Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
HUNTER
C rickley Hill
Gloucestershire, England
Neolithic Period, 3300 BC
Hunter crouched low, his muscles tense as the first rays of dawn barely kissed the horizon. He had never seen a sky so gray, so foreboding. The air at Crickley Hill was thick with the stench of blood and smoke, and every sound—a branch breaking, a bird's call—sent a tremor through his body. The battle had already raged for days, yet the earth beneath him bore no sign of relief. In the settlement's earthen ramparts, defenses once thought impenetrable now lay crumbled, the flint arrowheads and shattered bodies scattered across the ground as grim testament to the invaders' fury.
He gripped his spear tighter, its shaft carved by his own hands, though he had never imagined using it against such creatures. These were no ordinary invaders; they moved under the cover of night, swift as shadows, with eyes gleaming like red embers and fangs that dripped with the blood of his kin. The elders called them “blood-drinkers,” demons that lived beyond the veil of life and death. But Hunter knew them by the devastation they left in their wake—vampires.
The first wave had come without warning, emerging from the dense woods with a silence unnatural for any living thing. They had fallen upon his people with a ferocity, unlike any enemy he'd ever faced. Warriors twice his size had been dragged into the darkness, their screams lost to the night. Hunter had watched his brothers die, their lifeblood feeding the ravenous hunger of the invaders. He’d fought alongside the remaining warriors, his body slick with sweat and grime, flint arrows flying from his bow until none were left. But nothing could stem the tide.
As the daylight receded, Hunter could feel the weight of the coming night press against his chest. The creatures were more powerful under the cloak of darkness. But so long as he still drew breath, he would fight. It was what he had been born for, trained for. His father had told him, on the eve of his first battle, that a warrior’s life was not his own—it belonged to the land, to the people he defended. Now, as the last defender of Crickley Hill, that truth had never been more real.
The earthen ramparts groaned under the strain of the invaders' assault. Hunter glanced toward the settlement’s entrance, where the fighting had been fiercest. The ground there was littered with the fallen, but the flint arrowheads still glinted in the fading light, a silent call to arms. He could feel the weight of history pressing on him—generations of warriors who had fought before him, their spirits watching over this sacred ground. He would not be the one to let it fall.
As the shadows deepened, Hunter rose to his full height, his spear ready in hand. He knew the night would bring another wave, but he would be waiting. This battle was not over. Not yet.
Hunter had stood on the ramparts until the last breath of light disappeared, bracing for the onslaught. The night came alive with movement, the unnatural rustle of leaves as the vampires crept from the shadows. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but his grip on the spear never wavered. This was his last stand. He had accepted it.
When they came, they moved like wisps of smoke, swift and silent, their glowing eyes cutting through the darkness. Hunter fought with everything he had left, spear striking true, but it wasn't enough. One by one, the others had fallen, and he was surrounded. A monstrous figure lunged at him, its fangs bared, and before he could react, he felt a sharp, searing pain in his neck. The world blurred around him, and the sounds of battle faded as the creature drained the life from him.
Hunter knew he was dying. His vision darkened, his body growing cold as his blood was stolen by the vampire’s insatiable hunger. His final thoughts were not of vengeance, but sorrow—he had failed his people. The last defender of Crickley Hill had fallen.
But then, against all reason, he woke.
The light of dawn pierced through his eyelids, and he sat up abruptly; there was an emptiness in his chest. He should have been dead. His hand instinctively went to his neck, finding the puncture wounds there—already healed. The taste of something foreign lingered in his mouth, metallic and bitter. His senses were heightened, every sound amplified, every scent sharp and overwhelming. Panic seized him as he realized the truth.
He had become one of them.
A sharp gasp escaped his lips, and he scrambled away from the bodies of the fallen around him, recoiling as if they might rise as well. But they didn’t. He alone had been spared—no, not spared, cursed. His reflection in a puddle of water showed pale skin and lifeless eyes that no longer held the warmth of the living. The sun above didn’t burn his flesh as he’d been told it would, but the light felt wrong—too bright, too pure for the abomination he had become.
Horror washed over him. His thoughts raced back to the stories, the legends of the blood drinkers who had once been men, now twisted into something unholy. He was one of them now, bound to the same hunger that had claimed so many of his kin. The memory of the vampire’s bite flashed through his mind, a reminder of how easily it had stolen his life and twisted it into this nightmare.
"No…" Hunter whispered, backing away from the village. He couldn’t stay there. Not like this. He was a monster.
For days, he wandered the woods, his mind a storm of anger and grief. The hunger gnawed at him, and more than once, he nearly gave in, nearly fed on the living. But he refused. He wouldn’t become the very thing he had fought against. As the days passed, Hunter’s horror turned into something colder, sharper. Purpose.
He had been turned without his knowledge, without his consent. His life had been stolen from him. But that wouldn’t happen to anyone else—he would make sure of it. If he could no longer be the protector of his people in life, he would become something else in death.
A hunter. His father had never known what had caused him to name his son such, but Hunter now believed his father had been given a glimpse into what would be—what his son would become.
The decision settled in his chest like a stone. He would hunt the vampires who dared to steal the lives of the living, just as his had been taken. He would make sure no one else woke in terror, realizing they had been turned into a creature of darkness against their will. And if anyone chose this path willingly, then that would be their burden to carry—but no one would ever be forced into it again.
Hunter’s gaze hardened as he turned back toward the ruined ramparts of Crickley Hill. The battle might have been lost, but his war was just beginning. He would stalk the night as they did, but not as one of them. He would be the shadow they feared, the one who knew their weaknesses, their hunger.
He would hunt them all, until the end of time.
Upper End of the Cornish Coast
Present Day
Hunter stood at the edge of the cliff; his gaze fixed on the sky where she had disappeared moments before. The sea roared beneath him, crashing against the rocks with a rhythmic intensity, but it was the absence of the female falcon that held his attention. The wind tugged at his raven-black hair, the fading light of dusk casting shadows across his chiseled features. He narrowed his ice-blue eyes, trying to shake the strange sensation lingering in his chest.
He had lived for millennia, longer than any human could comprehend, and had encountered countless beings, both supernatural and mortal. And yet, there was something about this one—this falcon-shifter—that unsettled him. In his animal form, every instinct had screamed at him to pursue, to chase her down as she vanished into the clouds. But now, standing on the cliff in his vampire form, Hunter felt nothing but a simmering arousal, something purely physical and primal.
Yet, there was more. An odd pull, a deep curiosity. Something he couldn’t quite explain. He wasn’t a man who was easily enchanted, and certainly not one to be captivated by someone he’d barely encountered. She had been quick, elusive, her shifting form beautiful in the sky. And the moment their eyes met, something had shifted in him.
With a sharp exhale, Hunter clenched his jaw and forced himself to turn away from the edge of the precipice. He had no time to dwell on the mysterious shifter. There were bigger matters at hand, darker forces that required his attention. He was hunting, after all, a witch-vampire duo that had been wreaking havoc in the area and didn’t give a damn about his strange fascination with the falcon-shifter.
He rolled his shoulders, letting the sensation of her presence fade. The cool evening air bit at his skin as he focused his thoughts, his vampire instincts taking over. It was dusk, the perfect time for a hunt. The faint light of the setting sun was barely an inconvenience to him, unlike some of his younger brethren who couldn’t handle the daylight. Hunter was far older than the vampires of legend, far more powerful, and the nonsensical superstitions surrounding his kind—holy water, crosses, garlic—were just that. Nonsense.
There was one superstition that was rarely spoken of, though, one that he had an immense appreciation for.
Humming to himself, he shifted. Unlike the misty, dramatic transformations romanticized in human lore, a vampire’s shift into a different creature was simple and efficient. His form evaporated into a puff of smoke, barely noticeable in the dim light, and in the next moment, he was no longer standing on two legs. His body became sleek and fluid, his limbs shorter, his movements more graceful. Where a man had stood, there was now an otter, its dark, glossy coat blending seamlessly into the surrounding rocks.
The otter’s small, nimble form darted toward the shoreline, weaving through the coastal brush with ease. In this form, Hunter could move quickly across land, but he could also slip into the rivers and sea without effort, a useful advantage in this terrain. Tonight, he needed to cover ground—and water—swiftly. His quarry was elusive, and they wouldn’t wait for him to catch up.
The witch-vampire duo he hunted had become a serious threat, causing chaos along the Cornish coast for months. Disappearances, strange deaths—things the local authorities couldn’t explain. But Hunter knew. He had seen their kind before, beings who thrived on causing disruption and pain, playing with the natural order of the world. The witch had bonded with the vampire; their powers intertwined in a way that gave them both formidable strength. The bond was rare, and Hunter suspected it was something akin to the fated mates of the shifters. That alone might have made him leave them alone—he was no stranger to letting others live their lives, so long as they didn’t interfere with the balance of things.
But they were interfering, and Hunter’s patience had worn thin.
He swam up a river, his small body cutting through the water with practiced efficiency. The twilight sky darkened as the sun dipped lower, and Hunter’s senses sharpened in the growing shadows. He could feel them nearby, the subtle ripple of magic in the air, the familiar stench of death. He pressed on, his mind clear and focused on the hunt now. Nothing would stand in his way tonight.
After some time, he emerged from the river, water dripping from his sleek fur as he approached a wooded copse. There, hidden beneath a cluster of trees, was the small bag he had left behind earlier. In a moment, Hunter shifted back, his powerful form materializing out of the smoke as he stood naked in the cool evening air. He quickly dressed in the dark clothes he’d stashed away—practical, tight-fitting garments that allowed him to move freely—and surveyed the area.
The village lay just beyond the trees, a quaint, picturesque place with cobblestone streets, ancient buildings, and the distant hum of evening life. To anyone else, it would seem a sleepy, unremarkable place. But Hunter could sense the undercurrent of unease here, the way people hurried home before dark, the whispers of those who knew something was wrong, but couldn’t explain it.
He walked toward the village, his long strides purposeful, his senses alert. His vampire nature allowed him to pick up on things others would miss—subtle changes in the air, the faintest scents of magic and blood. The road he followed led past an old grocery store, its windows dimly lit, and then an ancient stone chapel, its worn fa?ade a reminder of centuries past. Across the way, the village library stood, its structure equally as ancient, though well cared for.
Hunter’s gaze lingered on the library for a moment, the sight of the place stirring something within him. He wasn’t one to frequent such establishments, but there was a certain charm to it, a sense of history buried within those old walls. He filed the thought away, turning his attention back to the hunt.
As he approached the chapel, his sharp eyes caught something—tiny spots of blood, barely visible to a human, but unmistakable to him. They had been hastily wiped away, an attempt to conceal the struggle that had taken place here. Hunter knelt, his fingers brushing the faint stains as he sniffed the air. It was recent. The witch and her vampire companion had been here, and they hadn’t left quietly.
He followed the trail inside the chapel, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor as he moved with the quiet grace of a predator. The interior of the church was dimly lit, candles flickering in alcoves, casting long shadows across the walls. Hunter’s enhanced senses picked up on the lingering tension in the air, the remnants of power that had been unleashed here.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the space, searching for clues. And then, he saw it—a section of wall that seemed...off. It was subtle, a slight irregularity in the stonework, but enough to catch his attention. He moved closer, running his fingers along the cool surface until he felt it—a small, hidden mechanism.
A slow grin spread across his face as he pressed it. There was a soft click, and a concealed door slid open, revealing a dark passageway leading deeper into the chapel’s foundations.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Hunter muttered to himself, his voice a low rumble in the quiet space.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the darkness, allowing the door to only shut part way as he descended into the unknown. His pulse quickened, not with fear, but with the thrill of the hunt. Whatever awaited him down here, he was ready.
The witch and her vampire companion thought they were safe, hidden away beneath the village, but they were wrong.
Hunter was coming for them, and he never missed his mark.
He stepped into the tunnel, his movements quick and silent. The darkness engulfed him, but it wasn’t a hindrance. His vision, sharp and perfect in the absence of light, guided him forward as the tunnel began to slope downward. He could feel the cool, damp air clinging to his skin, the walls slick with moisture as if the tunnel had been carved out of the earth long ago, perhaps forgotten by those who had originally built it.
Wherever this path led, it was clearly not part of the chapel’s original design. He followed the narrow, winding passage deeper underground, the earth closing in around him. It smelled of damp stone and something older, more ominous. His instincts remained on high alert, every fiber of his being tuned to the subtle vibrations in the air, the faintest shifts in sound that could signal danger.
As he continued, the tunnel widened slightly, and Hunter caught sight of a faint glow ahead. His pace slowed, his senses sharpening. Whatever lay ahead, it was the source of the dark energy he’d been tracking. He moved forward cautiously, watching as the light grew stronger with every step. When he finally reached the end of the tunnel, he stopped just before the entrance to a cavernous underground chamber.
Hunter pressed himself against the stone wall, blending into the shadows. He didn’t need to see them yet to know that the witch and her vampire companion were close. Their foul magic hung in the air like a tangible force, crackling with malice. He edged forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him.
The chamber was large, its walls lined with ancient symbols glowing faintly. In the center stood the witch and the vampire, surrounded by a group of acolytes, their expressions reverent, their heads bowed as they chanted in unison. Hunter’s gaze shifted to the figure at the heart of the ritual. A woman—no, a shifter—was bound with chains of what looked to be iron, kneeling on the stone floor, her body trembling with fear. Her wide, terrified eyes darted between the chanting figures, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
Hunter clenched his jaw, his muscles tensing as he took in the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t some experiment gone awry, nor was it an attempt to simply seize power through force. The witch and her vampire companion were conducting a ritual—a ritual designed to drain the life force from the shifter and transfer it to themselves. The air was thick with malevolent magic, the chanting rising and falling in waves as the witch raised her arms, drawing power from the circle of acolytes around her.
The woman on the floor let out a soft, pitiful whimper, and Hunter felt something inside him twist. There was something deeply unsettling about the whole scene. The shifter should have felt like one of his own—he should have sensed the woman’s nature the moment he entered the tunnel—but there had been nothing. No trace of the shifter's energy. It was as though that part of her had been muted, stolen.
The realization hit Hunter hard, and for a moment, his focus faltered. In his former life, before he had been turned into a vampire, he had been a shifter, too. A wolf-shifter, powerful and fierce. That part of him had been lost for centuries. It had taken a long time after the night he was made immortal for him to find his wolf again. Vampires could shapeshift, sure, but it wasn’t the same. The connection to his animal half had been severed and had taken a long time to heal, leaving him hollow in ways he tried not to think about. Seeing this shifter being drained, stripped of her essence, was like looking into a mirror of his own dark past. And it angered him.
He observed silently for several minutes, weighing his options. There were too many of them. The witch, the vampire, and at least six acolytes, all of them fully engaged in the ritual. Hunter wasn’t stupid—he knew taking them all on alone could end badly, even for him. But he couldn’t just wait for help. He worked alone; there was no cavalry coming, no backup he could call on. And he couldn’t leave the shifter here to die.
His mind raced, calculating the odds. His vampire abilities gave him certain advantages, but these enemies were formidable. The witch’s magic alone would be a challenge, not to mention the vampire, whose strength would be frightening, especially once the ritual was complete. But Hunter had one advantage—they didn’t know he was here. They were too focused on their task, too absorbed in their lust for power.
His decision was made in an instant. He wasn’t going to let this continue.
Without overthinking it, Hunter stepped back into the shadows and began to strip off his clothes, folding them neatly and tucking them behind a rock. He couldn’t afford to let them slow him down once the fight began. His movements were calm, controlled, even as he could feel his excitement and anticipation rising. The thrill of the hunt was a primal part of him that surged to the surface.
Once undressed, he closed his eyes, his body shifting, changing. This time, there was no puff of smoke, no simple, elegant transition. Hunter’s form rippled and contorted, his muscles expanding, bones snapping and reforming as he shifted into his most fearsome predator form. The beast he became was massive, a nightmarish blend of wolf and something far darker. His fur was pitch black, his fangs gleaming in the dim light as he let out a low, guttural growl. His blue eyes, sharp and predatory, glowed in the darkness.
This was the form that struck fear into the hearts of even the most hardened of enemies. It wasn’t just a predator—it was a monster.
In his animal form, he could breathe; his blood flowed, and his heart beat. He could be more easily injured in his shifted form than as a vampire. But he was also more powerful. He took a deep breath, steadying himself for the onslaught, and then launched himself forward.
The moment he burst into the chamber, chaos erupted. The acolytes screamed, scattering in every direction, their chanting breaking as they scrambled to escape the beast that had just torn into their ritual. The witch turned, her eyes widening in shock as she saw the hulking figure barreling toward them. She lifted her hands, ready to unleash her magic, but Hunter was faster. His massive claws struck the ground as he leaped into the air, slamming into one of the acolytes with a sickening thud.
The vampire, sensing the threat, moved next. He was tall, lithe, and quick; his fangs bared as he lunged for Hunter. But Hunter was already moving, twisting in midair as he bared his own fangs, clashing with the vampire in a flurry of teeth and claws. They rolled across the floor, a violent tangle of snarls and growls, each trying to overpower the other. Hunter's claws slashed across the vampire’s chest, tearing through flesh and bone as they fought.
The witch shouted, her voice echoing through the chamber as she summoned a wave of magic to hurl at Hunter, but he was too close, too fast. He dodged the blast, his predatory instincts guiding him as he leaped over the fallen vampire and landed in front of the witch. His eyes locked onto hers, a cold, merciless promise of what was to come.
Before she could react, Hunter lunged, his massive jaws closing around her arm. She screamed, the sound high and piercing as she tried to pull away, but Hunter held fast, his fangs sinking deeper into her flesh. He could taste her blood, thick with power, but it wasn’t the same as the blood of other humans or shifters, for that matter. It was darker, more twisted, and he spat it out as he released her.
The vampire, now enraged, charged again, but Hunter was ready. This time, he didn’t hold back. He shifted mid-attack, his beast form blurring into his vampire body. The transition was seamless, and before the vampire knew what was happening, Hunter had his hands around his neck, slamming him into the ground with a force that cracked the stone beneath them.
“Enough,” Hunter growled, his voice low and dangerous as he loomed over the fallen vampire. His ice-blue eyes gleamed with deadly intent. “You’ve played your games long enough. My friend and I are leaving.”
Hunter removed the shackles and iron chains from around the woman’s wrists, helping her to her feet. He tried to pick her up, but she waved him off.
“No,” she rasped. “I can make it.”
“Like hell,” replied Hunter, looping her arm over his shoulder. He turned to the vampire. “I suggest you and your witch make haste and crawl back under whatever rock it was you came from. If we meet again, you will not live to walk away.”
The vampire spat, his eyes filled with hate, but he didn’t move. Hunter had made his point.