AN: This is a one chapter one shot written on a dare. The first two sentences were a writing prompt, and I wrote it in less than half an hour. (Boom! 22 minutes, written and proofed. I win that bet!)

I was researching French mythology for a different story, so I had a monster in mind already.

It's an unusual format, stream of consciousness, and from the monster's point of view, but maybe some people will like it; who knows? :-D If y'all hate it, well at least it's short!

I wasn't always the one being hunted. I was used to being the hunter.

I have lived for so long that I think I forgot that death is even a possibility. I don't remember how it started, or how I learned to call men to me. I do remember that when I was younger, people knew of me and feared me. They have forgotten me now, but that is okay. It simply makes hunting easier.

I don't need to eat very often. I can wait for years for the right man to come into my domain. If I do not call you in, you don't want to come close. I don't know how I do that, but I make all of the others stay away. I wish I had learned that trick long ago, because then I would still be in the forest of my youth, the lush green of what humans call France.

That forest is long gone. Even my river doesn't flow any longer. The humans are twisting the world into whatever they want, but I am the one who is evil because I eat a few souls? It is years in between my meals now, instead of only days. My tithe of humanity is tiny. Yet, I hunted the wrong one.

I have been dozing in my stream for years now, a quarter of a lifetime of a man. I've been guarding my trees and watching the deer. I spoke only to the spirit that lurked nearby. I am not what killed him. He was in the forest alone and his frail heart stopped. He's been dead long enough that he can now roam and talk to me as I drift on the lazy current.

He was a gentle man, out here to draw pictures of the animals, and I thought his soul might have been delicious. But he did not stir my hunger. Over time, he grew angry, as all specters do, and he began to kill humans.

That was when the hunters came. I should have left them alone. I should have simply waited for the next special man, but one of the hunters smelled so delicious that I felt a hunger I have not felt since this country was young.

They destroyed the spirit without fear, warriors and brothers. This should have been a warning to me. But I was hubris. I was ancient and had forgotten that there are things that can hurt me, things that can kill me. I forgot that there is one way to break my hold.

They slept in my woods, and I let them. I could have made them want to leave, but I was hungry. And when they slept, I began to sing. Every insect and every animal stopped to listen, but I sang only for the hunter. You've heard of sirens? They are like pathetic children compared to me. They need to spray their venom to reach someone, but I do not. My song starts the spell – it calls my prey and they come willingly to my arms. Then one touch, and they are mine forever.

I draw them into my embrace and my essence seeps from my hands, keeping them alive. They dream with me for a decade as I slowly drink their souls. We stay wrapped up together, closer than lovers, and nobody ever finds us. And when they are used up, I let them go and forget my beautiful men until the hunger strikes again.

I am Melusine.

So I sing and the younger hunter stands, enthralled. He will come to me, and nothing will stop him. He steps into sight and his soul is beautiful. He should fear the sight of me, but he is trapped by my song. I look a bit like a human woman, though I am pale blue, with webbed hands and sharp teeth and spines down my back. But as long as I sing, I look as beautiful to him as he does to me.

It is a rare human that loves something or someone enough to break my spell. I did not think they truly existed. Until today.

The other hunter has come, and as I reach for my prey, he yells a word. One single word. "Sammy."

And for the first time ever, in over a thousand years, my hold is broken.

I am no longer the hunter; I am the hunted. I am reminded that I too, am mortal. My beautiful prey shoves a knife into my heart and I remember that I can be hurt. I reach for his face, wanting to know what that kind of love tastes like, wanting to drink the souls of both hunters to experience what I haven't seen in all my time.

Instead, the one I called leans back and, like it's a dance, the other swings a machete.

And I. I am over.