"Foolish creature," Zero muttered as he tossed aside what remained of the werewolf.

He licked the blood off his lips. Tangy. Gamey. Unpleasant.

Zero had long since learned to control his hunger for drinking blood—but not his hunger for spilling it. He came alive on the battlefield, a sword in each hand and a trail of death in their wake. His eyes glinted as he watched the creature's companions retreat, and he grinned, a feral, almost mad expression.

"I'm not done," he growled, baring his fangs. "I'm just getting started!"

Even among his kin Zero was infamous. A rabid dog, they called him. A mindless beast. A traitor to vampires and to all nightkin.

Zero didn't care. He didn't care about anything except the thrill of battle, and the hunter he served. Any nightkin foolish enough to touch his hunter—to even think about doing so—was bound for a painful fate on the wrong end of his twin blades.

Why a vampire had sworn himself to someone who should've been his mortal enemy was anyone's guess. But his loyalty was absolute; the hunter's presence was the only thing that could cut through the haze of his bloodlust.

He was a different person with his charge. Soft, almost, if such a word could even be used to describe him. The hunter made him come alive too—a different sort of alive. Warmer. Gentler. A pocket of air in the miasma his life had become since his transformation.

And these worthless lycanthropes, these filthy creatures, had dared to come close to his hunter. To try and snuff out the one light in his dark road. They deserved no mercy—not that Zero had ever been a merciful man.

When he was satisfied, Zero sheathed his swords, now thrumming with newly absorbed blood, and turned to mist, heading back toward the hunter's home. He reformed and got down on one knee, bowing his head, the hint of a cruel smile still on his lips.

"It is done," he said in an even tone that contrasted with the crimson staining his fangs and outfit. "They won't bother you again."