Niagra stared, annoyed down the deserted street. Someone else was here, in her lands, her hunting area. She growled, so silent that no human ear could pick it up. The shadow, about a kilometre away, froze.

                    She continued to move, flowing silently down the cobblestoned road with ease. She bared her teeth, and ran her tongue over her sharp fangs. Gliding without sound, she stopped behind a building. The figure continued to move. If it was one of her kind, it would have heard her. Tensed up, prepared for a battle.

                   Of course. It was only a human, and Niagra breathed a soundless sigh of reliefe. Then she pounced.

                   Before the being knew what had happened, she was on top of it, erupting in racious laughter. The city of Berlin remained asleep, and her laughs toned down to chuckles, then just an evil smirk. The human looked up, befuddled; he had never seen anything like Niagra before iln his life.

                 She was beautiful, pale skin that glowed in even the meekest of light, pale blonde hair that reached down to her narrow waist. Her lips were pale and pink, her eyes a bright, vivid orange colour with gray specks. They were shadowed by long pale lashes. Her limbs were narrow and long, and she seemed to have the body of a dancer. She wore normal, human clothes. It had the effect of the sight of a goddess in modern day wear. (Except for the fact that her clothes had an aristocratic look about them.)

               The human was just a plain boy, about the age of fifteen. Just two years younger than Niagra's body. The girl let out an inhuman roar, rearing her gorgeous head, then struck at the human's neck, plunging her fangs into the flesh and drinking the deliciously warm liquid.

              When she was done, she licked the penetrated spot, and it healed immediately. The human woke, hours later at daybreak, to find himself alone in an ally.