Legends always said that his kind were powerless during the day.  Many claimed the daylight made them comatose, or burned them up.  It would be convenient for the mortals if that were true, but as with anything, the truth was more complex.<br/><br/>It was true, however, that his powers were greatly reduced during the daytime, even as far underground as he was.  He felt sluggish, nearly unconscious, and weak, putting him down around human levels of performance.  But sunset was not too long away, and he knew where his target's lair was, and he had reason to believe it -- or she, considering its preference for a female guise -- would be home tonight.  It was time, and he was fully prepared.<br/><br/>He walked through the sewer access tunnels in utter blackness, but he needed no light.  Had there been any, he would have seemed like a commando or SWAT officer, cloaked in a head-to-toe Battle Dress Uniform of black, complete with flare goggles and a Kevlar balaclava.  But his BDU carried no insignia, and he was remarkably light on gear.  An oddly-turned amulet of tarnished brass hung on the outside of his flak vest, and his belt carried only a sheathed Bowie knife.  All his other weapons were either memorized or inherent.<br/><br/>He paused, finally, under a tiny drainage pipe that emptied from the ceiling.  He touched his amulet with slender, pale, ungloved hands, and drew his knife.  The knife cast a bit of illumination in the tunnel, mystic symbols from several different arcane traditions etched into the metal of its blade.  Some glowed faintly blue, others simmered a soft red, and a few seemed lit with a color that human eyes might barely perceive but couldn't name.  Nodding to himself, he sheathed it again, and looked back up at the pipe.<br/><br/>Slowly, he started to dissolve, the top of his head becoming wispy and insubstantial.  A vapor began to rise from him and drift quickly up the pipe, even though there was no air movement in this tunnel.  The effect moved down his body, gradually obliterating his head, then shoulders and chest, and so forth.  Finally, the soles of his boots disappeared, leaving only the muck of the sewers that he wasn't about to carry with him.<br/><br/>Allan DuBois, secret vampire and occasional demon hunter, was on the trail of his next prey.  Naomi's hours were limited.<br/><br/>((For the formal record, this is a horror story to me, not a porn story, and as such I won't hold back out of squeamishness.  I don't get a charge out of this, but I don't judge if anyone else reads it differently.  I just, you know, won't invite you to a bris, or something, because your reaction might embarrass me.))