He blinked in the sudden light, twisting away from the heat of the day. He felt full and tired, like mosquito supped on too much blood. More than sated, he was close to bursting.

"Lord Hal," The voice was deeply familiar. "Lord Haaal." He sat up. His hair was tussled, long and curling and matted with blood. He ran a hand through it, working at a few of the tangles. Fergus stood at the foot of the bed, wearing only a pair of loose place pants belted tight at the waist. Ah, familiar Fergus. His narrow bare chest was mottled with blood. Blood that crusted black and flaked away. He was flushed with it. They both were. Hal could feel it working its way around his insides, heating him up, loosening him in the same way that wine might loosen up a man.

"What is it, Fergus?" he asked, mildly irritated at having been woken. Given a choice, he would have preferred to sleep until the evening, and then gone hunting again. He and his company had planned to stay in the manor house for the rest of the week, making sport of the country side before moving into London to visit the Coven there.

"It's that damnable Wilshire, sir," answered Fergus.

"Wilshire?" Hal asked, stretching languorously, like a big cat. "I don't remember any Wilshire." There was a body beside him in the bed. A young woman, naked, her lovely blonde locks stained red with blood. Her throat and chest were a grisly mess. Hal vaguely remembered tearing out her heart the night before. He licked his lips, tasting the last traces of her with his tongue. She'd been a good fuck and an even better kill. "What does he want?"

"To kill you, it would seem, my lord. He's been tailing us for days. Seems like he's finally caught up. Ivan found him this morning."

"Well, we just can't have that, can we?" Hal buckled his belt, then held up the tattered remains of what had once been a shirt. "Be a good fellow Fergus and fetch me a new one, will you? I rather seem to have ruined this one." He dropped it back on to the bed, on top of the corpse. "Sleep tight, love," he sneered, his fingers brushing her crimsoned locks before turning to follow Fergus out of the room.

The shirt Fergus found him had belonged to the former head of the house. It was white, with a wide button-down collar. Hal wore it unbuttoned past his collarbone. The mother-of-pearl buttons shown beautifully in the bright morning light. The sleeves were flared, adding drama to his every motion. They passed by several corpses on their way down to the foyer. He didn't bother to wash off any of the blood, and it clung to him like a second skin.

When Lord Harry walked, it was with purpose. He moved like a man of great importance, tall and strong. His sloping shoulders rippled with muscle. He'd been a strong young man when he'd been alive, and had lost none of his prowess in the pallor of death. If anything, he appeared even more powerful. He was a hunter, strong and sure, and he exuded an air of confidence.

He paused at the top of the steps, gazing pridefully down at his men milling about in the room below. His company consisted of about fifteen men. All of them the strongest, most cunning brutes he'd encountered during his wanderings. All of them were utterly ruthless, and completely loyal to him. There was another man, one he didn't recognize, tied to a chair. This had to be Wilshire.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, each step finding its place and its purpose. He was a tiger. Leisurely and deadly. Wilshire's eyes were fixed on him, and they burned with hatred and rage. It was a look that Hal had seen many times before, most frequently directed at him. In order to become powerful, one frequently had to upset people. Hal was good at upsetting people.

"Wilshire, Wilshire, tell me why your name sounds so familiar." He nodded to one of his men, who reached over and removed the gag from Wilshire's mouth. The man spit on the floor, then glared up at Hal. He was an attractive fellow, perhaps in his early thirties, built tall and lean.

"You murdered my Jenna," he said, his voice hot with barely contained self-righteous rage. "You killed her."

"I've killed a lot of people," Hal shrugged. "I don't particularly remember your Jenna."

"She was the most lovely creature in all of Suffolk. Her hair was the color of honey, and it tumbled across her fair skin, more brilliant than the sun itself. Her eyes sparkled like the sea, and her laugh-"

"Yes, yes. Enough with the poetry, Shakespeare." Hal gestured the man to silence. "Now that you mention it, I do seem to remember your girl. Delicate creature. Frail english rose, yes? We tore her apart like a petal, didn't we, boys?" Hal turned to his men, basking in their laughter. He thrived on attention. Wilshire whispered something under his breath. "What's that?" Hal's head snapped at the sound.

"I said," repeated Wilshire, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That I'm going to kill you." Hal laughed.

"You? Do you really think you can kill me, boy?" he barked, his eyes glittering frightfully. "You wouldn't be the first to try, that much is certain, and I rather doubt you'll be the one to succeed." Hal looked him over with a critical eye. He was bigger than Hal, but not nearly as powerfully built. "Want to give it a try? Untie him, Gents. Let's see what ol' Wilshire's got."

Wilshire was on his feet in a matter of moments. In one hand, he held a heavy wooden stake. Hal noticed that his other hand was clumsily bandaged. He could smell the faint rot of infection creeping through the flesh.

One of Hal's men tossed him a knife. He caught it without taking his eyes off of Wilshire. The knife was a long, wicked thing, and it rested comfortably in his hand. He twirled it like a baton and grinned at Wilshire. "Shall we?"