Author's Note: Well, heeeeeeeeeeere we go. I hope you're all ready for this… it's gonna be one hell of a roller coaster ride (or so I hope), and it's definitely a different track from my other LXG items. For one thing… well, you've all read the trailer, and have brains, so you can figure that one out for yourself. Also, don't expect amazingly swift updates on this one – which you will all (those with accounts and emails) automatically be alerted to – at least until I have finished one or two of my other stories. My own fault for letting my muse get away with me, I know… Also, check my new site – in my bio – for song listings for this fic, etc. Okay, on with the shout outs and then the prologue, named by my guinea pig for this story, my good buddy Nightslash winks::

Raven Silvers: Thank you, buddy. Hope this lives up to your expectations.

Graymoon74: Ah yes, yummy men galore. Thanks, GM.

Mrs. Mina Harker: Sorry you had to wait so long, but finally, here it is, and I hope you enjoy it.

Sethoz: Glad you liked the trailer, and thanks. Hope this is worth the wait, and I hope you enjoy it. Though I have the sneaking suspicion you're going to want to hurt me…

queerquail Well, here you have it.

Kame-sama I torture my readers when my muse is uninspired to torture characters… pretend I never said that. Sorry I made you wait, and I hope you like it.

Andrea: I'm glad you like the cast list and the trailer as a whole. Thanks. Aheheh, and I agree! All those good-looking guys, and so much to take in… I'd get lost!

TARilus: I'm glad you found it chilling. All will be explained shortly. Aheh, that episode of Friends was on the other day! I watched it grins:: And I agree… the odds aren't the best.

LotRseer3350: Thanks. Sorry I made you wait, but… I mean, you were lucky it came out now. I was trying to resist, but caved.

drowchild I'm glad you liked the trailer. I wish I could be in the movies. But thank you so much for your compliment. It meant a lot to me. All the characters and story will become clear, don't worry. It will all make sense soon! I hope…

NightinBelle: Hope you hung around and want to read this, and I hope you think it was worth the wait.

(P.s. For those who haven't read Silver Bullet or By The Light of The Moon, you can probably figure it out, but you might get confused. So… be warned, heh.)

And now, with my deep apologies, here is the prologue and debut of Eternal Midnight…

Tom Sawyer pounced.

Captain Nemo lifted his harpoon gun higher, finger automatically reaching for the trigger on reflex. The lycanthropic form of the Secret Service Agent loomed closer, silver eyes flashing dangerously and eerily in the dying light of the flare fired from the Indian's gun. He snarled, maws wide as his claws inched closer and closer by the second, his hot breath hitting Nemo in the face, but the proud, regal man did not waver, simply squeezed.

The harpoon exploded from the end of the gun, a noise like the firing of a cannon resonating around the narrow corridor, the waning light making it strobe and painful to watch, even as the projectile rocketed forwards, and towards the side of the werewolf, aimed to graze, not kill. That was not Nemo's intention.

But when the harsh, horrific reality of the inaccuracy of his shot hit him, he realised how much closer to Tom Sawyer he should have aimed, even as the full weight of the lycanthrope slammed him in the chest, the claws digging in and drawing thick, crimson blood. Despite his pride and strength – both physical and mental alike – Nemo let out a shout of agony, and was ploughed backwards and down, into the ground with enough force to jar his spine and make him wince, the harpoon gun lost from his grasp as the claws dug in deeper. A snarl made his head ache as it rumbled over his face, before the maw opened wide, saliva and the blood of the poor crewman dripped from the canines at the front of the jaws, large and terrifying. The silver eyes glinted in anticipation, eager for the kill.

Captain Nemo, inventor of the Nautilus, and member of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen stared death in the face, and let out a weary sigh, seeing the malicious edge to the eyes of what was once Tom Sawyer… the mischief and innocence was lost… forever, he feared, even as the jaws lowered, and he felt them pierce his throat.

The werewolf clamped the maw around the neck, and crushed, tearing and killing, in its element and loving every minute.

A flash of natural light tore the man from his reverie, and his green, hazel-flecked eyes opened slowly, even as distant lightning flared across the sky over at the edge of New York City, the skyscrapers blocking off part of the display. The roof he stood upon was a good twenty floors up, and the wind was picking up, whipping around his ankles and causing his cloth duster to blow around his lower legs, billowing like a cloak and giving him a mysterious appearance as he loomed on the very edge of the roof. His clothing was black in the entirety: steel toe-capped boots; black, buttoned shirt fastened to the middle of his broad yet not overly large chest; black pants made of durable, thick denim-like material for endurance; and the duster… his – their – trademark attire item. They never went anywhere without them… he never went anywhere without it.

As he stood, turning his head slowly about to watch for danger and anything interesting, his blonde locks of slightly curled, ever-tousled hair fluttered about his ears, his eyes, settling on his brow and tickling the back of his neck in an almost welcome fashion. His hair had not changed in length, style or colour in over one hundred years, and that was just how he planned to keep it. He wasn't one for change. It didn't suit him. Regularity and familiarity were two of his favourite things.

He took in a deep breath; his heightened senses making more of the scents than any mere human could comprehend. He closed his eyes again for a moment, even as far-off thunder rumbled lazily, drawing closer. In his mind, the same memory played casually, like a record stuck on loop, but he saw it often… it was like a rhythm, beating its way slowly through him. It was one of the first real, vivid things he could remember. The man he had killed viciously – Captain Nemo had been his name and title – had gone down without much of a fight… disappointing. After that, the hunt and the chase had seemed to lose some of the thrill, for one of the greatest fighters had fallen so easily and quickly. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but there hadn't been many more important, memorable casualties. When defeat had stared their opponents in the face, in the form of four sets of lupine eyes, they had retreated; realising victory was not within their grasp, despite all delusions.

Though he should have taken pride and excitement at that victory, a sense of oddity swept over him whenever he thought about it, like something should not have occurred that night. Something had gone wrong, and something… something important had changed. A small – mostly ignored – voice in the very back of his skull told him that he should have left with those people, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen as they had called themselves… but a more imposing voice kept it subdued, and told him that this was where he belonged… this was who he was.

He was not Special Agent Thomas Sawyer of the American Secret Service.

No… not anymore…

He was Exuro… assassin for hire… and he was damned good at his job.

Exuro bent his knees, and reached down with a hand, crouched almost predatorily on the rooftop, his green eyes scouring the darkness of the alley below for what he knew was coming. The target – or rather, targets – should be here any moment, lured in with a false lead as to a lair of werewolves. Exuro smiled a grim smile, laughing quietly at their naivety. Little did they know they wandered into their own doom… their deaths awaited them at the end of this alley, and he planned to see to it that not a soul – not that the stinking creatures had souls – left the place afterwards. He would decorate the blandness of the stone with their blood, tear them apart and ensure they never bothered this city again. His client, a regular now, was wiping out the vampires a little at a time, small clans of the beasts, and he certainly knew where to apply his funding.

Exuro would take any job, so long as the payment was agreeable. Anything under the 'limit' they had set would earn the potential client something unfavourable… whether that be a bad reputation, or a bullet in their body… or worse, a set of lycanthropic jaws closing around their neck for wasting time.

It was useless to try and hire the best assassins money could buy for anything less than the highest one could afford. Why bother paying less than everything you have for something you obviously wish to see through to the end, to the death as it were? There was no second best… there was only the Quattuor. They were the only option in this city, and for a high enough price… any city that wanted them. No client – so long as the payment was available, and not necessarily in money; ammunition and weapons was also acceptable – was too good for them… or respectively, not good enough. Usually though, it was the high rollers and big players who reached them, tracked them down and were brave enough to enter into negotiations. They were usually the only ones who could afford the Quattuor anyway.

And then he caught the scent, his highly tuned senses lifting it out of the breeze and placing it exactly in a finely catalogued mental list of smells, identifying it immediately and causing him to smile in a wry manner. The fools were walking straight into a trap, and their deaths awaited them as soon as they hit the halfway mark. There would be no morning for any of them… not that they enjoyed or abided sunlight, for the most part. Some of them could survive it, but… in the middle of his thought, he realised it bothered him very little, and stood to his full height of just over six feet. In years past – many years ago, in fact – his visage would have been comforting, soft expression and compassionate eyes. It was all gone… the face was exactly the same, yes, but the eyes were cold and cruel, and the expression was hard and nonchalant.

They hit the mark… he could smell them drawing closer, and he poised his entire body, tensing every muscle, before he hopped off the roof, basically taking one large step over the balcony, and dropping without a care. He descended swiftly, the distance between his body and the ground decreasing rapidly with every second that passed, but he didn't concern himself with the height from which he had leapt. Over the years, he had accustomed himself to 'tricks' such as this, and he was growing very adept, even skilled, at doing it.

When his boots hit the solid ground of the alleyway below, his knees bent instinctively, and for a moment, he was down in a predatory crouch, head bowed as he heaved in a large breath to fill his lungs with the lower air. He raised his face, and tossed his hair from his eyes, rising to his feet, sensing rather than smelling the approaching form, dropping down next to him with the grace and agility of an experienced feline… ironically.

Her eyes were closed for just a moment, but when they opened, they were the most brilliant, vibrant blue, like the sky on a clear summer's day, yet carrying the icy edge of winter, ready to chill and destroy any life that neared it too bravely. Her face was beautiful – even darkly so – and flawless, her skin smooth and pale and yet softly toned. She had full, red lips that curved very slightly into a smile and the most exciting hair he had ever seen. In his time, he had seen some varying styles, but none ever so right as hers. It was blonde for the most part, in many adventurous layers, cut around her face like spiked frames ready to slice. But woven through the feathered layers of hair were fiery streaks of flaming red, vivacious and unmistakable as the trademark hairstyle of Falx, alpha female of the Quattuor. Her own clothing was dark, all black in fact, and fit her like a second skin. Her pants were leather; her boots were like his, but with more of a feminine heel; her blouse was unbuttoned adventurously, to whet the appetites of men who were daring – or stupid – enough to try their luck – mostly for her amusement – and then not live to tell the tale the next morning; and her own cloth duster settled around her calves.

Exuro tossed her a sly smile, one that she returned.

A third figure landed silently behind Falx, and to her left, and Exuro glanced over at the young man, very close in external age to him. Then again, he supposed if they looked the same age, they probably were, but the exact details were lost on him and he didn't care. This third figure, the second male, rolled his head on his neck, and there was a light crack as he sighed contently. He flexed his fists, and then clenched them, glancing with once-soulful brown eyes over at the other two. His own smile was eerie yet soft in its own way, and his black, curled hair danced around his brow, ears and neck with the breeze that tugged at him. Once again, black was the attire of choice, and the only difference in the newcomer's clothing to that of Exuro's was the shirt… it wasn't a shirt, it was a polo necked sweater. Exuro never understood Lacertus' love for thicker clothing, but then again, it mattered very little, so long as the other lycanthrope knew when it was time to shed the items if he didn't want them ruined. His duster reached his knees, going no further, and billowed only slightly in the wind.

Finally, a fourth figure dropped down, the last member of the Quattuor. He landed in a mirrored position to Lacertus, to the right of Exuro and back slightly, as if mimicking a lingering shadow, and he rolled his shoulders after the landing. His own brown eyes were narrowed constantly, from either anger or anticipation, and he glanced to the others, as if checking they were still present. Exuro pretended not to see the glare aimed at him, and shrugged it off. He was all but immune to the other man's 'intimidation' by now, and it practically bounced off of him anyway. The man's hair was a chocolate brown, and it fluttered around his cheeks and jaw, reaching the bottom of his neck at the back; he had let it grow over the years. A light facial hair also adorned the face of the last member, around his jaw and mouth, accentuating his broad, strong features and giving him a slightly more feral appearance. His own clothing was – once again – black like the night, but his own black shirt was buttoned higher than Exuro's, as if trying to show his maturity, with the shortest coat of them all; only settling around his thighs. But perhaps the most noticeable detail about Gladius was his scar… it ran from beside his right eye, down his cheek, ending suddenly at his jaw line, where the claw of a fellow lycanthrope had almost torn half of his face away in combat.

Exuro smiled darkly… Gladius had hated him ever since the day the younger male had stolen his leadership, taken the alpha male title from him and bumped him right down to Omega. Even Lacertus loomed over him in the small chain now. Exuro and Falx were in command, with Lacertus settled nicely in the middle… Gladius scraping the bottom like the lowly coward he was, the ruthless murderer who took too much enjoyment from his work. He didn't understand there was a subtle art to assassination, like the others… he went too far sometimes, and had to be told to stop, something that never ceased to annoy the alphas.

As one, the four sets of eyes turned to meet the figures melting out of the shadows, a handful of a dozen vampires who seemed to realise the lies they had been told in order to draw them to the secluded alleyway. They straightened themselves up, broadened their chests in anticipation of a battle.

Which was precisely when the Quattuor reached inside their dusters, and tore free twin pistols, raising and aiming within the space of a single heartbeat. The guns Exuro and Lacertus held were Colt models, modern and stylised, whereas Gladius and Falx gripped Smith & Wesson's in their hands. The guns of the alphas reflected the light slightly, being mock silver in plating, with the weapons of the other two males being a solid black.

Without blinking, the Quattuor let loose with alternate shots from their guns, a hail of bullets tearing down the alley and ripping into the vampires, their howling and screaming like music to the ears of the four assassin werewolves. Gladius grinned maniacally, and growled eagerly. The bullets made a deafening cacophony of thunder in the surrounding area, before eight clicks were heard, and four twin sets of guns were emptied in unison. They were immediately dropped to the ground, to be reclaimed later.

The vampires reeled from the surprise attack, the bullets having torn into their flesh and caused them intense agony. One or two were writhing on the ground, hissing in pain. Others were clutching at bleeding, gaping holes in their bodies, growling angrily at the indecency of the ambush. A dozen sets of blood red eyes stared at the lycanthropes, even as they removed their dusters, their first wave ended with the emptying of the guns. It was time to resort to extreme measures.

The dusters were thrown to the ground, and the holsters fell next, before the removal of the shirts, – and in the case of Lacertus, the sweater – all cast aside in preparation for the change. The boots were kicked off, and then the breaking of bones started to echo horribly around the walls. One of the vampires noticed, and moved to step forward, only to be grabbed by a companion, around the collar, and heaved backwards in favour of caution.

Gladius sank to all fours as grey hair started to sprout from his entire body, a deep growl resonating out of his thick throat and rattling through his razor sharp maw, teeth pushing through the gums and lifting his heavy jowls. His somewhat tufted ears flattened against his long skull, and his canine snout curled with the foul smell of the vampires. He shook his bulky body when fully transformed and snarled again. Over the years, the yellow from his eyes had altered oddly, to a kind of wicked green, and no one could – as of yet – understand why.

Lacertus, like Gladius, fell to all fours, his knees cracking backwards as well, like the Omega male's had… but no grey hair pushed through his skin. His black locks receded and withdrew into his skull, even as small patches of brown fur emerged at certain points all over his body; atop his skull, down the backs of all four legs, behind his shoulders and down his spine. His muscles rippled, and his short snout shifted as he sniffed the air, his yellow eyes – similar to Gladius' in shape but softer and carrying a more obvious undertone of lost humanity – narrowed and blinking.

Falx remained on her hind legs, growing taller and losing the vibrancy to her short mane, which extended down her back somewhat, and trailed along her neck, over her head, and even spreading down her arms a little, grey and brown, very neutral in colour. Her limbs extended to an almost disproportioned length, her fingers growing out like spidery extensions of her body, clawed tips like daggers. Her obviously canine head cocked to one side, and dark, almost black eyes blinked only once.

Exuro as well, remained on two legs, bipedal in form unless he chose to use all four limbs to run. He grew upward and outward, his chest doubling in size and thickening to reinforce his vital cavity where his internal organs were housed, his ribcage having resized noticeably. His limbs had all increased in mass as well, thicker, like great trunks from proud trees, a twining of sinew and large bone. His head changed shape entirely, wider and deeper, with ears that pushed right off the top of his skull and twitched with the tiniest sound. His eyes melted from green to silver, like liquid metal, and his jaws were filled with threatening fangs, dripping with saliva as he growled. Black hair had taken over his form, all traces of blonde lost to the transformation from human guise to lycanthropic prowess, and a kind of reflection of his human hair was shown around the sides of his skull, hanging down to near his jaws in a sort of black, silken mane. He let out a bellow, which the other three wolves joined in, their combined voices making a spine-chilling sound that echoed all around for blocks in each direction.

The vampires started to edge forward, their growls merging with those of the four werewolf assassins who had been sent to destroy them, before they began to pick up their pace, swiftly entering into jogs, throwing themselves forward.

The Quattuor pounced forward, roaring and snarling, tearing into their victims without mercy, annihilating every single one of them.