Drystan Ryde tasted his own blood that was also sliding down the back of his throat, he felt it dripping down his chin. The pain that it wrought blazed through him, but he didn’t dare make a sound just yet. He aimed carefully then shot. The sharp report of his gun ripped through the night, followed immediately by a yelp of pain. He hated when Mystic was right, and this time it seemed he was going to die because it didn’t listen to her. His head throbbed and the blood on his face dried quickly, but it didn’t matter.

“You’re dead, hunter” a voice growled from somewhere in the dark, and Drystan really wished he hadn’t came here alone because now he was going to die, and he wouldn’t get the chance to tell Mystic that he loved her.

Drystan fired his gun again, the blast leaving his ears ringing. He still heard a frustrated, pained cry from the dark. But where-ever he had hit didn’t keep the bastard from leaping on him from the shadows, a flash of pale skin in the moonlight, and Vladimir had him.

The sudden weight of his attacker forced a rush of air from his lungs, but it was the hands at his throat that made breathing a struggle. Drystan buried the muzzle of his Nightstalker special into the Vladimir ‘s neck and pulled the trigger.