A rewrite of The Hunters: Destiny Rising. By LJ. SMITH.
LJ.SMITH created Klaus.
A stand alone monster.
No family.
No redeeming qualities.
"I'm one of the Old Ones! An Original! Do you know what that means? I've never died. Every one of you has di...
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Klaus stalked through the city streets, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The neon lights of the hotel sign flickered in the distance, a beacon of refuge from the chaos he had left behind. His electric blue eyes darted from side to side, scanning the shadows for any sign of pursuit. His mind raced with the horrors of his recent dreamwalk with Bonnie. The cold wind whipped through his short, blond hair, each strand a stark reminder of his ancient and malevolent existence. The dusty long tan coat billowed around him, a cloak of his own madness.
With a snarl, he burst into the hotel lobby, the sound of his boots echoing through the empty space. The clerk's eyes widened in terror as he intuitively sensed the deranged predator. Without a word, he handed over the key to the best suite available, sensing the impending doom that clung to the tall cold figure like a toxic aura.
Upstairs, in the sanctity of his temporary lair, the vampire tore into the occupied room of humans on the same floor as his own with the fury of a tornado. His fangs elongated and he tore into the throats of the unsuspecting humans, drinking deep of their life force. The scent of fear and coppery blood filled the air as he reveled in the power surging through him. Yet, even as he drank, the madness grew, demanding more, more, more!
He knew he had to regain control before it was too late. The image of the beautiful werewolf, Andrea, with her haunting hazel green eyes and soothing presence, flickered in his mind like a beacon in the dark. Her very essence seemed to calm the tempest within him. With a vicious snarl, he tore himself away from the lifeless bodies, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly rage. He strode out of the room and into his own. Then into the adjoining bathroom, the marble floor cold against his bare feet. The scent of the blood washed away as he turned on the shower, the water cascading over him in a torrent, cleansing the crimson from his skin and the foul rage from his soul.
The bath was drawn, the water a perfect temperature of scalding heat. The steam filled the room, a misty veil that seemed to whisper of his own tumultuous thoughts. The water in the tub swirled and boiled, then calmed, a crimson tint staining the porcelain before it disappeared without a trace. He stepped into the tub, his muscles relaxing slightly as the heat seeped into his bones. The chaos of his mind began to still, the rage retreating to the recesses where it always lurked, waiting for its next release.
