darkness cast by the bay window. Her midnight cloak wrapping her in matt blackness. The runes stitched into the hem by a secret hand, hid her presence from the vampire returning to her lair. She had listened as the wild, drunken laughter drifted through the catchment. Listened as the door slipped tight. Heard the sounds of falling fabric, so soft it nearly evaded her. She listened as the murmurings became the sounds of lust and need. Then came the sharp intake of breath that heralded muffled sobs of pain and helpless resignation. It was not until the final low ecstatic moan of sated blood lust slid out of the window did she make her move. The vampire lay on the bed next to the drained husk of her victim, her head rolled back, eyes staring at the ceiling in gorged delirium, slender fingers plucked the sheets beneath her, as the stolen blood that filled her veins danced with the arcane narcotic the intruder had added to the room wine earlier. Avadine attacked with a wild frenzy, eager to make every second count as the vampire fought to regain her senses. Even in this state she was a dangerous opponent and it took every ounce of considerable skill to take down her mark. She had what she came for. Now it was time to dress the scene before she made her leave. She looked down at the torn and punctured skin of her kill. At the crevasse of ruptured flesh that opened to the ruined black heart. Her gaze ran up the long swan-like neck to the small, perfect features of the exquisite mask the monster wore so easily to enthrall its prey. The vampire lay quite still, but the Assassin took no chances. The problem with the undead was even when you put one down they had a nasty habit of getting back up again.