94: [Hunter’s In The House]


I stand by the door. Nothing has been moved, yet I sense there is an unbidden presence here. I move my hand up to the light switch then stop.

[continued from…]

The fellow at my heels rocks, eager to be inside. A moment sooner and I would have been eager, too. I can smell the blood in his veins. Scents always seem stronger when I’m hungriest. But the scent of his blood isn’t the only one that has struck my nose.

“Come on then. Let me in.”

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93: [Fangs In The Snow]


The window of opportunity is gone. I lean back in my seat, sunglasses shading the fractured light of the garish chandelier. I sip my pint. The suds of beer tickle my tongue, but the taste is not one I care for.

Too weak. Too dilute.

I need something more.

My gaze flicks to the shoal of young men who have entered the bar. They are loud and young. Flashy jackets scatter light on their naïve scales as they make too much noise and see too little of the other clientele. We are not of their primitive stage.

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