Clans of Seraphim

Prologue

Carefully, Kit loaded a round into his rifle before locking it into the chamber. His breathing was shallow and quiet, his eyes tracking his target. The man on the other end of the barrel looked so... Human. Could someone so harmless really be the cause of so many violent deaths? Kit scoffed. The poor guy even walks with a limp. He shuddered. The pictures they had showed him during the mission briefing were disturbing. They depicted bloody, violent deaths that left the victims completely marred and unrecognizable. They had looked more like they'd been attacked by some wild animal than any human.

Which would make sense, because that man was a Werewolf. 

Normally creatures like werewolves had a habit of traveling in packs. The pack made them stronger, and not just mentally. The more werewolves in a pack, the stronger and faster they were. However like many other wild animals, those that become ill or weak are either killed or left for dead. Judging by his worn clothes and  limp, this particular lycanthrope didn't have a pack to go home to. It made him an easy target for the organization. Perfect for a novice hunter; especially one from the Eve clan. 

The clan he came from, Eve, paled in comparison to the others. They were humans, same as anyone else. The only things separating them from the others were a natural talent for the creation and use of weapons, and the blood that ran in their veins. Blood can mean a lot though, and being one of the six Clans has its benefits. It gets you into Seraphim.

Seraphim. The name rang through his head like a gong. Seraphim was the corporation that took him in. In recent years, the secretive company had made it their goal to track down and gather humans with very specific bloodlines that exhibited strange powers. They had everything from immortals to vampires to sorcerers.

When Kit was ten, his father took him and his brother to the shooting range for the first time. The young boys listened to an hour long speech from the man, rolling their eyes. "Kit. Don't point at anything you aren't willing to shoot. Guns are not toys, but you should be taught how to use one in case you ever need to defend yourself."

His brother was the first to hold the gun. Kit’s dad corrected his stance, held up his arm. Kit merely watched with fascination. Truly this was an art, a dance to be learned and perfected.

Much to the old man’s dismay, when the boy finally fired he missed all of the targets. Looking tired of this fruitless training, he called Kit over and handed him the firearm.

Kit put one foot forward, holding the pistol out in front of himself with both hands, ignoring the critique of his father. He took in everyone, and everything in the room. How the metal felt in his hands, the brush of his pants against his leg. One finger softly clicked off the safety. His breathing slowed to a still…

Every shot was perfect.

His finger twitched on the trigger, staring at the wolf. He'd never killed anything before. Not even when his Dad had tried to take him hunting. He just couldn't do it. The thought of killing had always disgusted him. Lives were lives, regardless of who or what it belonged to.  

This... thing though. It had already killed twenty-three humans, and without a pack to keep its blood thirst in check, it would surely kill more. He couldn't let that happen. There were already too many children going through what he did. 

Kit closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Blood stained the night. Sirens blared in the distance.