The night was dark in the city of Beyaz. As instructed, the people of the city had locked and barred their doors at the sundown curfew. The night was the time when they were most in danger, said the Council. As a matter of precaution, all citizens must adhere to the curfew, lock all doors and windows and, under no circumstances, leave their homes. No late night visits to neighbors, no trips to check up on the family. Everyone would be safe so long as they remained indoors; lights off, blackout shades down.

That way they couldn't see the "Nightwalker" hunts.

The hunts were done at night, when they creatures were most likely to be out. The black-garbed Hunters, armed with modified M-16 assault rifles or repeating crossbows, took to the streets in small four man teams. They combed the city each night, on the ground and on the rooftops of the white buildings that glowed, reflecting the light of the moon. They went down alleys and to the top of skyscrapers. And every once in a while they would win a battle in the war against the Nightwalkers, and he would see one of his brethren dragged away in the most barbaric of ways. More than once he had seen a brother or sister pulled, half-dead, onto the balcony of one of the silk white residential units and shot twice point-blank. Those nights were the ones he hated and enjoyed: hated for the death of brethren, enjoyed for the revenge he exacted. But tonight was dark: the perfect opportunity to get across the city. He'd stayed here too long, and he was sure that patrols would close in on him by week's end.

Marquis Dufresne watched the humans from his perch atop a billboard, one as neat and clean as the city it was in. The poster had an image of a snarling Pureblood and, below the image, three words: "Know the Enemy." Marquis enjoyed the particular message greatly; the image was that of his brother Emile, one of the greatest Purebloods he'd ever met. Marquis remembered scattered emotions from years gone by: the pain of his first sunlight, the thrill of his first kill, the taste of his first heretic. But he had not seen Emile for two years; a short amount of time for their kind, but still too long for comfort. Perhaps he had gotten past the Wall? If anyone could, it was Emile.

Marquis then heard the sound of footsteps. He glanced down towards the next building over. Two Hunters dashed across the rooftop, heading towards the service lift that led up to the building Emile's picture was on. It was time to move.

Marquis leaped off his perch, landing silently on the ground roof twenty feet below. He darted in the direction opposite the men, not bothering to check behind him. He could hear the lift whirring as it climbed the side of the structure. Ahead of him was a ledge. Twenty yards beyond that, over the street thirty stories below, was another rooftop and freedom. It was an easy gap to clear. Marquis surged forward, a blur to the human eye, and vaulted off of the edge of the roof. The wind blasted through his black hair, and suddenly his feet hit the other rooftop and he continued running, three blocks away by the time the humans exited the lift.