Through night-vision goggles, a man clad in a black, form-fitting, cloth-armor uniform watched the writhing, screaming young vampire from his perch high in a wolf tree. His face was completely covered in a black sash, leaving only his eyes exposed. His long, black hair tied out of the way, he reached with fingerless black gloves to the quiver on his back. The girl was prone, crazed with the pain of her condition. Damien gave thanks that she would not suffer the curse of bloodthirst long. 

It wasn't that difficult, really, to know what was going on. The vampires had simply come to the wrong town. Colver was home to two longstanding hunter families, and there was no delay in their picking up on the pattern of disappearances. They didn't hunt just the supernatural, of course, and when the bodies of small mammals, pets, and even deer began turning up in the woods, mutilated, but not eaten... The reason was clear. The new fledglings were struggling with survival, trying not to feed on their own kind. 

Damien's father had been a good one, they say, who's uniquely keen senses kept him alive long enough for his name to be remembered. Perhaps that was why he kept going out there, feeling needed, feeling like it wasn't fair that he had always survived when others hadn't. Damien wasn't old enough to have recognized him, on the day he didn't come home, but always and ever afterward, his father had been his hero.

Damien narrowed his eyes as he drew back the bow, his heart hardening to the humanistic appearance of the crying vampire. He heard her say the name, which sounded like Dexter, and he paused. He didn't know why he paused. He didn't really think about it. He'd killed vampires before, and each time, as swiftly as possible, as if his life depended on it, and of course it always did. They weren't human any longer, but even moreso, they were suffering animals. He delt mercy to them, and to all they would have also turned or fed upon as the years went by. That was why it had to be done. There was never any regret and never any glory. The stylized twin snakes on the shaft of his unnamed black bow faced the girl, and soundlessly, the poisoned arrow loosed. 

Poisoned you say? Yes. Vampire hunters as a group were not recognized or funded publicly, for obvious reasons, but thankfully, what was cheap, worked. Even vampires, and other supernaturals still had to live and function in a world bound by at least a few laws of physics. No force of will alone could prevent a bomb from exploding or force cyanide to release its bind with hemoglobin. Vampires wouldn't die, but they did become temporarily paralyzed. It was long enough to walk up and slaughter them with a blade, which was Damien's preferred method. A kill was so gratifying after all the prepwork it took. Modern hunters had to spend hours listening to the police radio, tapping 911, patrolling, and not to mention illegally stocking and using weapons and chemcals for explosives. It was important to avoid the attention of the general public law enforcement. There was also a huge amount of physical and mental training. Stealth was just as important as strength, and knowing how to fight hand-to-hand always paid off one way or another. 

With a puff of wind, the bolt sank into the dirt right next to Margaret's head. 

Damien froze. With any luck, she wouldn't know what had happened, wouldn't know to follow the tail of that arrow, and wouldn't be able to find him. His scent purged and masked, the human hunter kept perfectly still, his eyes on her. Slowly, he measured his breaths, keeping himself calm as he was trained. They said elder vampires could hear heartbeats. He didn't need his racing just because he missed. Intently, he watched her every move. Slowly, he began reaching for the next arrow.