It was a warm Sunday night, and she was entering the graveyard. I watched from my position in the bushes, careful not to make a sound. I was good at being silent. She didn't know that I was there, not even with her super hearing. Her dark waves cascaded down her back, landing on her leather coat. She carried a plain brown bag that looked like it carried groceries, but I knew better. It carried two pints of pig blood and a bottle of red wine. I knew her dietary habits better than anyone.
She reached the crypt that she was living in, and disappeared through the door. I would bide my time for now. Soon, the hunter would become the hunted.