Another revision

Rane needed a soul. He was so empty; he was shaking like an addict. He had been summoned to this house, and here he would begin a new century. He landed on a stepping stone in the middle of the unruly garden and brushed away a thorny branch that scratched at his skin. The house was locked tight, but no man-made bolt would keep him from his destiny. He punched a fist through the window next to the door, turned the lock and walked into the house with the grace that only a chaser could carry.

Inside, something was burning. A large pot was frothing over on the stove. He had stumbled upon one of those damned witches. Once again, he heard the song that had drawn him here; the voice that had shaken him to the core. His soul silently cried out for companionship while he searched for his prey.

He headed for the staircase, but the witch slid out from under the bed and scrambled to her feet like a cat floundering out of a bathtub. Her coarse, gray hair was tied neatly in a bun save for a few wiry strands; and her black clothes, once she straightened and pressed them down, had a tapered look about them. She would have been rather attractive except for the mass of brown moles clustered around her thin, pursed lips.

“How dare you come here, soul chaser!” she hissed, thrusting an inverted cross at his chest.

“And how dare you shove that blasted crucifix at me. I am no vampire you senile old woman.” He withheld a mischievous smile, unaffected by her religious trinket.

“Get out, you demon!” the witch spat, trading the cross for her wand.

Rane couldn’t help but chuckle now. “I see you got a new stick, Drahmia,” he taunted. “It’s bigger than your last one.” She was always trying to wound him in some overly dramatic way.

She ignored his teasing and began to chant; waving her weapon in the dank air.

Rane circled her like a wolf; he found it impossible to take her seriously. Her last spell had left an ungodly stench about his castle, but that was the most harm she’d ever caused him. “Honestly Drahmia, why are you so disagreeable? We are both creatures of the night; we should be helping each other.”

“Never!” she snarled, appearing disgusted by his suggestion. “I am a healer and you are a thief. You stole my mother’s soul, Stuart Rane. I will never help you.”

“Right,” Rane said with a curt nod, “you forget that she tried to cut my head off with a hacksaw. I had no choice but to defend myself.” He was tired of having the same conversation with the witch.

“We had an agreement,” she said through clenched teeth. “We could have lived together peacefully. She was the strongest witch alive, Rane. She was our leader. You made us enemies.”