Rituals of the Night.

By Charles Drake.

The wind howled between the dark buildings, a mournful wail of pain and self loathing. The city creaked, unsure of its own moorings, shifting in the stagnation that surrounded it. Rotting filth and quiet eyes populated the shadows that lay between the dismal sky-scrappers.

A flash cut the darkness as steel screeched against metallic claws. From one of the dark alleys burst two figures, their parting perry sending a shower of sparks into the chill night air.

One of the figures growled, nursing a tear in its flank. From its twisted throat came a snarl of pure hatred, the guttural sound curved past a pair of saliva coated fangs and through a pair of oversized lips before making their way into the night. It shifted its bulk, black fur only partially hiding its rippling muscles, so recently spawned from nothing. A pair of wild, blood shot orbs blinked atop its head, watching the second figure.

She was smaller than the lycanthrope by far, her slender frame barely reaching five feet of height. The small girl's cold features were utterly blank as she stared back at her foe, the glaive she held in her tiny hands dripping with its black blood. She watched blankly as a drop fell, splattering on the asphalt at her feet. Then, slowly, she reached out a finger and stroked it down the blade's length, coating her finger with ichor. Watching the creature intently, she moved her left hand up to her face, using the creature's own blood to inscribe her mark upon her fair skin. The faintest of smiles touched her lips as, the mark complete, she licked the last of the blood from her finger.

The werewolf barely had time to stumble back as the girl charged again, swiping the glaive past its flank. Not knowing what else to do, it attempted to defend itself and retaliate. Its right claw shot forward, straight at the girl's face.

Her delicate left hand caught it a few centimeters before its mark, stopping the thrust cold. The small smile reappeared, flashing across the girl's face as she twisted the lycanthrope's arm. It screamed as bone snapped, tearing flesh and tendons. With a yank, the creature was on its knees, nose to nose with the small girl.

"Ja ne." she whispered, ramming the glaive up through its abdomen and out the back of its neck. The werewolf shuddered once, then slumped forward. The girl stepped back, allowing the body to thump into the ground with a liquid splatter. Finally, with a single, clean strike, she beheaded the creature.

The girl placed her trophy-head in a bag, ignoring the rest of the corpse. It no longer mattered. She

had what mattered; the high that she got from hunting, from killing.

Her bloodlust satisfied, for the moment, the little girl slipped back in to the shadows of the night.