by Carrie Frost

Created on: November 09, 2009

Kismet ran, her heart drumming out a fearful rhythm, her lungs laboring for air. They had found her again, the beasts in the night, the bloodsuckers with their wolves. Her eyes, the color of blood, glanced into any dark spot she passed as she ran down the icy streets of Ruidoso, New Mexico. The cold, night air stung her flesh, turning its paleness a bright red. She was out without so much as a sweater, but she had had no time to stop and grab one. It was run or be killed and she did not prefer the latter. Black hair, the color of obsidian bounced around her head after being pulled out of its ponytail by one of the creatures who she knew followed her. She dared not pause to ask for help, dared not risk any lives. If the monsters wanted her bad enough they would have to catch her. She knew what they wanted, knew what they craved.

She was a necromancer, but she could do more than reanimate the dead, she could give them their souls back. A vampire without a soul was a vampire sentenced to a light of darkness. She had been lucky. She had retained her soul, had held on to the light and truth. They wanted a life of light, a way to prey on the innocent in broad daylight. She would not give them the pleasure of such a gift. They had lost their souls because of their greed and contempt for the world. In their human life they had murdered and raped, they had ravaged the land and burned people alive. They were wicked and evil, children of the Devil.

Running had been her only option if she wanted to keep them away from her gift. Kismet glanced behind her, but saw nothing but snow covered houses with the lights out. She knew they were somewhere close, she could smell them. Something suddenly dropped down in front of her and she came to a skidding halt. She almost fell, but between the good grip on her hiking boots and the grace of her kind she was able to stay on her feet. She back pedaled a couple of feet when the creature raised his head to look at her. Red eyes, much like her own, stared at her. She recognized this man, his name being Arran Blackburn, one of the original to start this chase.

"Kismet, it is nice to see you again," he said, smiling at her like they were old buddies.

Kismet studied him. He had not changed much except for the scar he had acquired on their last meeting. She had thrown gasoline on him and his wolf and threw a lit match on them before jumping out of a second story window. Burn marks covered his right arm and she knew a few were on his chest

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