Two nights later. . .

A spacecraft arrives.

The S.E.C.T.O.R. name and emblem have recently been painted over, leaving the spacecraft nondescript.

The two vampire lords sat at the same table. The room was slightly more illuminated for the convenience of mortal eyes. Sitting across from them was General Jimar Sinarath, commander of S.E.C.T.O.R. Quad IV operations, one of Lord Talomar Longden?s top men, and someone Talomar considered to be trustworthy.

He was a huge (some might say grotesque) man with massive shoulders and chest. Silver chains hug from a neck that was short yet as thick as some men?s waists; and silver bracelets were on each wrist. Every finger had multiple rings adorning them. His black hair was tightly pulled straight back and tied with leather behind his head. He had a black mustache that was grown only at each side of his mouth and down the center of his chin.

He had people murdered at a whim, and he did it often. He would occasionally carry out his own executions, delighting in the way his mechanical left arm could be used to inflict extreme torture and death. He had lost his left arm just below the elbow in a battle with his own brother. His private research labs designed a bio-mechanical arm utilizing nanotechnology and electro-impulse synapse generation. The arm was truncated at the ?wrist? with receptors that could receive anything from a normal looking and functioning hand, to a grotesque assortment of devices that were designed to either bring extreme pleasure to a woman, or to bring unbelievable pain and torture ? depending upon which attachment was inserted into the wrist receptors.

To Jimar, it all became a game. He enjoyed watching the eyes of his female victims as they stared in horrified expectation, waiting to see which device he would attach to the steely ?forearm.? Screams were common when General Jimar Sinarath was around.

?Thank you for coming all this way, General. We anticipate you?ll find this assignment quite . . . rewarding.? Lord David Dupres spoke in his usual slow, calm whispers.

The General made a barely perceptible bow of his head. ?You?ll have your demon army. I?ve already dispatched a dreadnought to pick up 10,000 demon mercenaries, completely armed and outfitted.?

?I?ll believe it when I see it hover over Rhydin,? quipped Lord Stefan Salvatore.

?You shall not be disappointed.? The general?s black, pupil-less eyes stared at the Vampire Lord.

Stefan smirked, ?You know, you still have to take out Lord Talomar and that little vampire wife of his. When are you going to do that??

Now the General actually grinned. ?You make sure they?re both in Longden?s castle at noon, three days from now. I?ll reduce the entire castle, grounds and all, to a deep, smoldering crater.?

Dupres lifted a finger just slightly ? a signal to Salvatore to not say anything. ?Very good, General, it shall be done.?

The meeting ended soon after.

The creature had made its way from the forest to the more populated parts of a town. She rather, not it, although that was hardly distinguishable, stops short, just where the treeline met buildings.

Vyndra sniffs the air for signs of the Mother. She discerns that indeed, the target has been here, through here, and perhaps she is here still.

She is one with the shadows, one with the dark, and she makes her way through the darker parts of this mottled collection of buildings. Urchins run wild, haphazard in their shoes. Vyndra sneers and nearly tackles one, but decides against drawing too much attention to herself. Not yet. She has fed well in the forests. She does not need to take any more, though, the idea was not without a certain temptation.

The creature circles a building of equal architecture to those opposite and adjacent structures. She does not smell the Mother, but her presence is like a ghost, a ghost haunting that of another, and he was close by.

Vyndra is careful as she digs her claws into the building's side. The structure's skin easily submits. This is how she moves. This is how she climbs.

Voices are carried from one of the rooms upstairs. Vyndra skitters catty corner from her prior position and lunges for the window. She does not hurl herself through the glass, but hovers, and eight smooth dark tendrils catch the frame to support her weight.

She watches with large red eyes. There are two occupants, both like the clapping boy who was not so much a boy. Vyndra hisses, but quietly. Their words are important. She smells the mother on the second. She also smells his want of her.

She will watch this one. She will watch him close.

Then, like any other horror of the night, Vyndra is gone. Her jagged angles seemingly disappear into the dark, but there is a faint smell of death which lingers in her absence.