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	The stench of fish and polluted water filled the pacing man’s nose. His polished shoes clipped impatiently off the concrete walkway running through the bridge’s tunnel, their echo vying to be heard over the hungry burbling and slurps of the river flowing beside him. The couple greenish-yellow lights poorly illuminating the tunnel glinted sickly off the murky water, shedding light on its diligent work of eating away at its man-made confines.
	The man’s form drifted in and out of the shadows between the light fixtures. Despite the muggy September heat, the tails of a gray duster coat flared behind him and swirled around his legs each time he turned. 
	He looked to the Rolex on his wrist for the thousandth time in the last minute. With time undaunted by his scowling glares, the watch still defiantly told him it was yet another minute until three.
	Sometimes, he wished his co-conspirator would be early for once. He paused in the ugly splotch of one of the lights, watching the shadows. The distant city lights glared and warbled on the water just outside the tunnel, making the dark patches pooling beneath the bridge feel nearly as suffocating as the humid air.
	The seconds ticked on. He looked again to his watch, eyeing the second hand as it drew near to three o’ clock.
	Three seconds. Two seconds.
	One second.
	The shadows around him quivered unnaturally. In the blink of an eye, he drew a pistol from his belt and held it in front of him. He turned a surveying circle with practiced speed, searching for any sign a foe had found him.
	An annoyed sigh sounded from the shadows behind him.
	He spun around, the cock of his pistol clicking in preparation to fire.
	“You certainly know how to greet people,” a rasping voice echoed in the man’s ears. A figure emerged from the darkness, the blackness obscuring most of its features.
The man snorted. “Good thing you’re not ‘people,’ ain’t it?” he growled as he holstered his gun.
	The man could just make out a snarling smirk spread over the figure’s lips. “Just as much as you are. But I’m not here for your unwitty banter. You have news?”
	The man eyed the figure and crossed his arms. “I’ve found your Hunter of Twilight.”
	“Have you?” the figure purred, its smirk turning into a content grin.
	The man raised an eyebrow. “No. I just lied to you.” He sighed as the figure’s expression faltered.
	“Who is he, you prat?” the figure snarled. The shadows around it twisted with its emotions.
	The man frowned and instinctively reached for his gun at the minor show of power, but ignored the insult. “She, actually.”
	“And have you brought [i]her[/i] head to me on a pike?” The figure’s face tilted, looking the man over as if searching for a severed head.
	“I ain’t an idiot,” the man scoffed. “She’s smack-dab in the middle of the community. Her parents are some of our best hunters, retired or not. And their neighbors aren’t far behind. There’s no way I could kill her without being discovered, one way or another. I’m good, but not dodge-fifty-hunter-families good. And I ain’t compromising my position. Not yet, anyway.”
	Though the man couldn’t see the figure’s eyes, he felt them boring angrily into him. His grip on his gun tightened.
	A tense silence fell, broken only by the [i]shlurp-slap[/i] of the river abusing the concrete.
	“You’re [i]certain[/i] she is the one?” the figure finally rasped.
	“A hundred percent. You said there’d be something unusual about her. Took me a while to figure out, but she has a natural white streak in her hair. And I heard Cassara muttering something about her ‘destined aura.’” The corner of his lips quirked up. “She’s certifiable, that one, but I’d stake my life that she has psychic blood in her.”
	The figure cocked its head to the side, considering. Another long minute passed. The man shifted his weight uncomfortably. A light further down the tunnel flickered eerily.
	“Very well.” The figure nodded. “Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone, then.”
	The man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
	The figure’s head lowered, and a wicked grin spread over its thin, pale lips. “So witless, for one of your age.” The figure stepped closer until it was only just hidden inside the patch of shadow.
	The man hesitated, but mimicked his companion, his hand ever ready to grasp his gun as he approached. On the same side or not, there was no way he would fully trust a monster.
	The two continued to speak in hushed tones. The shadows around them unnaturally dampened their words, preventing them from echoing for anyone nearby to hear.
	After a few minutes, the man leaned back and crossed his sleeved arms back over his chest.
	 “Sounds rather… [i]risky[/i] to me,” he grumbled, chewing the inside of his mouth thoughtfully. “There’s no guarantee it’d work. And no telling how many could get caught in the crossfire. This is worse than playing with fire in an Arizona wheat field in July.”
	The figure sighed irritably. “It’s that, or you can take responsibility and kill her! And the noxtren, at that! Unless,” mocking concern dripped from the figure’s voice as it continued. “you really want to defy the Sovereign’s orders?”
	The man stiffened. “No,” he growled through his teeth. “Didn’t say that, you lout. Do what you have to do. I’ll play my part.”
	“You had better.” The threat in the figure’s icy voice was palpable.
	Before the man could reply, the figure stepped into the shadow licking at the wall, and vanished.
	Grumbling foully to himself about ungrateful beasts, the man flicked up his collar, and strode out into the night.


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	It was a perfect night. Clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out even the light of the moon. They reflected the city lights, turning the heavens into a patchwork of gray and black as if someone had draped a giant quilt over the world. 
	The fumes of hundreds of exhausts defiled the air with their nauseating stench. The stench of humans. The sweet scents of a dying summer clung to a gentle breeze, trying in vain to ease the sickening odor of pollution.
	But Kyair paid them little mind. Tonight, he was on a mission. The breeze tussled his lengthy black hair. It made it play about his pale face, the strands at the front tipped in a vengeful red. Perched atop an apartment complex, he crouched precariously on the narrow ledge of a half-wall surrounding the roof. His side pressed against a taller pillar. The shadows draped over him, making him look more like a shadow himself than the human teenager he appeared to be.
	It had taken him years, but at long last, the murderers of his family were so close. His black gaze glared down at the gated community across the street. Where the main road turned into it, a large sign greeted any who entered with a cheery, “Welcome to Lion’s Ridge!”
	Despite the late hour, the streetlights blazed proudly. Light bulbs yet shone through windows. As if the light could keep out the dark. A few kids and teenagers slunk about, defying their curfews as long as possible. Another person walked a dog, no doubt enjoying the slight chill the night had brought with it. Perfectly manicured lawns sat beside each other, with a cookie-cutter house to match. It looked like a perfect, human community filled with normal kids and a good school not far down the road.
	Every one of Kyair’s muscles ached to rush in and hunt down the filthy hunters who had torn his family asunder. But he was not stupid. And this was no run-of-the-mill, “American Dream” private community. No. It belonged to the Hunter’s Society. Beyond those seemingly innocent iron gates resided hundreds upon hundreds of experienced hunters. 
	Even from here, he could feel the enchantments radiating around the community. Warding away supernatural creatures, barring entrance to anything that would mean the hunters harm.
	Well. [i]Almost[/i] anything.
	A cruel smirk curled his pale lips. Foolish hunters, thinking they could keep something like [i]him[/i] out. Their magical barriers were little more than minor nuisances.
	He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Concentrating. [i]Feeling.[/i]
	Human emotions vibrated through the air, saturating a plain of existence all their own. They tingled over his skin, floating freely, waiting for someone like him to reap their benefits. 
	In the apartment right below him, someone was having a sleepover and horror movie marathon. They were youthful emotions, and feminine. He could feel their collective, simultaneous shock and fear, smell it floating through the night like the most delectable soup the tongue could ever taste.
	[i]When this is all over,[/i] he thought, the contemplation sneaking into his mind, [i]I should pay Italy a visit.[/i] Italians knew how to make a mean minestrone soup.
	As it was, he was about to walk into the lion’s den—literally and figuratively—and poke the starving beasts with a burning stick. He had spent far too long planning his revenge to blow it on the first night. He would need all the strength he could get, and not even an entire barrel of the world’s best minestrone soup could provide that. And to feed on the hunter’s emotions meant risking early discovery. Not all hunters were as oblivious as humans when someone fed off their feelings.
	With a mental call, he reached out to the emotions. His own aura swelled as it consumed the essence that the human’s terror and pain emitted. He felt the strength it gave his kind surge through him. The shadows quivered and flowed around him, joining in the ecstasy of empowerment.
	When he felt his strength reach its peak, he exhaled and opened his eyes. Revoking his call, the emotions’ essence returned to being little more than another scent among the millions of others congesting the night.
	His grin glittering in his eyes, his gaze locked onto the darkness lurking between two homes beyond the iron gate and its matching fence. With little more than a whim, his slim form melted into the shadows pooling around him.
	The comforting, familiar chill of the gateway between shadows enveloped him. Millions upon millions of pathways tempted him, but there was only one he wanted.
	Within the span of scarcely a heartbeat, Kyair stepped out into the alleyway he had been eyeing. Just like that, he was inside. He had done what most other creatures, even some of his own, would have struggled to do, passing the barriers as if it they did not exist where others would have had to pick away at them.
	Now, he just had to find the hunters he sought. According to his source, there was a handful of families involved, each of them residing somewhere within this vast community. Each would get what they deserved, but there was one family he was most interested in, the family who had organized and lead the hunting party. The Prescotts.
	Indignant rage flowed through him, a part of him demanding blood. At long last, he was closing in. He would make them suffer as they had made his family suffer. And there was nothing and no one that could stand in his way.
	Hands clenched, his form sunk once more into the shadows. This time, his dark mass remained, staring out at the world as only a shadow can. His form hopped from one pond of shadow to the next, searching.
	As much as he hated it, he would have to be cautious. Though he had bypassed the main defenses, many of the homes reeked with their own, individual wards. Wards that would warn the inhabitants of any disturbances. Even something as simple as a shift in a shadow could set them off. Some, to his annoyance, would take even him a while to break through.
	But no matter how long it took, or what he had to do, he [i]would[/i] find the hunters on his list.
	It was indeed a perfect night. A perfect night to begin his revenge.