Theron Darkmoon's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Theron Darkmoon had waited two nights to catch his maker's scent, and now a hunter had ruined it. He crouched in the treeline, black coat pooled in the mud. Below him, on the trail, a man in oiled leather knelt and touched the ground. Daylight fell full on the man's face. No vampire could stand in that sun. This one did. Theron had crossed three valleys to find the elder who made him. The old one had turned Theron against his will, forced this cold hunger on him, and then vanished. Theron wanted one thing. He would drain the immortal blood from that elder and end the hunger for good. But he could not stalk his sire while something stalked him. The hunter lifted his head. He was scenting the air the way Theron scented it. A silver crossbow hung across his back. He stood and walked straight toward the treeline, straight toward Theron. Theron did not run. Running left a trail. He needed the hunter to lose him for good, and he needed shelter from the coming dawn. He turned and moved uphill through the brush, quiet, letting the man follow. He found the cave near the ridge. Its mouth gaped wide in the rock, framed by broken boulders. The walls were old and streaked with pale stone. Inside, the dark ran deep. Theron slipped in and pressed his back to the cold wall, just past the reach of the light. The hunter reached the opening minutes later. He paused at the threshold. "You picked a hole with one door," he called. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Come out, or I smoke you out." He stepped inside. Sunlight followed him only a few feet, then died against the stone. In that dark, his eyes were useless. Theron's were not. Theron struck from the side. He drove the man into the wall and tore the crossbow away. The hunter twisted fast and slashed with a short silver blade. It bit Theron's forearm. The burn was sharp and deep. Theron did not let go. He forced the man's head back and sank his teeth into the throat. The blood was hot and human. Theron drank until the struggling stopped. He let the body drop against the boulders. He stood in the cave mouth and wiped his lips. The silver cut still burned in his arm. But the hunter no longer breathed, and no one else knew this trail. Then Theron saw the hunter's forearm. A brand marked the skin, a crest he knew. It was the same mark his sire's servants wore. This man had not been hunting Theron by chance. The elder had sent him. His maker knew he was coming. And now his maker would know the hunter had failed.