Bereft: Foretold

P | A Wing of Shadow

Verweald was a dangerous city to live in.

At night, its streets belonged to the wicked and desperate monsters slinking through its underbelly. The shadows gave shelter to unspeakable beings who craved the city's innocent and naïve citizens—and not all of those hungry monsters were clawed and fanged. Some were human, and some were...other. 

Given the moniker "the City of Blood," walking Verweald's backstreets after the sun surrendered to the starless sky wasn't just foolish; it was the fastest way to an early grave.

Many had fled in the wake of the Klau Killer's slaughter. Many remained, and some—like Simon—didn't mind the violence. They enjoyed it. 

Being a monster of the fanged variety, Simon thrived in those gloomy alleyways and contributed to the county's swollen murder ratio. He drifted with unnerving grace through the lightless places, just one of many predators living in Verweald's deepest regions. Like an infection, the shadowed byways seeped poison into the city and, given time and inattention, that infection could become dangerous. It could become deadly.

Tonight, as Simon meandered through the alleyways of Verweald's projects, the sky wept. The storm had been building for days, and at last the thunderheads unleashed the pent up deluge. The rain beat a steady drumline into the pavement and sent rivers of oil and grease into the gutters, where the trash and refuse washed from the lone alleys sank out of sight.

Skyscrapers gleamed like unsheathed blades, their stately walls glistening and reflecting the obtrusive glow of Verweald's burning lights. The moon and stars were all locked inside a prison of black clouds.

Undeterred by the weather, the vampire prowled the night with his wet hoodie drawn over his head and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his torn jeans. Simon's elongated canines slit the tender tissue on the inside of his lip and he swallowed the bitter, coppery liquid sifting through his teeth. A hollow ache radiated from his stomach, desiring—demanding—more.

The storm had been a boon to the dark-loving monsters of Verweald's underbelly, but their prey didn't wander in such inclement evenings. Simon had been hunting in the downpour for hours with no luck in scrounging a meal. He hadn't had luck the day before, or the day before that.

Hunger waylaid the vampire's body and mind in a typhoon of desperation and need. Every thought was angled toward the singularity of his hunger and the ache it left in the shallow pit of his belly—but no susceptible humans crossed his path. He sighed through his nose and continued to bleed the inside of his mouth.

Had he been a member of a den, Simon could have shared in the family's collective store of rations. Every den stole and hoarded packets or vials of blood to keep its night children marginally fed and sane. The more organized and efficient a den was, the better off its children were. Simon, created and abandoned by his master, had once longed to belong to a den and to know that reassuring sense of security and familial savagery.

But that was before.

A series of rapid, measured shrieks echoed through the network of alleyways. Simon lifted his head and, in spite of the rain peppering his upturned face, the vampire lowered his hood to better hear. The familiar cries rose in the distance and traveled away from Simon. He recognized the cadence of three separate vampires, their voices raised in a pleased, satisfied chorus.

The hunt had gone well for them. 

The urge to check what scraps they'd left behind was more temptation than Simon could resist. He hurried onward, going unseen in the dismal dark as he rushed to the site of the kill. His nose chased the lingering scent of iron and fear.