Rating: R for Violence
Fandom: Vampire Hunter D/Twilight
Summery: Xover: Vampire Hunter D finds himself in the small town of Forks, Washington.
Note: Anti-Twilight!
Prelude
The night was cold and wet, as was typical of the nights in the small town of Forks. A thin mist rose off the surface of the lake, filtering out what little light was provided by the stars and hanging crescent moon overhead. The song of crickets and bull frogs mingled together in a nocturnal choir to the steady base of metal clad hooves slowly beating their way up the path in a easy trod. The black horse, of no distinctive breed, kept an even pace, head bowed, bobbing with each step and shift of weight. This black beauty did not stir nor fidget as it kept on its path, as still and silent as the rider who sat upon its back. The stranger wrapped himself tightly in a black cloak, a broad rimmed hat shielding his face from view, had anyone been present to witness it, and upon his back sat a curved, broad sword. Not a common item around these parts, a small town called Forks, somewhere in Washington, USA, but a necessity for one such as the mysterious traveler.
Pale hands reached forth from underneath the dark cloak to pull of the horse's reins gently. The creature stopped without fuss, waiting patiently for its next orders. The stranger titled his head, eyes shining in the dark of the night, not unlike many of the other nocturnal predators, and peered down the winding dirt road. Just ahead lay a small barn and beside it a cottage. Soft electrical light could be seen from within the household shining dimly out the windows and through the mist, and although the stranger could hear the snake slithering through the grass, the owl shifting on its perch in the tall pine trees, and the wolves howling in the distance, several miles away, he could not hear a single sound coming from the farm house. The wind carried an intimately familiar scent which caused the rider to shudder slightly, so small it was near imperceptible, but there none the less, before regaining his composure.
The dark stranger squeezed his stead’s sides with his long, muscled legs, guiding it towards the home. Upon closer inspection it was clear that the barn had held no live stock for some time now, used more as a storage area for old junk and boxes full of possessions that were no longer useful but may have held some sentimental value that the owners could not bare to part with. Or perhaps they were merely a family of pack rats. Still, it was in decent enough condition to house one horse for a short time. The stranger tethered his stead in the stall with the least amount of clutter, running his long, sharp fingers through its main once to assure it of his presence and again simply for the feel of it.
With his ride secured the tall man made his way to the front door and was unsurprised to find that it had already been forced open and now hung limply on its last hinge. He pushed it aside carefully, the last metal holding whining in protested, and stepped through, black ridding boots making a sold thud against the wooden floors and tracking mud and dust from the trail inside the once clean home to mingle with the sticky, browning liquid that stained its oaken floors and smelled of copper pennies and stark fear. A scent this stranger knew very well.
The people, who had once lived here, perhaps not even a day or so ago as far as he could tell, had kept it very nice and clean. There was very little clutter in the living room and not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, not even over the mantel where pictures of smiling faces, sometimes solitary and others showing a multitude of people, stood in shinning silver frames, all in neat little rows, going from largest to smallest and then back out again. The lamps buzzed with a low, warm orange light that was bright enough to see by but did not over power the eyes, and from where he stood the stranger could see a wooden, handmade cross hanging above the old television set. The place had a real “homey” feel about it, welcoming and agreeable. The overturned coffee table, shattered dishes and knickknacks, trails of hand and boot shaped smears of blood across the floor and walls, and the smoking hole in the old TV, blood rimming the edges of the shattered screen so that the hole seemed more like a wound, did not fully smother out the once agreeable feel of the home but it did add a certain uneasy feeling to the setting to be sure.
It didn’t take long for the stranger to find the bodies. They had been placed together in the bathtube, made of tin metal instead of porcelain, and collecting blood and flies. It was an old couple. A man and woman somewhere in their seventies, maybe eighties, it was difficult to say now that the blood and other bodily fluids had been drained, the wrinkly skin hanging from their horrified, pleading faces, now stretched tight in an odd way, fading into an disturbing shade of gray and purple, their eyes, which had once both been a warm brown, turning a cold gray blue.
But something wasn’t right. The attack was normal enough. Nothing unusual had been done with the bodies or where they had been left. But something in the smell, the scent of the predators not the prey, was…odd. It seemed sweeter somehow. Not the usual bitter, musky scent of the stranger’s usual targets, the one of time, and earth, and most often blood. This was more like the smell of honey and cloves. Very strange…Well, the answers certainly wouldn’t come from standing around and wasting time.
As of the moment there were three things the stranger was certain of:
First, that it would be dawn soon and he need his rest after having travel so far for so long.
Secondly, that there where vampires in Forks and that they were hungry.
And third, he had work to do.
Starting with burying the two elderly, now dead victims outside in the small vegetable garden he had seen on his way in.
