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. 

Simon entered a wide byway lit by ominous security lamps. The body of a human male lay slumped in a puddle of light and his own lifeblood. As Simon approached, he spied the slashes and claw marks marring the human's throat and face. The pavement had been painted red in the aftermath.

Not a hunt, whined the vampire's inner thoughts as he crawled on his knees and stared hungrily at the blood splayed across the asphalt. All of it was ruined, too dirtied for Simon—or any creature—to take. A kill.

Something was wrong with the dens. In recent weeks, the night children had been afflicted by madness. They turned upon themselves, driven by a siren call none of them could resist or understand, and they slaughtered with indiscriminate ease. Simon had even heard whispers of vampires eating their den mothers or fathers, turning upon their protectors without warning.

Madness. Something had changed, and like one unbalanced tile in a line of dominos, that change had altered the delicate balance of the underworld. The vampires touched by the call were thrown into destructive frenzies and killed without feeding. They left the bodies where they fell. They were attracting far too much attention.

Hungry as he was, Simon didn't risk taking what meager amount of blood remained in the dead human's veins. He didn't know if his kind was afflicted by poison or disease or a curse—but he knew not to linger in this place, and to not touch the prey of his mad brethren. Simon had so far escaped the madness and had no wish to succumb now.

He wandered from that place with no clear destination in mind. The rain continued its relentless onslaught and Simon ignored its torrent and the hunger raging in his middle. Verweald's inherent danger had multiplied since the beginning of the new year. Simon didn't know how, or why, only that the City of Blood had become treacherous even to its own monsters.

An ill feeling slunk through his veins. Alarmed, Simon ducked into the nearest lane. 

Thunder boomed until it vibrated through the city's very roots and caused Simon to stumble. Panting, he crouched in the middle of a forgotten access path overcrowded with neglected foliage and listened to the thunder roll through the gentle static of rain. Apartment buildings loomed above him, filled with sleeping people oblivious to the weather and the monster crouched in the shadows outside their homes.

Ahead, a man had appeared from the twist in the byway's route. He strolled by the brambles of holly and eucalyptus, his leather shoes crunching over twigs and leaves broken during the storm's tantrum. Simon jerked himself out of the way and hid in the bushes surrounding the lane's busted concrete.

The man continued to approach slowly, unperturbed by the rain or the darkness.

"Rise, child of Wrath. You needn't hide from me."

Simon's pulse jumped in his throat and pounded like a snare drum inside his skull. Skeptical, he parted the bushes and peered through the scraggly foliage. The man stood a yard away and calmly surveying Simon's chosen hiding spot.

He was tall, narrowly built yet broad through the shoulders. His carmine hair was painted to his skull by the rain, but the wet strands barely brushed the bottoms of his ears. Cyan eyes met Simon's through the drenched brush and held the gaze, imparting confidence already implied by his stunning posture. His face was perfection not even the greatest of artists could dream of molding.

Simon's eyes narrowed. It was too perfect. If anything, the man's perfection was his only fault. Perfection lacked character. It belied a deeper ugliness and accentuated the foulness apparent in his revolted expression.

Left without a choice, Simon eased himself back onto the pathway with his hands pressed cautiously to the cold concrete.

He knew the man wasn't a mortal. No, a pall of dread surrounded the otherworldly creature and his restrained power filled Simon's lungs with electric energy—so the vampire knew not to run. Every instinct in his body told him to remain motionless and still. Intrinsic, primordial knowledge roared in his veins and warned the creature not to move and to pray the greater predator passed him by.

The man had one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, and he lifted to other in a careless, commanding gesture.

"Kneel." 

His voice woke a cauldron of sensation within Simon's mind. Gasping, Simon trembled as the sweet, searing agony of the Call bubbled from every nuance of his tainted blood. His body moved without direction and forced the vampire to genuflect at the man's feet.

The Call was too great. The creature's power amplified it and shredded Simon's will. He clung to the vague thoughts and meager scraps of his identity as he stared upward toward the guileless eyes of the man who could crush his body and soul in an instant. He wasn't a vampire or a mage. He was not a Sin. What was he?

"How is it you Call to me—?" the vampire choked, listening to the gallop of his heart racing. The veil of anonymity was closing in upon his thoughts. Soon he would fade to nothing within the grasp of the man's command. "You are not Wrath!"

The man smiled—and yet his countenance was cold. Emotionless. "No, I am not Wrath."

Simon screamed his last into the raging storm before he ceased to be. What remained was a red-eyed husk who looked upon the man with blank, hungry devotion. When his new master moved, the vampire who had been Simon scuttled to stay at his feet.

The man's gaze rose to the distant, black line of Klau Tower. He disregarded the monster at his feet as more appeared from the foliage, their blank, red eyes glittering in the wan luster of the colorless night.

"I am someone...much worse."

Lightning crashed above and light burned through the byway in a brilliant flash. For an instant, the man's perfect visage was ruined, and his eyes yawned wide like black pits and his smile was filled with the teeth of a wolf.

The creature cast a shadow against the far brick wall of the complex, and the shadow belonged to a much greater being ringed in a golden corona of power.

Behind the silhouette, two wings spread themselves wide.