Chapter 4

Regardless of their selective blindness, they had created a world of convenient comforts for themselves and the immortal races but even though in many ways, modern times were good for his kind, Ethelbert long desperately for the days of old when his soul wasn't so heavily burden, when his mind wasn't weighed down by the insanity and darkness that was so close to claiming him, one of the strongest and eldest of their kind. 

He hungers, as did all unmated immortal kind, so for the blood and flesh of mortal kind that was the greatest temptation and gravest taboo for his kind. The tasting of the flesh of mortals, draining a mortal life away, came with the highest of prices, which most believe was the damnation of the soul, that was for those who believe that immortals possess souls, to begin with. With that first kill and taste of a mortal's death comes the irreversible release of the unquenchable maddening thirst that every immortal carried within. With the taste of death, the man within loses his inner battle and his beast consumes him forever, devouring all traces of the humanity within. Muscles ripple silently beneath raven black pelt that shimmer with the light of the silvery pale moon above as he tenses, ready to pounce on his prey. There was no better feeling he knew than the thrill of the hunt, the scent of fear filling his nose, and fresh blood from the still-warm prey spilling into his muzzle. Although rabbits were a supply of food and gave a somewhat, if only brief, respite from the need to hunt, preferably much larger prey, it did nothing to soothe the restlessness and the untamed wildness of the beast that he carried within him. 

In the days of old, his kind had hunted much larger game. Deer, bear, mountain lion, even water buffalo, all of which had been plentiful; that was before the human race had conquered the earth like a plague. In the days of old the hunt had done more to soothe his restlessness and his beast but now nothing seemed to give him any lasting sense of peace or contentment. 

Ethelbert had grown too wary of life. He had lived long and in recent years his reasons for continuing, without the comfort of a wolf mate, were fleeting. He lives to protect his people and the mortals from the damned but it seems such a futile effort, growing more so with each passing year. The number of Lycan females and Lycan young born was decreasing with every passing year, as it had been increasingly so for centuries, more and more of the immortals were embracing the curse and becoming the damned. 

If it kept going as it was then mankind would be left alone against the worst plague the earth would ever know, the damned, whose number grew with each passing year. Each immortal that became a damned meant one more number to the damned and one less of the protecting immortal kind. 

Maybe the time of the immortal races was coming to an end. 

At the thought which never fails to stir such impotent rage within him Ethelbert pounce, the small helpless creature standing no chance against his superhuman strength, speed, agility and senses that rival all other predators of nature. There was only one other creature on the planet that could match the capabilities of his kind and that was not the mortals but an ancient race, just like his, the vampires. 

As warm blood touched his tongue, the primitive part of him, his beast that grew stronger every day as his control grew weaker like the ocean's constant battering against the cliffs that continue to crumble with each wave, burn, and scream for a much more satisfying prey. 

For human prey but the laws were absolute. No hunting mortals; the only exception was if the kill was approved by the high council made up of both immortal races, created after the war had ended. The only sanctioned kills were those who were a threat to their people and their way of life. Most sanctioned kills were those of the two races who had stopped fighting the darkness they all carried within and had surrendered to it, to the bloodlust. Once an immortal tasted human blood, it was an unquenchable and undeniable addiction; there was no coming back from that. They became the damned that constantly hunger for fresh human blood. The young damned were like wild savage animals, it was only after centuries that they recover some semblance of intelligent creatures, of their previous selves in that they talk and show some semblance of control. 

There was only one salvation for the immortals; their destined mate, the one born to soothe the beast and bloodlust within and bring hope and light into their dark lives, driving back the darkness and taming the beast within but with females of both immortal races becoming fewer and fewer in number, it was unlikely that Ethelbert would ever find his true wolf mate, his salvation. Such was the truth for so many of the remaining immortals struggling to remain strong against their beast and hunger. 

Sadly, it wasn't as it was written in mortal legends and stories; both Lycan and vampire kind alike weren't created or turned from mortal kind, they were born of their kind. Every mortal throughout their history that had tried to be turned had died a short agonizing death within a day of being infected. 

It was whispered among the immortal kind that the few offspring being born, especially females, was a punishment from the moon goddess, the mother of the two immortal races of the night. It was said that with the mortals ruling the day, the children of the goddess, of the moon, would have the night. The night was their world, the darkness kept their secrets and for a short time allow them to run free and wild as they had once done before the human race had so completely conquered the world and soon the mortals would have the night also, as the two immortal races were rapidly fading into extinction and with hope waning, more and more immortals were turning to the ways of the damned and more and more of them were dying, most taking their own lives rather than become that which they hunted.