It wasn’t as cold, or as dreary as the night before. The sky: clear. The moon: bright. The wind: gentle. 

The only real sound was Sayre’s boots as he stormed down the cobblestone streets and the soft squeaking sound of his black leather gloves as he suffocated the necklace in his palm. The same he had pulled from the body that had attacked him last night. The first one. 

There even being a second attack on his life within hours of one another made him fume in a way he hadn’t in centuries. The audacity! The insult! A mere human brazen enough to stab him—twice!—and then attack his home!

Sayre churned and broiled. How could he have not noticed? He should have been able to sniff out the human half a block away. Especially if they were hyped on adrenaline in anticipation of hunting down a mo—a vampire! What could have been so important that he was distracted?

When he knew the answer, his fury grew even more. The Witch. Clearly, there had to have been some enchantment, some spell over him still. Or else… He groaned at the thought, peeved and irritated. 

Lust! He was stabbed and nearly burned alive, over something as stupid as lust? He throttled the emotion by the throat and ripped into its trachea—hoping and demanding that it be silenced. He left it bleeding out at his feet.

He wouldn’t be fooled by it again. Especially not by her, not by a witch—even if her smirk made his blood riot, and the shadow in the corner of her jaw was somewhere he wanted to sink into, and—

Sayre lifted the necklace to his face. Focus!

He inhaled, filling all of his lungs, held it, then exhaled.

Find those fucking humans.

He turned the corner to the next street, did it again, then kept on straight.

Find them. Kill them. Feast.

His body felt hot. His eyes broiled. His fangs were furious. 

As he filled his nose and lungs, he could sense them everywhere. 

He turned down the street where the night before someone had staked him twice, and to the building where he had thrown the body into. A bare finger traced across the brick and stones, searching. He could smell the old blood. Though someone tried to wash it away, it lingered. 

He plucked a piece of leftover skull from the bricks and ground it between his fingers. A ripple moved through his body.  He inhaled again, and from his chest something tugged to the left. So, he turned that way and followed.

Down another dark street, where his footfalls echoed, and the streetlamps shone like blinking eyes. Through another alley-way where stray cats paid reverence to him, as he did to them. He stormed towards the workyards, and into the first real expanse of open area.

Too open, he thought. He didn’t care. Their scent was nearby.

He rolled his eyes over the multi-storied warehouses. Some of them were silent; some of them had late-shift workers toiling through machines. They wouldn’t hear him. Or, the howl that burst through the wind from the rooftops.

Sayre looked up. The clouds he paid little attention to parted, and he stood bathed in cold moonlight. Atop the roofs, he caught a broad figure slinking away. Something heavy dropped, and shifted towards him.

His own shoulders dropped. “I’m not in the mood,” he grumbled under his breath, knowing they could hear him regardless. 

Sayre saw their eyes first, reflective in the dark, then a human body. A tall woman—a simple dress, apron, and shawl across her shoulders—pointed a finger at him with a long nail, and growled: . “What are you doing here?”

He turned in place, searching for the humans. “I’m not here for you.”

“That’s still not answering my question” —she sniffed the air— “vampire.”

“I’m looking for human hunters.”

“Why? All out of toddlers?”

A murmuration of chuckles filled the yard. More eyes appeared in the dark, then bodies. They surrounded him.

Sayre’s expression flattened. “We haven’t been introduced yet—”

“I don’t care. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave.”

He had a retort, but the scent he was following tugged him to his right. He pirouetted brusquely, flaring the edges of his coat and scarf, and walked away.

She snorted, hiding his insult. “Good, run.”

“Don’t speak,” Sayre demanded with the voice of the Old. A hand lifted and with it, her jaw clamped shut. She groped at it. 

The others at her side eyed it, then snarled at Sayre. “You’ll pay for that!” barked one. He rolled his arm and shoulders forward, popping muscles and invoking the change. A couple more did the same.

Sayre paid no heed. The scent rounded a corner into the shadows of two large warehouses; he followed. He heard calls after him, but Sayre lost them as he breached the lane and immediately, instinctually, caught a crossbow bolt. His whole body jerked. His eyes lowered to it. With a huff, he squeezed his fist and snapped it in half. When his glower drifted into the shadows, they rolled into the human who shot it. His fangs elongated as his lips peeled back. He hissed and felt the heat of his eyes as they changed. 

“Found you,” he seethed, and purred.

They loaded another bolt as their companion squeaked in fright. Though Sayre could see in the dark, he saw their outlines—two young men, one with sideburns and the other a glorious mustache, in large coats—both shades of gray.

Sayre lifted a foot to charge, but something tackled him to the ground. Teeth gored into his shoulder. A horrible, roaring snarl filled his ears, echoed by others that copied. He allowed the rest of the Old One to take over him, and pushed his fingers into the eyes and the snout that gripped him. It whimpered. Sayre dug deeper, until he felt blood on his hands.

When the teeth were freed from his shoulder, he got to his feet and snarled. Another tried to tackle him, but a human crossbow bolt sank into their chest.

More howls filled the night. 

Sayre studied the scene: Two human hunters, a half-dozen werewolves, and himself, a vampire.

He loosened his coat and the cravat at his throat with a single finger. His eyes, black as night and red as wine, seethed. 

Sayre sank into his heels. Fine then, I’m starved.

Another bolt ripped through the air, but Sayre stepped away. It sank into the dirt, then it splintered under the large paw of a werewolf—a grotesque combination of fur, muscles, fangs and claws in a bipedal stance. One roared before him. Breath, foul, hot, and rank. 

Sayre closed his eyes and turned his head briefly, his nose too sensitive for supernatural halitosis. 

When the clawed hand swiped for him, he dodged back, flicked out his own hand, and sent a cluster of dirt and rocks into the creature. Though there were few pebbles, they cleared through the body, leaving perfect holes. The creature squealed then patted at their torso suddenly painted red. 

Another retaliated and sent Sayre back-first into the wall of the warehouse with a cracking thud. He lost himself for a second, completely shaken, but it was enough for the werewolf to spring on him and thrash. He sent his arms out, guarding against the claws that ripped against him. 

Two bolts sank into the werewolf on Sayre. It wailed as it curled to the ground.

Sayre peeled himself out of the broken wall. As the other werewolves tended to the injured and the two human hunters who screamed and ran, Sayre dropped to his knees before the werewolf—now a human.

“Where is your pack leader?” Sayre demanded.

He groaned and glared. “Why would I tell you?”

Sayre pressed his gloved fingers into the open wounds. “Where?” When even that wasn’t enough, he pulled the werewolf up with a single fist knotted against their chest. Sayre’s normally styled hair broke into jagged pieces. Dirt, dust, and blood smeared the ruddy-brown. A large section of his bangs detached and angled over his face, as unhinged as Sayre’s patience. “We haven’t been introduced,” Sayre said, eyes furious, tone deadly. “My name…is Sayre.” The werewolf’s pained eyes grew in recognition. With that, Sayre knew he had their attention. “Now, where?”

“Not here.”

“I gathered,” scoffed Sayre. He slammed the body down. “Where is—” A crossbow bolt as it sank into his bicep. With a yowl, Sayre ripped it out and broke it. Once more his eyes sank into the human hunter, and once more he was overcome with a blood lust.

The human hunter ducked behind a smoke stack, but Sayre wasn’t worried. He turned his attention back to the bleeding werewolf at his knees, shoved their head back and bit into their neck.

The Hunger wasn’t picky. It was the treaties that kept things like this from happening. Vampires were supposed to feed on humans, and only humans. Feeding on others—such as werewolves—was a generally frowned up thing, as was the extra boost of power it gave already deadly things. A shark in a blood-frenzy, who had just ingested speed.

Sayre didn’t bother to wipe his mouth. He didn’t even bother to kill the werewolf. He lifted to his feet, set his hair back in place, and headed for the human.