When Rhys pivoted, he saw that three large men were standing in a row not ten feet away. A fourth man appeared out of the darkness and stood near the exit, blocking off all possibility of escape. Confused and looking around wildly, Rhys saw only one way out and that was good luck getting passed the feral members. He swore he was just on his bed trying to sleep then this happened.

"Crap," he whispered.

"Yeah, that sort of sums up what's left of your life," said one man who stood larger than the rest. With a face pockmarked by the scars of adolescent acne as well as battle scars he'd probably received in an untold number of fights, he added, "Got anything else to say?"

Rhys started to shake once the men came closer. From the way they dressed-long, black leather jackets, black boots and black shirts-she knew they were Shifters. They were a group of rogues who'd made their presence known a few months before with a series of violent acts against the homeless and the unlucky. And it was bad enough that he saw them doing their dirty work.

On the rare occasions when they deigned to meet the press, they always wore masks to disguise their faces as they espoused their wrong doings. "We're here to keep Central California safe. We're Safe Keepers."

Safe Keeping -they called it their motto. Some of the more clued-out citizens thought of them as guardian angels, but in reality they were merely punks who enjoyed killing innocent people for sport.

As for the police? Hah, this was California we're talking about, and the problems didn't just come and go it stayed there. They often claimed that they were in the process of making arrests. However, thus far they'd only hauled in two of the safe-keeping scum. Either they had more important things to do or else they were failing their only job. Concerning their weapons of choice, the Shifters rarely used weapons that are made of silver. Walking mountains didn't need silver, although they did carry an assortment of metal pipes, knives and guns. But now he knew their dirty little secret.

Now, the rustle of metal grating against metal resounded throughout the building and it sent another chill down his spine. "Guys," he said, summoning up his courage, "I didn't mean to, I swear I'll keep my mouth shut-"

"And we're going to keep your mouth shut forever," interrupted the leader as a savage grin split his nasty face.

Looking more closely at the man, Rhys noticed that he actually had his name stenciled on his jacket-Lachtan. Now what kind of idiot would advertise his name for the law to see? Oh! wait, the law wasn't here and no one cared.

"Are you ready, kid?" Lachtan asked. He carried a metal pipe and smacked it against his palm. The sound of metal hitting flesh echoed across the room. From the way he held it, it looked as though he knew how to use it. "You humans keep on making our jobs harder," he continued, swinging the pipe faster.

"We put a lot of effort on 'em," added Shifter number two, who carried a length of heavy chain. He didn't have his name stenciled on his coat, but it didn't make him any less threatening. "Get ready, brat. If you want to pray, do it now."

Allowing a final prayer also set the Shifters apart from other thugs. From what the newspapers had said, the Shifters always allowed their victims one last prayer before they ripped them apart. They then wrote the prayer in blood on the ground so all could see.

Quivering now, a feeling of hopelessness along with waterworks struck, Rhys clenched up his fists, desperately trying to hold everything in. He only hoped that his end would be quick. Bending to one knee, he made his voice sound as quiet and humble as possible. "Guys, I didn't didn't even know how I got here-"

He stopped speaking when he saw their implacable expressions. They weren't going to listen to him anymore than the wind would. He stayed down, but spotted a crowbar out of the corner of his eye. Oh yeah... Say hello to my little friend!

When the leader asked him again if he wanted to pray, Rhys seized the crowbar and in a shocking burst of desperation, smashed the big man on the kneecap. Lachtan fell to the ground and howled, "You freakin' hit me!"

As the other two men stood by, shocked that a victim would actually hit back, Rhys got to his feet, set his stance, took batting practice and knocked out Number Two. The other two men ran at him, but he menaced them back until he reached the door. "Come and get some," he challenged.

Bad idea, as the other men came at him. Stunned, he dropped the crowbar and tore out of the door, the howls of the men following her into the night. "You're dead!" they screamed. "You're freakin' dead!"

No, he wasn't—not yet. The cold air revived him, and he ran out of the building and down the alleyway. Strength wasn't his forte, but he could run, and fear and desperation fueled her flight. A metal fence at the end of the alley separated her from the safety of the street. Salvation lay ten feet away, straight up and over.

With a lunge, he jumped halfway up the fence and started to scale it, but a knife sang out of the darkness and buried itself in the back of his right leg. He screamed and fell to the ground. Closing his hands around the haft, he yanked the blade out. Blood spurted from the wound as agony lanced through his body. Try as he might to get up, he couldn't. The enemy closed in on him position, the leader limping noticeably, but he noticed that his injuries were starting to heal and Rhys cowered against the fence.

"You little turd," growled Lachtan. "We usually get rid of the brat quickly, but in your case, we'll make an exception."

"I'm only seventeen," Rhys protested. Why they were doing this to him was wrong and didn't they care? He wanted to shout it, but then realized, just like everyone else, they didn't care. The pack surrounded him and the assault began. Kicks to his ribs and stomach, sharp claws scratching on his face...

Covering up didn't help much. In that period known as the-moment-before-it-all-ended, he silently asked the wind to take him away. All he heard, though, was a whisper. Abruptly, the men stopped the beating. "Did you hear that?" one of them asked nervously. "It sounded like...wings."

"Maybe it's that bat they're talkin' about on the news," another punk said with a note of fear in his voice.

"Shut your mouth," snarled Lachtan. "There ain't no such thing."

The whisper of the wind grew stronger, and a gale force sprang up, pushing the attackers back. It wasn't random. It was as if someone or something had thrown up an invisible column of air, hard and impenetrable. "What's goin' on here?" Lachtan asked with a note of fear in his voice.

His friends didn't say anything, just pointed to the sky. Following their lead, Lachtan looked up and screamed. The other three men screamed as well when someone wearing a black cape dropped out of nowhere to land noiselessly in front of them. Black leather pants and boots completed the picture.

This was no bat. It was a person. It was dressed much the same as the Shifters but it looked sleeker and totally otherworldly. "What in the hell are you?" Lachtan shouted. "What are you?!"

The individual didn't answer. It stood stock still at first, and from his vantage point, Rhys estimated the person to be around six— five. Overly large and all, but whatever this person was, they had some veil of power capable of keeping the scum at bay.

As for this person's gender, it was impossible to tell, even though they wore their hair long. It streamed behind their head like a black waterfall, glossy and full, and shone clearly in the dim light of the streetlamps. Quickly the Shifters forgot about their terror and went on the offensive. Using their weapons as well as their claws, they beat on the newcomer, but the person in black simply allowed them to wail away. Their bullets and pipes and they even used their sharp claws but they just bounced back on the invisible hide.

Finally, in what had to be the last, desperate move of an equally desperate person, Lachtan pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and emptied the clip into the figure in black. He shot at point—blank range, no less than two feet away. No way could he miss...and he didn't. The person jerked around from the impact of the bullets but didn't go down. The ejected cartridges hit the concrete, each of them making a faint pinging sound.

Abruptly the gun clicked empty and it fell from Lachtan's suddenly-nerveless hand. "What's going on?" he screamed in fear as well as frustration. "Why won't you die?!"

"Because I can't," the person answered in a very deep voice.

A guy — It was a man! Rhys shrank back against the fence and watched as he went into action. In a series of moves almost too fast for his eyes to follow, he seized the enemy one by one in an iron grip around their throats and tossed them at the wall in rapid succession. They hurtled through the air, hit the bricks with a sickening thud and fell to the ground.

Seconds later, he strode over in a casual manner to where Lachtan was. Bending over him, he addressed him in a tone colder than ice. "Now, you shouldn't be picking on people. You know better." He waggled his finger as if to underscore his statement.

"Don't kill me," he babbled in a voice thick with fear. "I don't want to die...please."

A second later, he began mewling out of sheer stark raving terror. Through a blur of pain, observed the ownage going on, and it was sweet. Call this a moment to cherish...if he lived that long.

"I'm not going to kill you," the man said. Lachtan shrank back against the brick and his rant shut off like a faucet being twisted. "You're...not? What are you?"

His voice softened only a shade, but his eyes has a dangerous glint on it.

Lachtan remained as he replied, "I'm your nightmare come true. The one you don't talk about. And I'll come back if you don't stop what you're doing."

In a lightning fast move, he punched him, just once, but very hard. His head snapped around, connected with the brick, and he slithered to the ground, unconscious. He pirouetted, and Rhys got his first clear view of him. The face was an adult's. He looked to be around his mid 20's and had angular, pretty manly features, but with very pale white skin, so white it resembled porcelain. His eyes were bloody red, the color of Love and Death. Pretty though he was, his attention wasn't on his face or body. He zeroed in on his teeth.

No, not teeth... he had fangs.

Fangs...it wasn't possible. This was the twenty-first century. People like this didn't exist. Just when a second ago, he was almost killed by rouges. But his mind screamed one word—vampire.

He wanted to scream, run away but he knew it was no use with his injuries so he just watched him walk toward him. He was still afraid but he couldn't help but be curious of who the man is. He was-

His thoughts were cut short when the man was suddenly in front of him. He flinched back but he grabbed his wrist making him stay still.

"I'm not going to hurt or kill you so don't worry" he felt relieved when he heard that but she saw him grab a small bottle with a weird liquid on it.

"Drink this, it will help your wounds heal faster. " he said and with a little hesitation, he drank the weird liquid and felt sleepy but for some reason he felt relaxed. He looked at the man and asked.

"Who are you?"

He just smiled and before he knew it he was consumed by darkness and let the needed sleep take over.

When he woke up. He on his bed. Sweating. And he thought.

' Just A Dream '