themselves to stare intently at nothing at all.
Whatever it was she saw, or didn't see, made her relax her stance slightly - but not completely.
Since he wasn't sure she was one of them, he fired at a part of her body that would not be normally fatal. If she were undead, the silver alone would do its job. If she were human, she would escape with a broken collarbone. Granted, it wasn't the fairest of calls, but it was better than either of them being dead. It wasn't until he was in the van, tearing ass back to base, that it occurred to him who the stranger had been. He swore out loud and hammered his forehead with a doubled fist, cursing his stupidity.
After years of hunting the most dangerous game known to mortal man, he had finally come face-to-face with the only other vampire hunter on the face of the earth. And what did he do? He shot the Blue Woman.
Chapter 2
The sun is rising in the east, chasing away the night and all the things that dwell within it. Including myself.
I sigh and let the heavy blackout curtains fall back in place. I have yet to develop a fatal allergy to sunlight, but it does not feel pleasant upon my skin, and the minutest exposure hurts my eyes, even when I wear the darkest of my sunglasses. I pace back and forth uneasily. I am weary, and the wound in my shoulder throbs. I know I should allow myself to regenerate, but there is too much on my mind to surrender to the petite mort.
The events of the night's hunt have done much to disturb and, yes, excite me. I can't shake the image of the white-haired hunter from my mind. I must know more - who is he? What's his name? Where does he come from? Why is he here? Is he a friend? An enemy? Something in between?
If I have learned one thing from my existence, it's that knowledge is power. This is why I forced myself to learn how to use a computer. Pretenders have a problem with electronics. Perhaps it's because machines
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) are things of human making, or perhaps it's simply too difficult for them to break centuries-old habits, but most of them refuse to keep abreast with the latest advances in the sciences. That's why they surround themselves with human servants; it guarantees that they can exploit technology without ever having to interface with it directly.
I unplug my laptop from its recharger and place it on the card table that serves as my desk, jacking the modem into the phone line. The LCD flickers into life as I turn on the juice, typing in my password as I go. I take out the hands-free headset and plug it into a port on the side of the laptop. I type in an address and hit the ENTER key. The screech of the computer modem fills my skull. I grimace and spin down the volume on the earpiece.
A computer-generated image fills the laptop's LCD. It's a three-dimensional picture of a man's head, perpetually rotating in cyberspace through three hundred and sixty degrees. The head is transparent and where the brain should be there is a mass of cobwebs. As the head spins and tilts, the strands of the spider web shimmer with electric blue foxfire and purple heat lightning.
I turn the volume up on the earpiece and hear a short buzzing sound, kind of like a cross between the rings of a doorbell and a telephone. Suddenly a smaller rectangle opens up within the upper right hand corner of the screen, revealing a man in his late twenties with a shaved head, the folds and creases of a human brain tattooed directly onto his bald pate. As if this was not adornment enough, there's a third eye etched upon his brow. Upon magnification, the center of the tattooed eye turns out to be a perfectly circular hole in his skull.
"Who is it?" The voice speaks before the lips move, like that of an astronaut circling the moon. Although I can see the tattooed man thanks to the digicam mounted on his computer monitor, he can't see me.
"It's Sonja," I reply, identifying myself.
The bald
Whatever it was she saw, or didn't see, made her relax her stance slightly - but not completely.
Since he wasn't sure she was one of them, he fired at a part of her body that would not be normally fatal. If she were undead, the silver alone would do its job. If she were human, she would escape with a broken collarbone. Granted, it wasn't the fairest of calls, but it was better than either of them being dead. It wasn't until he was in the van, tearing ass back to base, that it occurred to him who the stranger had been. He swore out loud and hammered his forehead with a doubled fist, cursing his stupidity.
After years of hunting the most dangerous game known to mortal man, he had finally come face-to-face with the only other vampire hunter on the face of the earth. And what did he do? He shot the Blue Woman.
Chapter 2
The sun is rising in the east, chasing away the night and all the things that dwell within it. Including myself.
I sigh and let the heavy blackout curtains fall back in place. I have yet to develop a fatal allergy to sunlight, but it does not feel pleasant upon my skin, and the minutest exposure hurts my eyes, even when I wear the darkest of my sunglasses. I pace back and forth uneasily. I am weary, and the wound in my shoulder throbs. I know I should allow myself to regenerate, but there is too much on my mind to surrender to the petite mort.
The events of the night's hunt have done much to disturb and, yes, excite me. I can't shake the image of the white-haired hunter from my mind. I must know more - who is he? What's his name? Where does he come from? Why is he here? Is he a friend? An enemy? Something in between?
If I have learned one thing from my existence, it's that knowledge is power. This is why I forced myself to learn how to use a computer. Pretenders have a problem with electronics. Perhaps it's because machines
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) are things of human making, or perhaps it's simply too difficult for them to break centuries-old habits, but most of them refuse to keep abreast with the latest advances in the sciences. That's why they surround themselves with human servants; it guarantees that they can exploit technology without ever having to interface with it directly.
I unplug my laptop from its recharger and place it on the card table that serves as my desk, jacking the modem into the phone line. The LCD flickers into life as I turn on the juice, typing in my password as I go. I take out the hands-free headset and plug it into a port on the side of the laptop. I type in an address and hit the ENTER key. The screech of the computer modem fills my skull. I grimace and spin down the volume on the earpiece.
A computer-generated image fills the laptop's LCD. It's a three-dimensional picture of a man's head, perpetually rotating in cyberspace through three hundred and sixty degrees. The head is transparent and where the brain should be there is a mass of cobwebs. As the head spins and tilts, the strands of the spider web shimmer with electric blue foxfire and purple heat lightning.
I turn the volume up on the earpiece and hear a short buzzing sound, kind of like a cross between the rings of a doorbell and a telephone. Suddenly a smaller rectangle opens up within the upper right hand corner of the screen, revealing a man in his late twenties with a shaved head, the folds and creases of a human brain tattooed directly onto his bald pate. As if this was not adornment enough, there's a third eye etched upon his brow. Upon magnification, the center of the tattooed eye turns out to be a perfectly circular hole in his skull.
"Who is it?" The voice speaks before the lips move, like that of an astronaut circling the moon. Although I can see the tattooed man thanks to the digicam mounted on his computer monitor, he can't see me.
"It's Sonja," I reply, identifying myself.
The bald
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