She kept moving fast from Street light to the next, basking in the faint security of the yellow neon lights. The shadows were dark, stretching, and alive.

She walked fast without running to the nearest corner, then used it to see if someone was watching her. She could see no one. Unbeknownst to her the wraith was ever present.

She found herself in an abandoned alley, used by homeless people with makeshift shelters made of cardboard boxes and plastic bags and recycling bins. Garbage and offal littered the alley, and the stench was mildly washed out by the rain.
Before exiting, she noticed a few homeless folks, sitting in the dark, staring at her. Their eyes showed a mix of greed, lust, envy, hatred, and disinterest, and they were under influence of drugs. Natalie Christine recognized that these homeless people could not assist her in any way. The effects of processed narcotics hijack the higher brain functions that deal with human interactions and interconnections. They realized that if she was being stalked, there is a chance the stalker would capture her. Then they can have a free reality show to break the boredom and monotony of their empty lives. And if the stalker murders her, they can loot her corpse.

She considered if it was wise to tell them to be quiet, or to even address them. She realized that she is a sitting duck in that abandoned alley, and she had to get home as soon as possible.

She exited the trash littered alley and headed out, bracing her fear of the unknown and unseen.

The Telepath remained very still as he waited for the young woman to pass him. So still, in fact, that he forgot to blink or move his head or simulate the function of breathing. Instead, he followed her with his pewter eyes like he were a painting on the library wall and seemed to be completely giving her the creeps as her pace quickened. Rutherford remained put as she left, passing right through his black form so that Myk could barely see her leave until she was past his shoulders. Once she was out of view beyond the library doors, however, the Telepath blinked back to life and took a long breath in before exhaling in a smooth, open-mouthed sigh. He brought his arms over his chest in a tight cross, then pitched his shoulder against a Romanesque plaster column to settle his frame against. All the while, he couldn’t help but think about that girl…

“What is it, young master?” the Wraith asked solemnly.

“Hmm. Did she seem… familiar to you?” Myk replied, his voice just as dimly.

“She is mortal, sir. They all look the same to me.”

Myk smirked at the bland, boorish words and how they appeared to be quite typical of his era. Of course, this was just an assumption on the white haired man’s part as the Wraith had never revealed anything about his past in all the years that they’d known one another. Myk had hypothesised a lot about Rutherford’s history; who he had been as a mortal, how he’d become a Vampire, and ultimately how he’d met his eternal demise to transform into the inky spirit before them. Rutherford refused to confirm or deny any of these theories, of course, and so Myk decided that he had based them enough in truth to believe them to be factual. Therefore, in Myk’s mind at least, Rutherford was once a Victorian house butler and such boorish behaviour was unbecoming, unfit; certainly a trait that was shared by his masters and not himself. If that were the case then, it must have meant that Rutherford was not speaking as a mortal – a former butler – but as a Vampire, which revealed much about his other nature as well. Myk suspected that after Rutherford had been turned, he had become a Shadow – an apparition of vengeful death – and to him, Humans were nothing but cattle.

“Well, she looks familiar to me,” Myk countered a little bitterly.

“With all due respect, young master, there have been instances where you do not recognise your own image so I might caution you against chasing shadows and illusions…”

“Oh shush,” Myk growled, waving an arm in the air between them as if he could physically disperse the gas-like structure of the Wraith with the gesture. “We’re in a library. Have you no manners?”

And at that, of course, the white-haired man cackled so loud that the entire library was staring. Pushing himself from the wall, the Vampire uncrossed his arms and sauntered toward the exit. He had made the decision to chase illusions and shadows after all.

It was raining when he left the library. It was the misty sort that soaked through the clothes, skin, meat, and veins, and went right through to the bone marrow. The raindrops were so fine that they were only really visible by light and appeared like sheets of moving static. Myk hugged the shelter of the library for a moment, his pewter eyes trained to the movement of bodies that were all looking for their own way off the streets. Harper Rock wasn’t a safe place to live in general and going anywhere alone was practically suicide. It hadn’t taken him too long to spot a figure diving into the corner between buildings. Myk made a quick check of his surroundings and cast an illusion of darkness around his physical form before he walked in the same direction; Rutherford followed at his side liked a trained Basset Hound.

The temporarily-invisible Vampire was almost at the mouth of the alleyway when he heard the sound of a trash can falling to the ground. His back instinctively fell against the brick wall with the elegance of a changing breeze, but the Wraith was not deterred. Comfortable with his privacy, Rutherford went on ahead and stopped in the entrance. Despite his earlier protests, Rutherford’s eye-less face was able to identify the mortal staring out past him as the same nervous female from the library. He glanced back to Myk and nodded his head.

“Oh! How exciting. She’s onto us, Ruthy!” the Telepath injected his thoughts directly into the mind of his unwilling, undead companion. “I love this cat and mouse game!”

Rutherford would have rolled his eyes if it were possible, but to avoid ruining the game, he remained silent. They waited for a moment – both Vampire and Wraith submerged in darkness and anonymity from untrained, Human eyes – before she finally made her exit. They followed her again, but were only a few metres from the alleyway when a homeless lady stepped out into the street and called after the mortal.

“You’re not alone!” she said. “You’re not alone, girl.”

A male, hugging a fraying, blue woollen blanket around himself, tried to take the lady by the arm and persuade her to come away with him. Myk turned to watch the display, his head canted to the side, pewter eyes leering into the cataracts of this homeless woman’s face.

“They’re hunting you!” she shouted.

The man had a tight hold of her arm now, but as he tugged at her, she shrugged him off.

“You need to get away,” she called out again. “You need to go somewhere that he can’t follow. It’s… it’s the signals. He don’t like the signals.”

Myk frowned. Her words were too accurate to their situation to be coincidental, but how did she know any of this? She hadn’t felt in anyway familiar and he couldn’t place her wiry grey hair or plane Jane face. The only distinguishing feature he was aware of was the birthmark across the left side of her jaw, which held the pattern of a crescent moon. It was then that Myk realised that the Wraith was staring at him and a chill raced along his spine.

“Young—”

He wasn’t quick enough. Rutherford’s murmur of complaint was washed away under a spray of crimson as the darkness had come to life and severed the woman’s head from her body. It had all happened in a moment, as if a hidden guillotine had fallen from the sky and vanished just as quickly, dropping her head into her open hands. The man at her side experienced his first shower in over a week and he screamed in horror when the sky rained blood on him. Dropping his filthy blanket, he scarpered into the safety of the alleyway. Myk wouldn’t bother chasing after him as he hadn’t more enticing prey to follow. He turned again, eager to see what response she would have.