The Vampire Werewolf: Part 3

"Dawn! It's been a while" cried the barman as the girl, Dawn, slouched her way across the pub to a free space. She yawned and sat down at the bar, resting her head in her hands.

"Really? Last time I remember coming here was about 12 hours ago" She murmered, staring up at the man through her fingers. She moved her arm and laid her head in one hand, elbow settled on the wood. Dawn peeked up at the spirits on the wall, not in the least bit interested, and yawned again.

"Tired?" The man asked.

"Yeah, headaches too. And I haven't eaten in a while neither. Got any food, Sam?" She whined in response. At this, the man placed a pint in front of her and told her to wait whilst he fixed something up for her to eat. She nodded and took a sip of the beer. The muscles along her neck and the back of her legs ached, but the pain in her head subsided after a good few sips of the beer. It wasn't always like this after changing, but she hadn't been out hunting in wolf for a while, and her body was bound to complain after a decent chase or two. Pity the poodle had escaped.

Dawn's eyes were tired, resembling those of an middle-aged woman, perhaps even older. She has spent years of training to perfect her self-control, not to bite, not to kill humans, and it had almost been blown in an instant. Maybe she was weaker than she first thought?

She shook her head, and Sam watched her warily as he set down a plate of sandwiches. Dawn sighed. Sandwiches. Sandwiches. The other immortal beings would laugh at her for eating human food. But she was pretty content with her human life so far, so screw the other immortals.

"'Ere's some crisps Dawn, make sure you eat it all" Sam mumbled.

"You can count on that..." she grinned.

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A wooden clock on the wall chimed 10 times. The large mirror in front of the chair gleamed in the candle light, throwing and distorting shadows, giving the room an eerie, unsteady look. A man sat in the chair, staring at the pace his reflection should be, eyes blank and thoughtful. His white silk shirt was artistically stained with blood, perhaps the way his skin should have been if he had been alive. Numerous men lay, either dead or in the process, pools of the red liquid steadiy flowing from certain points over the men's bodies.

One of the dying men, gangster by appearance, gangster by profession, twisted his head gently, as if looking up to heaven, then saw the man in the chair. Remebering vividy the moments beforehand, he began to scream. The seated man looked over his shoulder idly, a bored, impatient look on his face, then was standing, milimeters away from the man, the body on the floor already slumped, new spouts of blood beginning to pour. The man grinned.

"Bloodthirst and Elegance really do go hand in hand...." He chuckled discerningly.


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The End

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