In the last silent hours of the night, daylight was a hazy memory. Or, at least it was to the few still awake. The sleeping and dead have memories that care little of hours, if they have memories at all. But in any case the wakefulness of a few was a small concern; even those capable of seeing were unlikely to get around to looking.

The shadow slipped through the dark like a current through water.

It darted across rooftops, skimmed along roads, sailed over fences. It leapt along the bank of a river, coasted down an alley and as an afterthought, hurdled a parked truck. No one saw. No one looked.

The shadow stopped.

It stood in the street. It regarded a house. It narrowed its eyes. This should not be surprising. More shadows than you would like to think about by yourself in a dimly lit room have them, you know. This one, while not perhaps quite human, wasn't any more terrifying than your average tattooed, swordwielding punk.

It was a tattooed, swordwielding punk. He might have insisted upon highly skilled tattooed, swordwielding punk, and his lack of modesty would not have made him a liar. You could see it in his easy stance, his sure step- a certain quality of movement bred into his bones. One would probably call it feline grace, yet feel underneath that the description wasn't quite right. One of keen perception would nix the "feline" for "simian" and be far more correct.

He regarded the house. It did not regard him back. A thought crossed his mind. It was this:

Wonder how the brat's doing...

A slow predatory smile snaked across his features, and one might have thought that fangs glinted behind it.


Just a quick taste.
Quick, tell me who my literary influences are.