A silent alley. The shadows of the occassional passer by who walked along the street above, hardly visible on the un-lit stones. The walls, bare as the rock they were, dirty.

The first Hunter entered the scene. Clear-yellow eyes carefully searched the area for potential threats, keen ears heard the prey out in the relative light of the streetlamps. The black, smooth velver dress, the silent, soft movements that could explode in violent aggressiveness at the least sign of danger. A smile, so visible to his kind, so invisible to the ordinary man. His tongue touched the long, needle-sharp fants. He was hungry. He was hungry, and only the feeling of the neck of the prey between his teeth, only the heavy, sweet smell of warm blood could satisfy his hunger. Yes, he was hungry.

That was when the second Hunter appeared. Hidden amongst the shadows she had realised her preserves, her home, her hunting-grounds to be threatened by an intruder. Her clear-blue eyes could easily see him in the darkness. A vague thrill of pleasure pervaded her as she let her claws glide out. Unvoluntarily, he backed a step. He loathed to show weakness, for it was a sign of submission amongst the dark stalkers of the night. He forced himself ahead a few steps, just to show that he would not yield. They watched one another for a long, silent moment. Tjeu were inhumanly beautiful, and an aura of bestial grace surrounded them both. Not to long ago such an encounter could have led to a night of warmth and tenderness, perhaps even love, but the pleasures of sex were since long of no interest to these walking shadows. Only the Hunt mattered now, and the prey was the only reward. But for the Hunt there had to be a territory, and they would fight over these grounds. Neither of them showed any sign of giving up.

Without uttering a single word, they knew what would follow. Their language was one of beasts; a special gleam in the eye, an invisible nod, a way of licking the lips could mean more than a thousand words.

He let his claws out, and prepared himself for the pain he knew would come. Another painfully long moment passed. Then, suddenly, with the speed of the lightning they attacked. She threw herself at him with an animal hissing, he flung himself aside and tried to claw her with his long razor-blade claws. He had almost gotten behind her, and all she could do was to avoid getting hit in the back. With a powerful jump she leaped lithely up the wall, several times her own height. For an instant she clung to the slippery stone, and then she let gravity pull her down against the enemy below. He could barely dodge this completely unexpected maneuver. She landed softly on all fours. Immediately, he jumped her while letting out a terrible sound from the depth of his monstrous soul. They met in the air, grabbing each other with fangs and claws, and before they reached the ground they had already recieved several blows. Their dark blood stained the asphalt. This was his cruelest battle ever, and his wounds burned as fire. She on her sode seemed obsessed with the thought of tearing him apart. He had hurt her as well, one of her eyes was damaged.

The battle continued in the same ferocious way, few people had the ability to see the lightning explosions of blood and hate. It was yet uncertain whose was the night. He got a claw in his chest, her crown bled. Her throat, shattered by bloody talons, his leg weakened from terrible blows. And blood everywhere. And then, yet another pause, probing for weaknesses, damages and their own courage, and then yet another attack. Then yet another pause…

* * * * *

Olof Fransén didn't believe in monsters. He didn't believe in UFOs, nor did he believe in the Devil. And he absolutely didn't believe in vampires. He had his doubts about God, but it was close to a yes. He hadn't read the Bible, which was unusual for his age of fifty-five. But he had always thought that he couldn't afford to, because alcohol sort of came first. At the moment he was drunk in that comfortable manner, when the psyche is somewhere between the Pick-up and Sleeping Beauty-stages (although he was not very beautiful). He was surprised how little disappointment he felt over the fact that he rarely, increasingly so, got any company home. Olof had never married, even though his young love had raised their child. Ingrid had complained about Erika's new appartment, obviously not because there was anything wrong with the appartment, but because her Little Daughter had moved from home. Ingrid didn't like to be alone, she needed company desperately. That was the main reason why they had never married. Olof preferred to be alone. His only problem was that his hormones never seemed to agree.

Olof Fransén, certified accountant, continued to think about Ingrid and Erika, and his friend Göran, who had picked up a real sweetie down the pub. He had disappeared with her, and left Olof and Ulf behind in the otherwise boring bar. Olof didn't like the "musician" who ruined every seventies-cover he found appropriate to bellow. The only alternative was the juke-box, which was full of modern throbbing rubbish, techno or whatever it was called. He kept his opinions about modern music to himself; he didn't like to swear.

Drunk and alone he staggered down the down-town streets. Funny. Wasn't the Underground station supposed to be just around the corner? He entered a small, shadowy street he didn't recognise.

He hadn't gone more than a few meters when he heard a strange sound, no, several strange sounds from one of the dark alleys. Silently he sneaked closer to the source of the noise. Somewhere in the back of his head he imagined how a young beautiful woman was harassed by some sick criminal, and he also imagined how he bravely came to her rescue, and that she would show her gratitude in a very intimate fashion. In the front of his head, however, he knew that he was too much of a coward to intervene.

In the towering darkness in front of him, between the two narrow house walls, he saw two shadowy figures fight. Claws clawed, fangs bit. Short, intensive bursts of violence between long, tense pauses. The litheness, the power behind the blows impressed him. He had never seen such gracious creatures in such a bloody and aggressive battle. His first worries were soon replaced by deep fascination and curiosity. He had to see more of this! He tried to get closer, closer… In his condition he couldn't have seen the old, rusty coke-can before him. With a loud metallical shriek he revealed himself to the dark combatants.

In a brief moment of complete shock, clear-yellow and clear-blue and dull steel-grey eyes met, and in terror he realised that the bloody fangs hissed at him. A blink of an eye later, as on a signal, the two figures disappeared into the shadows beyond the alley.

Olof Fransén stretched himself. Bah, he thought disappointedly, I have always hated cats anyways!