0 - The Hunter and the Hunted
His heart was pounding in exhilaration, each thud banging on his ribs. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, for now was not the time for celebration. That time would come after his work was done. Once he trusted himself to be sufficiently calm, he returned his eye to the scope of his rifle.
His target hadn't moved an inch. She was still sitting alone at a table outside a cafe across the way (In broad daylight!), watching the tourists walk by while she (pretended to) sip at her tea. He felt the giddiness rise up again, but quickly fought it back. She leaned back in her chair, and he adjusted his aim accordingly. He needed to be perfect.
When he succeeded in his task, he would be a hero the world over. Parades would be held in his honor. He would get to meet His Holiness face to face. He might even get his own holiday...He even allowed his dreams to soar as high as sainthood.
Again, he calmed himself down by shaking his head and breathing deeply. He was a trained hunter, and this excitability was unlike him. Then again, it had been an amazing thing to stumble upon her like this...After all the years she hadn't been seen, the place she chose to resurface was here, a little no-name town in Ireland. Ireland, land of devout churchgoers, renown the world over for the number of hunters it produced.
The stupid cow had walked right into the wolfs' den. He'd been cleaning his rifle, and felt her dark presence when he'd gone to the market to get some spare rags. She hadn't noticed him when he walked right by her to confirm her identity. She took a seat that was a clear shot from the second floor of the house across the street from the cafe. And the people who lived in this house were not only away on vacation, but they left the keys under the doormat. What luck. Surely God was pointing the way for him. That was, after all, the only explanation.
With God on his side, how could he possibly fail?
He made the final preparations--loaded the specially-prepared bullet, kissed his crucifix for blessings--and returned his eye to the scope for the last time. Her head was perfectly in his crosshairs. With a silent prayer for her damned soul, he squeezed the trigger.
---
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a sign of danger. Something told her that this danger was coming in from the upper left.
Suddenly she could smell it. Salt and silver. Quickly she snapped her head toward the scent, and not a moment too soon. Seeing the projectile, she let her reflexes take over. No time to dodge. Just barely enough time to catch.
There was a terrible stinging in her right hand, but it was soon replaced by an awful itching burn. She brought her closed fist to her face and opened it to examine the object that had nearly killed her.
Her grip had crushed the silver, and a glowing liquid was seeping out and eating at the flesh of her palm. Cursing under her breath, she dropped the once-bullet onto the table and wiped the hated fluid onto her pant leg. The wounds it caused on her hand healed rapidly, leaving only a little pink on top of the old scar tissue. With that out of the way, she returned her attention to the projectile.
Not only was it made of silver and hollow, it had been engraved with Latin words almost too small to see. But see them she could, and she had to catch herself to stop reading under her breath. The Rites of Exorcism.
That proved beyond a doubt that she was the intended target. Now, to find and interrogate the shooter...
She allowed her eyes to adjust to the Dark Sight. Once they had, she could see the air the bullet had cut on its way to her, which led her right to the middle window on the second floor of the house across the street. The shooter was still there, with a mixture of disbelief and horror on his face.
After mentally kicking herself for not noticing him earlier, she dug out her wallet and left a few American Dollars on the table. There was, after all, no need to be rude to this establishment simply because some idiot hunter had shot at her. She sighed heavily and got up from the table. The break had been nice...but it seemed that it was time to get to work.
---
Icy hands gripped his heart.
He had failed. Despite having perfect aim. Despite having a bullet made of silver, filled with holy water prepared and blessed by His Holiness the Overseer himself, and engraved with the proper spells to banish the monster. Despite everything, the bitch had seen and caught the bullet. His failure had sealed his doom. He was a dead man, or worse. Likely much, much worse.
Why? Why, in this perfect moment, had God abandoned him? Was it his fate to die or become one of them today?
Fear kept him frozen in place as she stood from the table. For a moment, she did nothing else, but then she turned and looked directly at him. He felt as if her eyes were boring right into his soul, and he couldn't look away. He watched in horror as her eyes gradually became lighter and lighter until they were a shining blue, and felt even more horrified when her pupils (How in the world can I see them!? Is she screwing with my mind?!) went from being round holes to slits.
It wasn't until she began crossing the street that he realized that she was, indeed, coming after him. The icy hands of fear became the cold fire of panic. He didn't want to die, and certainly not by the hands of some damned leech. But that's what was going to happen if he didn't get the hell out of there.
Abandoning his rifle, he bolted for the back stairs.
The roles had reversed. In some cruel twist, the hunter was now the hunted.
---
The front door was unlocked and she helped herself. Once inside, she nearly gagged; the shooter's fear was so thick and heavy in the air that it was sickening.
And he calls himself a hunter...
She heard movement upstairs, footsteps running toward the other end of the house. There must be another set of stairs besides the one in front of her. She didn't waste the energy on going her full speed. She could meet him at the bottom of those stairs even if she walked at this point.
It didn't take much to find the other stairs, and, as she predicted, he was tearing ass down them. The instant he saw her, he yelped and turned, trying to go back up.
She smiled a little and decided to play with him a bit. The more she frightened him, the easier it would be to make him talk.
She coiled the muscles in her legs and waited. When the poor man was nearing the top of the stairs, she jumped over him and landed in front of him, making sure to give a nice, fangy smile. This time, he screamed. Again, he turned and ran down the stairs. And again, she jumped in front of him and cut him off.
While she could do this all day, she decided that this was enough; if she kept it up any longer, his heart would burst, and then he'd be useless. Instead of letting him turn around again, she grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall. Once she was sure the stars had cleared from his head, she pinned him there.
"Tsat was fun, but I'd rather get straight to tse point," she said to him. "Who sent you?"
For a moment, he just stared at her with wide eyes, mouth agape. She tried again.
"I asked you a question, hunter. Who sent you? Was it tse Church? Slayers? Tse Sweepers?"
"N...No one. I...I sent meself."
His heartbeat didn't change while he was speaking. He was telling the truth. She grinned. "Ah, so your tse first to know of my return? In tsat case, I have a little...Job for you."
Suddenly she could smell a little bit of desperate courage. "I don't work for you, grave-walker!"
"Stakes and crosses, little hunter. And I never said you worked for me. I said that I have a job for you. Tsere is a difference."
"If your going to kill me, just do it already!"
"Do you really want to die tsat badly? I was simply going to have you deliver a message."
"I'm not you're little errand boy!"
His swell of confidence was getting annoying. She had to get him to shut up and listen. She lengthened the nails on her left hand into claws and stabbed them through his abdomen. He winced and let out a little cry of pain. The smell of his blood was intoxicating, but now was not the time. She needed him.
"If I pull my hand out and leave, tsen you really will die. Now be a good boy and pay attention. Say 'yes, ma'am'."
"...Yes, ma'am..."
"You will go to your 'Overseer' and you will tell him tsat's he's got to do better. Tell him tsat his holy water, firstly, had too much salt in it and secondly, tsat he should have more tsan one priest bless it. Let him know tsat he needs to be more selective when handing out vampire hunting licenses. And of course tsat I send along my love."
The man looked shocked, but she ignored his confusion and continued. "Also, you will go to tse Slayers...Or the 'IFPE', as you call tsem. Tell tse IFPE, as they're tse ones tsat made tse bullet for you, tsat tsay are getting sloppy in tseir craftsmanship...If I could crush it in my hand, imagine what my skull could do to it. Of course, don't forget to tell High Slayer Prewitt tsat I say 'Hello'. Are you going to remember all of tsis? Tsere is more."
He nodded, his expression still one of bewilderment. Seeing the nod, she continued, "And lastly, you are to go to Sweepers, Inc. Let tsem know that tsey are about to get a lot busier, and tsat tsey can tsank me later."
"...No...personal messages for them?"
She thought about that long and hard. After much consideration, she said, "...No. Tse one I would send a message to knows what I would say if I did. Are you sure you're going to remember everytsing?"
"...Yes, ma'am..."
"Good. Now, to deal wits your wound..."
Gently, she pulled the claws out of his abdomen. She licked the blood off her fingers (again she forced herself to hold back), and then applied some of the saliva on them to the wound. He hissed in pain as it closed.
"Tsere. Don't forget to have a doctor look at it, as I cannot guarantee tsat it's not infected. Deliver my messages, little hunter...I will know if you haven't."
---
Without warning, she vanished. He blinked, and out of the corner of his eve, he say a bat flit away.
For a few minutes, he stood there digesting the whole incident. Once the shock wore off, he reached into his right pocket for his cell phone. He flipped it open and dialed a familiar number before putting it to his ear.
It rang three times, and then someone on the other line picked up and said, "...Micheal? Hey, how have ya been, mate?!"
"Paddy, I don't have much time for small talk. I need a ticket for Italy that leaves tomorrow."
"Italy, eh? Going to Venice, or perhaps Naples? Finally taking a vacation, mister I'm-a-busy-hunter?"
"Actually, I need to go to Vatican City. I have to speak with His Holiness at once."
"Re~ally, now? And what's so urgent that you think 'His Holiness' will fit you into his busy schedule?"
"...I just encountered Ileina Grey. And she's not a weak little 'turnling' anymore."
[End 0]
(next entries will be the "Spectator Entries" from the Tournament that takes place during this story. Eventually, they will become chapters of this story anyway, so I may as well put them here...)
