Autumn was indeed, feel hungry. Wanting to eat everything in sight. Red fire coursed through her veins, setting her on fire and heightening her already acute senses.

She inhaled deeply, taking in the opulent aroma of him like a bottle of fine wine. His scent was a combination of his flesh and blood, and the raw maleness that comes with it. Oh, how she yearned for a sip. She only needed one tempting drop to satisfy her hunger. She licked her lips and licked him, enjoying the salty, smooth, and delectable flavor of his skin. She licked her way from his jaw to his neck, the taste of his flesh lingering in her mouth and making her want more.

She closed her eyes and squealed, "I want more," as her hands reached for chiseled muscle. She scratched ridges into her stony skin to declare her dominance. He belonged to her. Their lives were intertwined, but she held his as securely as she held his.

His response was gruff, "Yeah, I know. Autumn, I know what you are and what makes you tick."

She felt warm fingers stroking her back and listening to her heartbeat. With one fluid motion, the metal chilled her all the way from the pulse in her neck to the pit of her stomach. In an instant, she opened her eyes and saw the man hovering over her in the form of a looming black silhouette. When it stopped at the hollow of her thigh, the knife's blade ruffled the triangular section of her black, silky hair. She suddenly stopped taking breaths.

She screamed, "No!" and then, despite the pitch blackness, she could make out his icy laughter and the chill of his ruthless grin.

"Okay, sweetie." The enticement in his voice vanished as he asked menacingly, "Did you think you could deceive me?"

She flinched as he circled the blade around her aching nipples. Her heart raced as a hedonistic cocktail of dread and lust pumped through her veins. She took a deep breath, sensing his rage as strongly as his attraction and the moist heat between her own legs. She tensed up, her stomach knotting, pain coursing through her just as intense and terrifying as the desire she'd felt before.

She tried desperately to concentrate, but her fever rose even higher. She experienced a refocusing of her vision followed by a refocusing and a blurring of it. White knuckles clenched the sheets tightly. That wouldn't be possible at this time!

"I recognize you, Autumn." His words seeped into her ears and sparked fire in her nerves.

Her hiss came from some primal, inherently evil part of herself that had been aroused and roused by her natural, instinctive fear. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage, as if it were trying to bust her open and spill out whatever was hiding inside.

In the plush darkness, the knife gleamed like a silvery fire. "What's inside of you is dormant, but I can awaken it." And with those words, the knife was drawn. The metal dove at her, twisting as it tried to suffocate her. Her muscles spasmed and ached as if hit by an electrical current. There was a deep, unearthly growl to her scream. The suffering ended at that point. There was only hunger, an insatiable hunger, and the thunderous roar of pent-up rage. Blood ran sweet and sticky over her hot skin as it was slashed and torn by sharp claws.

There was a jolt of red as the shadows shifted, and the alluring scent of death wafted on the night air.

Suddenly, Autumn Herrera sat bolt upright, both hands grabbing the wheel. She took a few shallow breaths, her eyes darting all around as she took in the gloom of the car. There was a brief pause while she sniffled. A rush of excitement sped through her mind as the sour odor of trash mixed with the warm, sultry night air. As the door opened and closed, someone would dash across the street, amplifying the bass guitar's throbbing beat on the night breeze.

She whispered to herself, "What a scary nightmare!" as if saying the word out loud would slow the racing of her heart. It was the same crazy nightmare that had been haunting her dreams for months now.

"Babe, I got something for you." A man's accent interrupted her train of thought. She looked at the young man through the grimy windshield. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a torn T-shirt. He held a beer can in one hand and his crotch in the other as he continued, "Some really nice stuff, Babe. Never before have you had it so good."

To her relief, the rented car Autumn had used had tinted windows, so she rolled up the window. That was the only positive aspect of the situation. There was no working air conditioning, the stereo was dangling from the dashboard by a tangle of wires, and the passenger seat had a huge gash in it where the foam stuffing had blown out. The interior's plight caused her to wrinkle her nose. Her own actions caused this. She had requested an extremely vintage automobile for this reason. She had left her window open, effectively issuing a verbal invitation to any nearby criminals, so it had done her a lot of good.

She felt sick to her stomach at the realization that she had fallen asleep with the window down and been driving down this cursed street. In the past, she had never experienced fear. In the past few months, she'd been experiencing a brand new emotion: fear. To which she had not yet developed a tolerance. "Don't hold your ground, Baby. I promise to give it to you. It will leave you wanting more."

Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that happening in her lifetime. She pressed the lock and glanced over to the other side. In spite of this, she felt no better. Not until he pounded his fist on the hood, gave her the "go to hell" eye, and hissed at her. "Loose-lipped *****!" He hobbled out onto the street and joined the group of men who'd been watching, hooting, and urging him on.

She took a few deep breaths against her will and released her hold on the wheel. Taking a quick glance at her watch, she experienced a mixture of disappointment and relief, the intensity of which she was unsure of. If she was feeling anything, it should have been disappointment.

It took a while for Hunter Morrison to get here. God, damn him! He was either going to be late or not show up at all. A wave of relief washed over her at the last idea. One more night of sleep would allow her to delay the inevitable. A few months had passed since she'd located him. Not another night could be wasted. Time was running out, both for her mother and herself. This was tonight's responsibility for Autumn. It needed to be finished quickly before she lost her nerve and the curse returned to haunt her.

She was considering picking up the phone and calling Hunter. Of course he wouldn't respond, and even if he did, it wouldn't change anything. In her note to him, she had provided detailed instructions. No amount of persuasion would convince him to comply with her request if he had already decided to disregard it. The sigh of relief in her voice suggested as much. The disillusioned bit revealed a different story.

As a matter of fact, she ought to break into his house. A quick strike should force him to fulfill her demands. This is something she might be able to accomplish. She needs to take the initiative. Spending three hours parked opposite a neighborhood known to attract drug addicts, sex offenders, and who knows what else was a bad idea. Every piece of riffraff that stumbled by stared at her awkwardly. Yet another reoccurring nightmare that was becoming unbearable. The pain in her head was so intense that it felt like her skull was being hammered in. Additionally, a great deal of worry. She has gotten very far thanks to her civilized ways.

Hunter Morrison was the one thing she hadn't managed to snag. God, damn him! After waiting for another ten minutes, she decided her nerve wasn't quite up to invading his home and instead reached for her phone. Before taking any action, she'd give him a ring to make sure he was home.

She was mid-thought when she saw a car swerve into a parking spot on the other side of the street, and her train of thought came to an abrupt halt. She stared at the man who threw open the driver's door and climbed out of the car, and her heart stopped for a moment before racing forward at an alarming rate. As far as she could tell, he wasn't her savior. He was a man with long blond hair and a shaved, shadowed jaw who looked cruel and ruthless and was clearly not someone who could save anyone. They weren't worth saving, she reminded herself, and he wasn't the type to care about that. He was the destructive type—cold, calculated, and not particularly concerned with anyone but himself. The few months had taught her nothing else.

When she went to turn the key, she felt her middle tightened. Her hand froze. She thought her eardrums were going to burst from the constant ticking of her watch. In an instant, she saw her mother's distressed face. She withdrew her hand, but her gaze never left the mysterious Hunter Morrison.

He ran his fingers through his hair for a moment before looking up at the Midnight Pub's neon sign. In his eyes, not even a hint of a feeling was simmering. They were completely black, as covert and mysterious as the night itself.

Once again, Autumn swept her eyes over him, this time bringing his image closer until she could make out every feature of the man who had enticed her away from her home in Manila.

He was dressed as usual tonight, in a black shirt with the sleeves slashed off to expose rippling veins of deeply tanned muscle and washed, worn jeans that clung to his rippling veins. Thugs and other criminals were his clientele, so it was only natural that he blend in with their ranks.

For the hundredth time, she reminded herself that salvation came in many forms. In this case, it was on the shoulders of one poor excuse for a man who had absolutely no idea what he was getting himself into. He proved his strength and bravery by coming anyway. Given his profession, she should have known better. Tough, brave, and bursting with insatiable curiosity. That was the true hook that brought him to the pub. The setting was appropriate, especially in light of the events of the previous evening. Because of this, she had requested that he meet her there. So that there was no question in his mind that she was aware of every detail, including the most recent murder scene, the time of death, and the precise cause of these slayings. But Autumn knew the true reason for the killings better than anyone else. And that's why she absolutely required the assistance of Hunter Morrison. He also dealt with murderers as part of his work. Or, to be more precise, serial murder was his “specialty”. He pursued them with a thirst for blood borne of the hardships of the life he was forced to lead.

Hunter certainly gave off the impression of a man who had seen death too many times. Autumn stared at his face intently, taking in the defined contours of his jaw and mouth and the sinister depths of his eyes. A lot darker, in fact. To Autumn's mind, there was no doubt that he had not only witnessed sin, but also participated in its commission. He supposedly didn't care about the law, so the police didn't want him. Hunter didn't care what the rules were and broke them whenever it suited him, making up his own as he went.

So much the better, she told herself. They could have a more streamlined meeting if they did that. At least her preposition wouldn't risk offending his morality. He didn't appear to be the moral sort. His scrutiny of the beat-up red car she drove with an intensity that was unsettling was thorough. And in those split seconds, she was sure his unsettling gaze bore her through the darkened window. The man turned and walked up the sidewalk, stepping into the Midnight Pub's smoke as he opened the door.

Autumn was more than a little surprised and troubled to feel a tremor in her fingers as she reached for her glasses, given that she normally has no qualms about facing anything. The situation had gotten so bad that she had started the car, was holding the steering wheel tightly, and was strumming her fingers on the leather as she considered whether or not to leave. This would be the end of all hope for both her and her mother. Moreover, she would condemn her mother to an even greater amount of suffering.

When Autumn had that sobering realization, the unease in her stomach subsided and she turned off the car. She would be condemning her mother forever if she let this opportunity slip through her fingers, and nothing, not even Hunter Morrison and his disturbing presence, could make her do so. She might as well douse her mother in gasoline and light the match herself if she wants to send her to hell, because that's exactly what she'd be doing.

Autumn, I know what you are and what makes you tick...

As she unfolded herself from the car and grabbed her black leather bag from the seat, the words from her nightmare played over and over in her head. She grabbed her bag by the strap and slammed the door behind her as she walked across the street. Her stomach knotted up with fear, and she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. The road was dotted with cars. There were clusters of people at the intersections and individuals walking up and down the sidewalk. This was a perfectly normal occurrence, and Autumn thanked God in her heart without speaking a word. Dealing with Hunter alone would be challenging. She didn't need the murderer hot on her trail. And yet, she was well aware of his routines and his ravenous appetite. No doubt he was out looking for his next kill.

With each step, she clutched the bag even tighter. If she could just reach Hunter and make her offer, maybe that would solve all her problems and put an end to the killing. And she did it all while keeping her true identity hidden from him. As opposed to what awaited her in the shadows, which would be far worse.

I know what you are... Autumn would have to face hell much sooner than she had planned, much sooner than even the dreaded curse promised, if Hunter found out who and what she really was.

"Shot!" Hunter said as he tossed a bill onto the scratched surface of the table. A curvy lady with large breasts, barely covered by a red top, swayed over to him. Her red-rimmed eyes were emphasized by thick layers of eye makeup, and a quick glance was all it took to learn her secrets. Her blond hair was up in a ponytail, and six stud earrings decorated the slant of one ear. She smiled at him, letting him know that she was eager to provide him with more than just a beverage. "Whatever it is you want, Sir."

Hunter reentered the bar and looked around at the clientele, a motley assortment of Manila's criminals ranging from prostitutes and drug addicts to drug dealers and pimps. This is not to say that Hunter had any intention of throwing stones. There should have been some for him as well. Perhaps that was what he found most annoying about establishments like Midnight Pub. He was almost too good of a fit. Colored lights danced, and silhouettes were clung to those who thrived in the night's anonymity. Hunter clung to the night, seeking refuge from his memories. But the night could not hide what he was transporting. He couldn't avoid it; it was always present. As of this point, he'd given up trying and caring. He was being propelled forward by his past with an urgency he couldn't resist any longer. Taking revenge, either on him or on someone else. Whether the victim was an unknown bystander or his own father, the joy of apprehending the perpetrator was the same. Like sex, this experience gave Hunter a rush and a thrill. Even better, perhaps, given that the emotion was uniquely his. There was nobody else on the hunt with him.

Hunter glanced at his watch and cursed himself for wasting time once more. The autopsy report, however, had taken half an hour of rapid-fire conversation to obtain. Honestly, he couldn't believe that was all it took. She was too savvy to fall for his charms and too money-hungry to trust Isabelle Martin. He had prepared himself to make a promise of his firstborn child before the stern coroner would release her priceless report. She had been too exhausted to bargain tonight after spending half a day and all night awake because of this damned murderer. It's a good thing, too, because Hunter was starting to lose his mind after going three days without a nap. "Is there anything else?" The bartender jolted him awake. Her grin returned, and her bloodshot, famished eyes met his. The implied invitation was clear even without words.

To get to the drink, he had to reach around her spare change. Without batting an eye, he reached for the shot glass and chugged the flaming liquid.

"If I remember correctly, you were in here the other night."

"Perhaps," he said. He had located Paul dela Rosa, the crackhead responsible for the shooting deaths of five people during a robbery a week earlier. After days of searching, Hunter finally located him in the pub's restroom, with a needle poised over his head and an intention to commit suicide. When Hunter was done with the guy, he threw him in jail and made him pay a hefty fine. Nonetheless, Hunter wasn't solely motivated by financial gain. It was something else. The nightmares, perhaps. No doubt about it, his past. That was his consistent line: "blood for blood." The law of unjust rewards meant that Paul had finally gotten his. The new cretin who had been slashing people carelessly.

The bartender took a quick look at his glass. "I could bring you the bottle if you'd like," she offered.

"I can wake up from the horrible taste of just one, but I'm afraid that any more will put me to sleep."

"If you need a place to nap, I have a spare bedroom in the attic that you're welcome to use." She pointed to the dim stairwell that could be seen through the open doorway at the back of the bar. "I'll have a short break. If you're looking for a place to rest for a while, I'll show you the way to the top floor." Her words carried an air of anticipation, and Hunter picked up on it.

He said icily, "No, thanks," as he ran a hand through his hair and looked around. "Are you living here?"

"Nope." She stuffed the spare change he'd left into her pocket. "The owner doesn't have much spare time for slacking. After getting his money and talking to the manager, Bill, he heads back into town."

"Bill? That guy who died a week ago was him, right?"

"Hmm." With a frown crinkling her features, she shook her head, coming across as even more stern than usual in the mellow glow of the bar's colored lights. "It's unreal to me that I'm referring to him as if he were alive. Seriously, what happened to him is insane. Clearly, he was a big guy. A lot of fights were broken up by him, and he picked up more knives and shit than anyone I've ever seen do that. Just dying like that doesn't make much sense."

"It seems like he might be mentally unstable. After killing his girlfriend, he took his own life. The label "psychopath" fits him perfectly."

"That's fucking bullshit," she exclaimed. "That girl wasn't his girlfriend. Bill would never have done something so stupid as to killed a slut."

"How do you know?"

"I knew him. There were rumors that he called for help after hearing the girl scream." She grabbed a beer bottle and drank deeply from it. "His wrists wouldn't have been cut over it. Nor did he wish for his own death." She tipped slightly the bottle towards him. "That girl was a real bitch. She fucked over almost every dude who walked through these doors. Bill was smart. He would never get his filthy hands dirty with a slut like her. These days, there's just too much nonsense to ignore. That slut was the suicidal one. She is always walking out with the guys with the big dicks." A grin formed on her face. "A big doofus with a bunch of money in the pocket."

"Were you here that night?" Hunter asked in a level tone, showing just enough interest to keep the conversation going and just enough friendliness to keep her talking.

"Everyone was here. All through the night, in fact. With everyone still inside, the police sealed the place up tight. Before morning came around, they had still not found anyone. Are you a police officer or something?"

"Something? When everything happened, are you working or up in the loft?" he asked.

A slight narrowing of her eyes indicated her displeasure with his inquiry. Her voice was as emotionless as her eyes. "Upstairs. When the police took my statement, I already gave them that information. It seems like I've seen you before."

"Can you recall anything out of the ordinary? Howls?"

"Ok, hear me out." She raised her tone slightly. "Several women share three rooms just down the hall from me. I've done some shit in my time, but those women redefine the term. It seems like, there's something hilarious to see or hear. Stranger than a room full of screamers, but I didn't hear Bill get ripped to shreds. That's something I've shared with the cops." Her gaze morphed from suspicion to anger and back again. "Your inquisitiveness is excessive. That's right, I do remember you. You were here the night they were murdered. Are you a police officer?"

"There's no need to worry about me because I'm not a cop. It's just that I'm curious. What's your name?" Hunter asked in a disconcertingly low voice. She recoiled as his eyes swept down her entire body in a manner that was so thorough it had her running for cover. Her furrowed brow had relaxed by the time he looked at her again, and he could see that she was no longer irritated. The lustful fire he'd seen in her eyes was even brighter now.

"Chanty," as her tongue again slid down her chin. "Chanty Tuazon."

"Chanty, it has been a pleasure to speak with you. In any case, I hope to see you again."

"Anytime. If you'd like to use the room, it's all yours."

After winking at her, Hunter walked back to take a look at the other people in the pub. There were no witnesses and screams. He'd spent the whole time in the stall with the drug addict who turned out to be a murderer. He shut his eyes and moaned under his breath. The opportunity had been knocking at his door for so long. It's so close, actually. He dug a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. The expensive, pristine paper was complemented by a light, delicate perfume that tickled his nostrils. Hunter scowled. He was willing to bet that at least half of the people at Midnight Pub were unable to write legibly, if they could even read. They were all drug addicts and had spent all their money on their habit. They are so financially strapped that they cannot even afford to learn about high-end stationery. Plus, classy? Now, the fact that there was a snoring couple not too far from him by the back exit should have told him all he needed to know about that. Looking at the note once more, he berated himself for his tardiness. That's right; He's running about three hours behind schedule. Whoever wrote it, he speculated, must have waited. If they wanted him that badly, they would have found a way to get him.

Hunter has heightened level of curiosity. As he backed away from the pub, he clutched at the shadows, the note searing into his palm. He looked at each person's face with ruthless intensity, as if the identity of the author could be determined with enough focus. Undoubtedly a witness or a person with knowledge concerning the murder. If it weren't for that, Hunter likely wouldn't have paid much mind. There was information in the note. Specifics neither the murderer nor anyone else but an eyewitness would know. He wiped his weary eyes again, wishing he were back at home where he could be safely asleep instead of in this place where the kaleidoscope of colors was spinning with such ferocity that it hurt his eyes. He was so tired that he almost considered accepting the bartender's offer. The only way he could sleep was if he were completely alone.

Hunter could only guess what the upstairs room looked like from the delaminated pub downstairs. Possibly infested with roaches or rats, with filthy sheets on the bed (if any sheets existed). He had just finished wiping his face with his hand when he saw the woman coming down the stairs into the bar. Is it possible that she was the one who penned that letter?