CHAPTER THREE: Another Victim

Venice, Italy

He had her. He could smell her fear, taste it on his tongue; and like champagne, it went straight to his head. He tore through the crowd, ignoring the protests of those he pushed out of his way. He had no fear of being recognized or seen, it was a costume ball and he like all the others, was dressed up. His identity was neatly concealed behind a mask, saving him from any reprisals that could occur once it was discovered that this woman was missing.

He closed in on his prey. Her scent lingered through the room but came to an abrupt halt at the end of the hallway. He slowly pushed open the door, and found she had taken the library as her choice of hiding places. She was cowering beneath a large, mahogany desk. The corner of her gossamer gown, peeping out from around the corner, gave away her location. He could hear her heart beating erratically and knew that she held her breath, hoping he wouldn't find her.

He sniffed the air appreciatively catching again the scent of fear and anxiety. He had found out that she was new to the fold; having just made it past her first full moon. This little tidbit of information thrilled him; she hadn't had time to learn how to shift on her own, yet.

He made his way stealthily into the room and over to the desk, his soft footsteps never making a sound. Without warning he jumped, landing hard on top of the blotter covering the top of the desk. An involuntary scream was ripped from the frightened woman's mouth. He laughed as he pulled out the pistol he had kept hidden in the folds of his cloak.

"Do not worry so, little one," he murmured to her softly. "It will not hurt, this I promise," he assured her.

Then dropping to the floor in front of her, he took aim and fired. The dart found its target, embedding itself into the tender flesh of her upper arm. The young lycan looked up into her pursuers face. She caught a glimpse of dark hair and cold, blue eyes before the drug entered her system, rendering her unconscious.

He took in her lustrous brown hair, the color of sable. Her face was triangular in shape, with high slashing cheekbones and a pointy chin. She possessed almond shaped eyes, that when opened, had been the color of grass, a snub noise and a soft mouth. She was beautiful, though not one he would ever consider taking for himself. She was dainty and petite, maybe standing all of five foot and weighing 102 pounds; she may not have caught his fancy, but someone would pay greatly for her.

He gathered her up in his arms and carried her from the room. Several guests stopped him along the way, concerned with the unconscious form in his arms. He quickly assured everyone that his escort had had a little too much to drink, and had passed out in the library. He was bringing her home that instant. Everyone seemed to accept this story, with very little persuasion needed. He walked right through the front doors, no one the wiser as to his true motives.

He laughed to himself at their gullibility and naiveté. If they had any real idea as to what he was a part of, they would be outraged and indignant. But none of them had a clue, and he meant to keep it that way.