Victor Dashkov sighed. He was in the police station of Venice, Italy, once again; the fourth time that month, to be exact.


   Shaking his mussed brown hair from his cool gray eyes, the teen turned to the flatfoots who had caught him; two burly, overweight and ruddy-faced men, with nothing better to do than sit in front of him (he was hand-cuffed, and sitting on a bench) and slurp down bottles after bottles of tequila. One looked back at him.

  "You're being pretty quiet back there. Want a reward?" He asked gruffly, shoving alchohol under the tanned hunter's nose. He accepted it politely.

  You see, Victor Dashkov was nothing close to an ordinary youth. He was a hunter of vampires, which usually got him into trouble with oafs such as these ones. After his older brother had been turned, seven years ago when August came, he had sucked his parents and baby sister dry. He turned to Victor to kill, but a white-haired man, muscular and dark-skinned, had saved him, sword tip at the creatures heart. William had taken care of the boy since the tramatizing night, teaching him to hunt the species. They could only be killed by cutting out the heart, and having a human, that they had known when they were alive, speak the words "I don't love you." But that was ten years ago. He was grown now, and ready to kill.

  Which brings us to the present. Convinced that he was a crazed killer, his neighbors had hidden meth and weed in his house, framing him. Clever people; he would hunt them as well.

  And now these idiots, calling themselves police, had given him half of his escape, in a glass bottle; that was very important, that it was glass.

  Victor drained half of the substance from the bottle, then reached up with a cuffed hand to tap the nearest officer on the back.

  "Don't suppose you'd let a lad light up?" He muttered, looking up. The two shrugged, then nodded.

  "Go ahead." What bafoons.

   Victor pulled out a pack of matches and a cigaret out of his pockets as the two men watched. He lit the thing, taking a pull, then dumped the still-lit match into the bottle.

     The police watched, dumbfounded, as the liquid caught fire, and Victor tossed it neatly into the air. It flew high, nearly touching the ceiling, but before it did, it floated gently back down.

  They stumbled back, and he stood and edged towards the door, face at the wall. The glass heated swiftly, and exploaded, sending hundreds of sharp shards flying about the room.

    Victor heard the grunts of the men, and threw the door open, sprinting for dear life, as the little weapons dug through his thin jacket and shirt and into his back. He felt small and invaluable drops of blood seep out of the wounds and into the cloth of his shirt.

   He continued his escape, and burst through the door, cigaret in his mouth and two fat men in tow.