Marlowe awoke at dusk. His room stank of rancid, rotting things but cutting through that pervasive stench was something different, something important. He stiffened when he realized what it was. It was the scent of the Hunt. His body responded causing painful pressure to build in his head, rising like a tide that could only be diverted by the spilling of innocent blood. In the end, it always came down to choice between his own tortured death and murder.
The scent of the Hunt took him like a drug and he moved. He loped, naked, through the bitter cold. Street by street, stone by stone, he grew closer to the prey that fate had chosen for him. Turning the corner, he skidded to a stop. She was there in front of him. Amidst the pain, she was salvation.
Without seeing him, she lightly stepped down into the street. Her scent was strong and drew Marlowe ever closer. The pounding in his head increased in tempo and severity, a chorus of savage drums. When she glided into the shadows beyond the lamp light, he pounced.