So, I'm looking for new readers and I'm working on a novel but I've chosen to post my short story because the two vampires in the story are in said novel and I want people to get a feel for my writing and see if it's good... for those of you curious and debating whether to read, it's exactly 6667 words long.

If I missed something please tell me so I can add it as I'm new here

WARNING: If you're not into killing animals and all that jazz, you might want to leave because my story is about a company that is dedicated to hunting werewolves and selling their fur, hence the name "Pelt."

-------------------------------"Pelt"--------------------------------

A woman of twenty-five mused thoughtfully on handwritten slips of paper haphazardly hung on a corkboard wall while sharpening a silver stake with pumice drenched in an odd-smelling liquid, a combination of silver, rust, gasoline, and a hint of jasmine.

"Guns are more efficient," a man said to her as he loaded his large-barreled pistol. It was so well polished and clean, it reflected the ultra-white lights of the warehouse. The dense stench of humidity and mildew crept through the area. He brought up the pistol to eye-level, since it proved a handy mirror, and attempted to fix a rebellious lock of hair.

“Stakes and knives don’t leave burn marks,” she replied while she continued sharpening another stake. She could only think of numbers on nights like these: payments, debts, inventory.... “What time are we supposed to leave?”

The man shrugged. “In half an hour, but you know how it is.” She silently agreed and began to put the stakes, six in total, in a black leather belt with holes and pockets for her weapons and necessary remedies. She slung it over her right shoulder and sped off to the locker room. Down dimly lit halls, past covered doors, and to the right of the back entrance was where she kept her uniform and her stash.

The locker room door slid open, metal grinding on itself and glass. She strode inside and cut across to her locker. Another woman, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, stood staring into her own open locker. Her long, dark, wavy hair shone in the artificial lighting.

“You ready for tonight, Alex?” she asked as she French-braided her hair.

Alex took the lock in the palm of her hand and worked on opening it. Once to the right... stop at thirty-seven... now to the left... seventy-nine... once more to the right... forty-one.... the shackle clicked and Alex pulled it open. The locker swung open to reveal all manner of supplies: a vest, guns, cartridges, goggles, scopes. Everything necessary for nights like these.

“Helena,” she replied with a sass in her voice and a c**k of her head, “you know I’m always ready.” Alex pulled out her vest while dropping the belt; it hit the floor with a deep, bright, metallic clang. Helena flashed a grin at Alex as soon as she finished her braid. The canines in Helena’s mouth were milk-white, long, sharp. They had been that way for more than seven hundred years.

Helena approached steadily and put her hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Make your father proud.” The words rang in Alex’s ears as Helena walked away in full gear, machetes and guns swinging side to side with each step. The doors slid open again. Alex now stood alone in front of her locker, leaning on its door. She glanced over an old photo: two young girls with the same curly auburn hair carried by a strong but slightly aged bespectacled man beamed up at her.

"Tonight’s for you," she thought, as she kissed the tips of her fingers and touched the man in the picture. The last time Alex had seen him was when she was eight, and even then, she hadn’t really seen him, only heard the last of him. He was the reason why she became this, a liberator of people, a beacon of hope, a hunter....

“Alex!” Helena called out suddenly through the speakers in the ceiling. “Hurry up!” Alex shook her head. She scolded herself for reminiscing too long. She put on the metal-plated vest and her thick-padded, nylon gloves. She rummaged her locker for that one little something. Her hands moved and threw things here and there until she finally found it: her stash. It was an unassuming little black linen pouch, tattered and stained, but inside was something of precious value. She opened the pouch and let its contents slide into her left palm. It was a glass vial with three lines of highly decorative rusted silver running up it. The top was a silver wolf’s head with a crescent moon lying on its back engraved on the forehead, baring its teeth. In the vial was a thick liquid, semi-transparent, with a hint of silver.

It’s not that it was illegal to use wolfsbane, in fact, it was preferred among the many methods of hunting; but it was a bit, shall we say, outdated compared to the newer, more efficient poison: Aconite. A powerful, paralyzing, and highly concentrated reprise of wolfsbane lined with pearl and silver and chemically altered with extracts of vampire blood, it is a werewolf’s only natural enemy save the herb this venom was created from. Unlike wolfsbane, which turns a werewolf human, Aconite stuns, then paralyzes, then, if need be, kills, depending on the amount of exposure. The pearl served no real purpose except for that of aesthetics: the cleaner and shinier the fur, the higher the price. After all, no one needed to know how the fur was acquired, as long as it was in good enough condition.

Alex toyed with the vial of wolfsbane, tossing it from one hand to the other before finally pocketing it. She picked up the belt and slung it low around her hips. She pulled out two silver pistols, some silver cartridges, and placed each in their appropriate holsters on the belt. She slammed the locker and hastily locked it, then walked off to the back of the locker room. Alex rummaged through the breast pocket of her vest and found an ID card with a thick black bar across its bottom. On a barred door was a slit that was conveniently thin enough for her card. Alex shoved the card through and threw open the door. One step inside and the lights flickered on. Rifles, shotguns, silencers: all made of silver, all hung on the pegboard wall. Alex reached for the rifle with a black scope mounted on the top and snatched up a few cartridges scattered on the table to her left. She threw it all into a messenger bag laid flat on the table. She backtracked to the door, took her card and closed it, went through the locker room, and chose opposite to the way she had come by.

A boy stood next to the back door, arms crossed, looking smug. "About time," he said as Alex casually walked outside and towards a barren clearing. He joined her as he loaded a massive shotgun with the bar that protruded from its side. Their steel-toe boots kicked up dirt and dust caught among the weeds. "Up, back, up, lock," he repeated quietly to himself while he performed said actions. His dead pale skin and shaggy, mahogany hair clashed in the moonlight.

"Why do you keep repeating that, Azael?" Alex inquired. "You've done it more times than all of us combined." She slung the rifle onto her back; it was much heavier than it looked. Azael pushed a bar into the back of the shotgun and smiled slyly.

"I have to pretend I'm not a century or three older than all of you younguns," he joked. "'Sides... calms me a bit to know that I'm doin' it right." Alex nodded sagely as though the vampire's answer was sufficient.

The pair continued in silence until they reached a caravan of trucks, all black in color, teeming with people and five waist-high, three-headed dogs, jaws snapped shut with muzzles dripping with saliva. Helena waved from the truck labeled number five. Alex nudged Azael in the ribs. "There's our truck," she noted. They made their way to the armored vehicle.

They climbed into the truck bed, followed by two men holding rifles armed with silencers and machetes. One of the cerberus clamored in and laid on the truck bed, all three heads alert, ears pricked, and poised for action. One gruff looking man with close-shaven hair rubbed the cerberus's back with his empty left hand, as his right was busy holding a rifle. Alex sat on the edge of the truck, looking across the barren landscape. There was no light except moonlight tonight. Everything it touched gave off a soft, almost ethereal glow. All their weapons reflected the great and terrible white light.

Azael pulled open a small window in the back of the truck. "You're drivin' tonight, Helena?" He peered in to see who or what else was there, but his head proved a little too large for the hole.

"Yes, I am," Helena replied proudly. In the far distances of the wood that laid in front of them, a long, drawn-out howl pierced the quiet. The troupe fell silent and strained their ears for other sounds.

A static noise cackled on the radio. "All right," a man's voice rang. "Move out. You know the rules." Seconds later, the engine hummed to life; the headlights and taillights played dead. They began to move out, inching closer and closer to the forest. Alex gripped the rifle and the cerberus grew unsteady but managed to stay calm. The trucks rustled along the cleared out dirt paths and, after fifteen minutes that seemed like an eternity, into the forest. The trucks tried to stay in a line, save some trees and impassable obstacles.

Another howl, this time closer, echoed throughout the wood. The eight trucks halted. Azael rose and sat next to Alex, scanning the darkness with his vampire eyes. "It's thirty or some yards off. Looks big, maybe dirty gray fur," Helena reported the find to the radio.

Alex lifted her rifle up and peered through the scope. In the center of the scope was a seven-foot-tall werewolf prowling about the darkness. She felt around for a small knob at the side of the scope. Her fingers found it and clicked the knob three times forward. The image projected on the scope grew lighter.

"It's a longhair," Alex whispered while she took mental notes of the fiend. "Dirty gray, speckled with black." The werewolf reared back its fierce head and let out a passionate howl. Its great, furry mane gathered at the nape, giving it a sort of ceremonial headdress. "We should kill it. It would make a good neck warmer," she said to no one in particular.

The man with a knit black beanie pulled out his rifle and a pair of binoculars. He observed the werewolf with a meticulous eye for detail. The cerberus was ready to jump out of the truck. The close-shaven man pulled hard at its double-looped chain; the cerberus whimpered in pain, the three heads flailing in different directions. "Be quiet," he snarled at the dog. The werewolf jerked its head and stared eye-to-eye through Alex's scope at her.

"s**t, s**t, s**t," she cursed rapidly as the beast stalked its way towards the truck. She threw down her rifle and tore her way to the back window.

"It's seen us!" She banged at the window. "We gotta leave!" Alex rapped continuously on the window. Helena started the truck, but she wasn't allowed to move until the rest of the trucks did. Alex muttered something under her breath and returned to her original spot. Again she looked into the scope and, from the looks of it, the werewolf was less than twenty-five yards away. She banged on the truck bed furiously; the men loaded their rifles and Azael took aim with his highly specialized shotgun. Finally, the truck started to move. The more speed it picked up, the faster the werewolf followed. Each stride was quiet, only audible by the snaps of small twigs and dead winter leaves.

Suddenly, the werewolf broke into a run on all fours, howling madly, footfalls still silent. "Drive faster!" Azael shouted. He pulled at the bar and slid it across the side of the shotgun. The cerberus was now snarling, itching to break free of its muzzle.

The beanie-clad man started to shout orders to anyone who was listening. "It's gaining on us! Get the goddamn bullets ready!" The truck sped and jolted violently with each petrified tree or dirt buildup. The cerberus scraped the truck bed with its claws trying to, both, get out and stay balanced. The werewolf bounded closer and closer, snapping its iron-like jaws viciously. It snared and barked with a vengeance, but couldn't contend with Alex's rancorous plans.

The werewolf was running side-by-side with the truck, clawing wildly at the tires and metal. With an oversized, thick-padded paw, the great brute swiped at Azael. He fell back, almost flying, swearing loudly in multiple languages when he collided with the truck bed. The muzzle on the cerberus contorted and cracked down the center. The cerberus opened its wide mouths and broke the muzzles off each of its heads, barking in a triple hellish fervor with its newfound freedom. One of its heads salivated, already savoring the taste of fresh meat. The second head snared its teeth in search of violence. The third head kept barking with no intention of calming down. It hurled itself forward, but the man who held its chain yanked with force and threw the dog back. A single vein on his temple pulsed as the muscles in his arms tensed up.

Azael gathered up his shotgun once more to aim at the animal. The werewolf kept running, tongue hanging out of its mouth, panting sharply. Alex grabbed one of the spare silver machetes, dropping the rifle. The machete was thick with the pungent, almost nauseating smell of Aconite. The werewolf grabbed the edge of the truck with its grapples, scratching the truck and stripping it of its protective layer. The weight of the savage tipped the truck only slightly, yet it shot waves of panic and adrenaline into the hunters. Alex swore it grinned the way a person would after winning a great victory. Helena swerved the truck to shake off the werewolf, but it was in vain. In fact, the werewolf only held on tighter to the truck. It let out a low, bittersweet howl that gave Alex the chills. The three-headed dog glared and barked angrily at the werewolf.

With one great heave, the werewolf tore off the left side of the truck bed, causing it to tip over. As the truck fell vertically, Azael shot out of the back, baring his fangs, using the truck bed as a support to vault from. The others fell, rolled out of the truck’s way and ran back for their weapons, essential for survival now. Helena escaped in the opposite direction to find the nearest truck for help.

Alex swung the rifle onto her back and kept a firm grip on the machete. A mass of screeching bats swarmed around the group. Azael had pinned the werewolf down with his bare hands and the two were surrounded by his screeching familiars. The creature reached over with one arm, clutched Azael’s back and threw him against the base of a pine tree, growling with warlike passion. Alex dropped the machete and loaded her rifle, aiming at the werewolf. Her hands shook not because she was scared, but because of the shock from the crash. She couldn’t hold the weapon steady; her vision through the scope was blurred because of a crack down the middle of the lens. The cerberus, now free of its owner's grasp, sprinted towards the beast, yelping for blood. The werewolf backhanded the dog out of his way, and while it was occupied, Azael had recovered and had thrown himself onto its back. The bats circled the wood and screeched excitedly.

Azael dug his hands into the werewolf's shoulders, clenching his teeth with exertion. The werewolf buckled at the knees and contorted its upper body in pain and anger. It growled angrily as it pawed at its back blindly to kill the deadly parasite. Azael lifted his head and squalled with power, the bats regrouping and shooting toward the werewolf from the front. They savagely attacked the werewolf's face, scratching at its eyes. Sheer force in Azael's part made the monster whirl around to the direction of the hunters, all holding out their rifles and shotguns. He bore his fingers deep into its muscles, making it fall onto its knees. It howled shrilly and lashed at the bats, scattering them in all directions. He bore it down further onto its haunches, almost on all fours, appearing more like a giant demon wolf than a werewolf.

The hunters all put their fingers on the triggers of their weapons. They refused to shoot, but Alex was aiming to kill. She wanted it to die a slow, painful death, but it was out of her hands. She glowered at the struggling werewolf, gnashing its teeth, face screwed up in pain. No pity, no mercy; it was her motto for these brutes.

Azael slipped his hands onto the werewolf's throat and clenched it tight. The soft, gray fur poked between his cold, dead fingers. It raised its head, choking for air, clawing at the ground. The vampire kept pressing further, baring his white teeth. The animal hacked and half-howled. It opened its eyes wide and stared into the moonlight. It slowly fell forward, Azael still on its back. The werewolf landed softly, almost with dignity, snout muddled with dirt. Azael took a deep breath and got off the beast, drawing deep, slow breaths.

The hunters stood up and released the triggers, slacking the grip on their weapons. Moments later, a truck approached the four stranded people, Helena riding in the back. Alex marched towards the carcass, pulling out small buttons from a pocket in her vest. The man in the beanie followed suit, circling around to the other side of the werewolf.

"Ready?" she asked as she bent down next to it. He nodded. She placed two of the silver and blue buttons on the ground next to the body. "On my count... one... two... three." At three, Alex pushed the center of the blue button, as did the man. Two thin blue lights shot across the body and collided with oncoming blue lights of the opposite button. A net-like formation stemmed from the main beams and covered the corpse. Alex shoved it towards the man, the net twisting to the movement and catching the corpse in the net. She brought the four buttons together, which magnetically attached to each other.

The gruff man lifted the buttons and dragged the beast across the ground and hurled it unceremoniously onto the truck bed. Helena pulled out her machete.

"Are we skinning it now or later?"

"Later," he answered curtly. An annoyed, somewhat disappointed Helena sheathed her machete. The cerberus limped into the truck, collapsing once it got into the truck bed. A woman with short, angled hair inspected the dog and cleaned its wounds with ease and precision.

"This one won't be hunting for a few months." No one paid attention except her assistant. They stroked the dog's stomach in an effort to calm and comfort it.

Alex climbed into the truck with the man in the beanie and Azael. It drove away from the scene quietly. Azael pulled out his trademark imported cigarettes Black Devil and a lighter from one of the many pockets of his vest. He flicked one out of the pack and pulled it out with his mouth, then offered one to the others in the truck. He put them back in his pocket, since no one wanted one, playing with the cigarette in his mouth. Azael flicked open the ancient silver lighter, causing a sliver of a flame to jet upwards. The orange and yellow lights danced upon the faces of the hunters and the fur of the dead werewolf. He raised the lighter to the Black Devil; it began to smoke and spread its fumes across the wood. He closed the lighter and threw it back into another pocket. He exhaled all the smoke in his mouth outwards, away from the rest in the truck, the Black Devil still caught up in his tongue.

"Smoking is bad for you," the woman aiding the cerberus said, "it gives you cancer." Azael tapped the back of the cigarette to make the ashes fall off the end. He brought it back up to his mouth and took a long drag from it. The smoke left his body through his nose like an exhausted dragon.

"Yeah, 'cause cancer's the number one killer of the undead these days," he replied without emphasis. Alex barely suppressed a grin to his cocky remark. "Still acts like he's eighteen," she thought. The woman eyed Azael then continued to work on healing the cerberus, which was almost fast asleep.

"So...," Azael began, "how's that guy... what's his name..."

"Cameron," she said with a bemused look upon her face. "He's doing fine... doesn't know where I am though."

"They say honesty's a good policy in relationships." Alex playfully punched Azael in the arm. "What? Juss sayin'." Alex shook her head and smiled.

"Why doesn't he know you're here?" Helena asked. "Ah, wait, he's one of those, isn't he?" Alex nodded while pursing her lips, still smiling. Helena chuckled. "Now that's ironic."

"Look," Alex responded, "what he doesn't know won't hurt him. He would literally stop talking to me if he knew I was a hunter." Azael breathed out a heavy load of smoke from his mouth. He gingerly held the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, speckled lightly orange at the tip.

"Stupid animal rights activists, dunno a thing about what trouble these here brutes have been causin'." Alex stayed silent. Azael crossed over into his thick Southern accent, having lived there for more than a few years. According to Alex, werewolves did indeed cause a great deal of trouble. Even more so for the vampires, who have been dueling for dominance since days long forgotten.

"They think they're still human, but they ain't human," he spat, "they're monsters that ain't got no morals." He took another drag and hissed out the smoke through his teeth.

"Calm down Azael," Helena said coolly.

Everyone stayed quiet except for the cerberus, who breathed slowly and deeply. The wood echoed with owl hoots, cricket chirps, and the occasional mournful werewolf call. They didn't see it, but they felt, and knew, one of their own had been taken for good.

The truck began to slow down for no apparent reason. The driver was whispering into the radio and lowering the volume of the speakers as his foot eased onto the brakes. Alex stood up and looked around the forest, confused by their slowing down. It came to a stop and Azael slowly lifted himself, savoring every bit of the Black Devil that he was about to throw out. The back window slowly slid open.

"They said a white longhair was spotted somewhere nearby," what seemed like a child's voice whispered. "We're trying to see if we can lure it out." Alex unlatched the scope off the rifle and let her eyes trek the scenery: nothing.

"We're gonna send off a call," the child informed them. A shuffling of something like nylon on leather emanated rather annoyingly. Azael tossed the butt of the cigarette to the floor of the iron truck bed and put it out with his right foot. He kicked it in the direction of the dead werewolf with pleasure. A medium gray mark replaced the Black Devil's spot on the floor, fading with every cigarette Azael crushed. Alex stood fixed in her position, still searching for the fabled white werewolf.

White fur was commonplace about a hundred or so years before the formal establishment of hunting companies. In fact, pelt was sold by the palette to merchants and the general public before werewolves began to diminish in astounding numbers. In a flamboyant parade of costumes, no price is too great if it meant to outdo the other competitors. The first to go were those with white fur. Compared to other white-fur animals, white werewolves bore the purest pigment, devoid of any unwanted corruptions. Legends tell that werewolves with white fur were graced with the most power, for the great goddess Selene shed her moonlight upon a select few of these creatures who lived solely for her. Humans, naturally, love to showcase their "power" and what better way to display it than to wear the very essence of it?

A deep, low howl reverberated from the truck. Alex’s hairs stood on end from hearing it so close. Moments later, a howl hurtled back. She frantically skimmed the trees for a white blotch, but found nothing.

A second howl, this time higher pitched, replied to the real howl. Again, another howl followed. Nothing appeared within her scope.

“There,” said Azael dreamily as he pointed in a general eastern direction. Helena turned to see where he was pointing. She let her shoulders drop suddenly and stared eastward. She slowly lifted her hand and pointed in the same area. Vampire eyes under trance are much keener than normal human eyes with scopes, so it was with haste and trust that the truck moved toward the treasure.

Alex sat back down, anxious to see such a legend in person. She popped her knuckles in excitement and loaded her rifle quickly. She, Alex, could not only be a heroine, she could potentially be a millionaire, the epitome of a model hunter. She could barely contain herself, biting her lip while grinning wildly like a chesire cat.

Helena swayed rhythmically, her hands pointing this way and that, the truck following her lead. Azael stood motionless in his trance, eyes fixated on the dark horizon. The whites of his eyes glazed in the moonlight.

They continued slowly and steadily deeper and deeper into the wood, the full moon disappearing fast behind the trees and the edge of the earth. Alex lifted her rifle and propped it on the edge of the truck. She peered cautiously through the scope, half-afraid, half-galvanized. It was still completely dark according to her eyes but she could feel another presence nearby. Her left arm twitched madly.

“Stop,” Azael commanded. The truck came to an almost sudden halt. Helena cocked her head lazily toward Azael and nodded. She brought her arm up into the air and clenched her fist. Her middle and index fingers shot outward and her thumb raised upward: she mimed a pistol with her hand. Helena giggled lightly as she pretended to shoot the pistol and made a whizzing sound effect. Instantly, as if almost by force, an enormous, white thing blazed through the lens. Alex followed the movement wildly, nearly letting the rifle slip from her palms. The white thing crept about the scene, almost undetected.

And then she saw it clearly: a terribly beautiful white werewolf with fur flowing freely like a wheat field in the middle of summer. Alex was petrified. Never in her life had she seen something as horrible, as ugly, as entrancing as this white beast. A small band of hunters from another truck were already on the move armed with rifles, infinite vials of Aconite, and long, thin, silver javelins that electrocuted on contact.

“I am not going to be a sitting duck,” Alex assured herself through gritted teeth. She felt around for a javelin but instead found herself holding the wrist of the werewolf corpse. She looked back and caught it staring at her, emotionless. Alex grimaced in disgust and went back to finding a javelin. To her utter dismay, there wasn’t a single javelin or stunning device on that truck. "Forget that," she thought bitterly to herself. With one arm as support on the edge of the truck, she jumped over the edge and raced quietly to the other hunters. The others wouldn’t dare call her back to the truck, it would only give them all away, so the rest merely sat there, heads shaking, arms crossed.

Alex gripped her rifle with intensity. Every sound she made was amplified beyond belief. A snap of a twig was the beat of a war drum. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and sternum painfully. The werewolf grew in size with every approaching step. It began to crouch low to the ground, shoulder blades protruding from its back like mountains on a plain. The fur on its back bristled with calm, calculating movement.

In the blink of an eye, the animal was gone.

Alex began to breathe heavier than usual and grew incessantly paranoid. Her eyes flittered nervously in her eye sockets. She strained to listen to any movement and clutched the rifle hard, making her knuckles pale. Her ears pricked up the way a horse would p***k its ears in danger: she felt a stream of hot, untamed breath crawl down her neck and all around her head. Alex wouldn’t dare look, she couldn’t make herself. All of her life, she had wanted to see the light leave the eyes of her greatest archenemy. Now, there was no pleasure to be found.

Alex continued forward slowly, making deliberate steps this way and that. Still the sticky air wouldn’t leave the nape of her neck. She stopped walking and quietly snuck her index finger onto the trigger. No stake would save her this time.

She closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath of cold air. It stung her nostrils and lungs, and pierced her flailing heart. Alex whirled around and aimed the rifle squarely between its eyes, but to her astonishment, she wasn’t face-to-face with the white werewolf. She gazed into a pair of yellow eyes, surrounded by deep amber fur. It growled and parted its mouth. Its snout wrinkled deeply, every tooth was made visible. She could've let out a scream had she not been shocked into temporary silence. The animal got on all fours, dug its knuckles into the leaf-padded dirt, and howled in rage. It turned its focus back on Alex, who was pale and sweating cold bullets. It swung its heavy left paw at her face. She narrowly dodged the blow and fell back, gaping. It snarled angrily and threw itself at Alex, yet somehow, she twisted and turned, barely surviving the onslaught. She kept crawling backwards, away from the monster, breathing shortly and unevenly.

Her hand suddenly didn't connect with the hard ground. It touched something sleek, almost silky, tipped with smooth, curved, thin filaments. A drop of thick, hot water collapsed on her scalp and oozed down her temple and cheek. What little blood she had in her cheeks drained into the depths of her body.
A shadow glided across Alex's body and the white werewolf tackled the amber beast. It yelped sharply as soon as it fell on its back, the white animal leering and scowling at the alien predator of its territory. Its tail was sweeping the air clean of its tranquility.

Alex could hardly breathe and her heart was pumping faster than ever. Her elbows shook and gave way. She hit the back of her head against the damp, muddy grass of the forest. She stared blankly into the sky, focusing on the full moon that was almost gone. Alex was ready to feel the warm blanket of safety, but Father Time was lagging, almost avoiding wrapping her in comfort. Alex distantly heard a clash of power embedded with angry snarls, pained howls, and panicked birds taking flight.

The wind blew softly across Alex's nose and made her shiver. The grass bent to its will, poking timidly at her bare arms. Her thick gloves were clammy and had let go of the rifle long ago. She listened to the epic battle without really paying attention, but quickly realized that it was over when she heard the repulsing snaps and cracks of bones jutting and contorting out of place.

The wood stood dead silent. Not even the trees rustled unabashedly.

She continued gazing upward with watery eyes. How could she be so scared? How could she let not one, but two of those gaudy monstrosities get away? How? It wasn’t hard to kill one of them, she did it all the time, but now, of all times, she froze up. Her mind filled with wrath towards herself, trying to hold back the tears of frustration that were dammed inside her mind.

Something humid and rubbery brushed against the tips of her right fingers and abruptly interrupted her thoughts. It moved upwards and around her arm and to her neck and shoulders. The werewolf sniffed Alex with growing curiosity. Its muzzle bashed the temple of her head, testing its living abilities. It picked up her arm and let it drop, wondering whether or not to take it home as a prize. She kept looking straight up, stiffened with panic. The werewolf peered over her face with a somber expression. The creature's eye caught hers and Alex stared into the werewolf's massive, dilated cerulean eyes, full of savage ferocity. Alex felt its paws slide under her back; she was unsure of what was to come. The sky was turning lighter with each passing second.

The werewolf held Alex close to itself greedily. She belonged to the animal and, oddly enough, she began to let her guard down, bit by bit. "It did save me," she thought logically to pacify herself. "It could just save you for later," her pessimistic voice bit back harshly. Alex cringed at the thought of being torn apart, limb by limb, by a smarter-than-average beast.

The werewolf continued slowly, deeper and deeper, into the wood while the sun crept higher up into the sky. Alex wanted to escape, to get back to the trucks with Azael and Helena, but it clutched her so that she couldn't even squirm. She glanced upwards and saw only its white fur, but quickly returned to looking down in intimidation. Its chest rose and sank calmly, not rushed by the oncoming light. The birds were chirping gleefully and beat their wings in celebration of an oncoming day.

Something whizzed past Alex's ear with a lethal crack. And then another. And then another. The werewolf picked up its pace, leaping over decayed, moss-ridden trees and evaporated ponds. It shifted Alex's weight from holding her in both arms to carrying her in one arm, slung over its shoulder, and swinging its other arm to run faster. She instinctively grabbed on to a chunk of its fur as support, surprised by her strength. Bullets flew by aimlessly, ricocheting off of rocks and piercing trees. It dodged to the left and swerved to the right. The werewolf suddenly let out a yelp as it tripped over a petrified log. Alex tumbled out of its grasp and landed among a throng of dead leaves and dirt patches. Dizzy from the fall, she looked around and saw the werewolf struggling to get up and sliding on the leaves scattered across the grass. Alex ran towards it, not knowing exactly why she was doing so. A mad flurry of bullets shot past her. An oncoming convoy of men in armor marched closer to the pair, rifles up, scopes on. Alex changed her direction, slipping on the leaves, yelling, shouting at them to cease fire. It was of no use. The werewolf kept howling and yelping in pain.

"STOP! YOU HAVE TO STOP!" she screamed insanely, moved by its struggle for life. She reached a man with a rather heavy rifle. Alex rashly elbowed the weapon upwards, which forced a bullet out of its barrel, and punched him across the face. The man fell back and as he was falling, Alex took hold of herself and stared in horror at her actions. The gunshots just kept coming. She looked over at the scene: a band of men surrounded the white animal that refused to go down peacefully. It bared its teeth and gnashed at each man, who in return shot back. It yelped with each gunshot taken to its flesh. The snow-white fur was dappled with uneven red blotches.

"DON'T KILL IT!" Alex sprinted back to the beast, shoving the men out of their positions. A final shot stopped the commotion.

All stood still.

She was fixated in place, unable to speak, unable to move. She had done this a million times before, why was she so upset? Could it be that, for once, these beasts actually have morals and a soul? Could that be why she was attached to this one? She didn't understand her new, unrequited wave of sympathy and her moral compass with terrible timing.

The werewolf collapsed sideways. Its tongue dangled out of its muzzle. Alex forcefully pushed everyone aside and gaped. She dropped to her knees. The warmth of the sun began to hit her back. Dawn finally made its appearance.

The animal began to shrink in size. Its fur shed all around its body and the muzzle contracted inward and closer to its face. The mighty paws of the werewolf shriveled thinner and smaller. In the midst of a great, white carpet was the body of a man in his late twenties, bloodied and bruised.

"Pick him up, get him out of here," a voice commanded. The men shuffled about the corpse and systematically picked him up. It would be highly suspicious if the body of a man was found in the middle of the woods with enormous holes strewn across his chest and arms. Alex followed them dimwittedly, drained of the night's occurrences. The man she had knocked out was being carried by another twice his size. She dragged her feet and thought of nothing. It was too much.

The trucks finally came into sight. Azael cheered as they approached but quickly quieted down due to the somber mood that was infecting the air. He sat back down and beckoned Alex over to the truck. Before breaking off from the troupe, she tapped the man in command on the shoulder.

"Can you put him my truck?" He furrowed his bushy, brown eyebrows but agreed to her awkward favor.

They followed her to the designated truck. Alex climbed in slowly and the body was shoved in afterwards across the truck bed. One of them slammed the door noisily. Alex eyed the man as he walked away to the truck he was assigned to. She lifted the corpse across her legs and held his head in her arms. "No more pain for you," she thought grimly.

Alex noticed a leather cord strung across his neck. A cross hung heavily on the necklace. She proceeded to remove it, seeing that it won't serve the man any purpose. Alex held it high in the air, Azael continuing to watch her strange actions. She put the necklace on and returned to holding his head. Those blue eyes that housed intensity were now mere blank organs that would see nothing but blackness.

Azael popped his knuckles. The sun began to itch at his neck. Although he was a vampire, he was among those who had developed an immunity to the curse but received side effects that were rather unpleasant. He began to incessantly scratch his neck, still wondering what exactly happened. Alex's expression looked weary and depressed.

"You okay?"

"Yeah... I'll be fine." She began to play with his long, blonde hair, sticky with blood. A silence floated between the two. It finally hit Azael.

"Did... you know him?"

"Did I know him...?" she muttered sarcastically.

Azael was at a loss of words. "I'm guessing you won't be telling your boyfriend about this," he added seriously after a moment. She laughed bitterly.

"Nope," she said. "Not at all."

He grew more and more worried for her. Azael had always admired her fearlessness and determination. "Something real bad musta happened," he thought, "for her to act like this."

Azael hunched over and pulled out a new Black Devil from his pocket. He lit it and took a long drag from it. He looked upward and released a cloud of carcinogens into the untouched air.

"So who was that then?"

"Azael," she replied, eyes welling up. "I'd like you to meet Cameron."