She was a beautiful, flaxen-haired woman.

Now her eyes glowed with an unholy light, a testimony to her bloodline. Her name is Amarie, the witch with the most diluted blood of the Emelrides.

"Fuck you," she spat out a glob of blood and saliva an inch away from my face.

"Fuck me, indeed," I was faintly amused. This young witch, loose and reckless and wild, was excessively fond of clubbing and men. It was easy to disguise myself as a hot-blooded young man, then drug her in the dark chaotic depths of a club.

Killing her would be a milestone. The Emelrides were a group of witches that had one of the most ancient blood in witch history, descended from the Great One herself. To capture one with just an inkling of their blood, and killing her, would be a great feat that I would be sure to publicize. Maybe I'll even ask my craftsman to make a carpet from her hair.

Amarie stared at me with hate-filled eyes. Rumor say that it is bad luck to stare a witch in the eyes. Or that their eyes could turn you into stone. Whatever. I do what I have to do. And right now she's nicely bound to a chair, with her hands around and tied at the back. It was kind of tiring to sling her across my back and carry her a few streets away to the empty house I prepared. The drug I gave her, in addition to knocking her powers out, rendered her completely unconscious for the ten minutes or so.

I gave her my most winning smile. "You know... if you told me where your nice little witch relatives are, I might just let you off tonight." That's a lie, obviously. I would kill her just the same.

You have to be ruthless to be good at this job.

She gave me a wild laugh, showing the red stains of blood on her teeth. "Do you think I was born yesterday, Hunter?" This was a witch that will not crack under torture. I had already given her fifty blows to her head and face, such that her face resembles a mass of bruises now. Not to mention the ten thin, sharp and long pieces of metal I had pierced into the tender flesh under her nails.

Very well.

The unholy light in her eyes were growing even stronger now, and I knew I didn't have much time before her powers returned.

Moving quickly, I lighted a few choice candles and started chanting. When the air was thick with the scent of candles and my voice had risen in pitch, I opened a small glass bottle and shouted a few words in the demonic language. I have to be careful. Sometimes the witch hunter's soul gets sucked into the bottle instead of the witch's. Or sometimes the glass bottle explodes into mini shards and gets buried deep into the witch hunter's skin. Oh, that never ends up pretty. The cleanup sucked.

Amarie's eyes lost all light. Her body hardened all at once, arms and legs jerking up before going all soft. By the time I uttered the last few words, there was already a smell of decay in the air.

I screwed a cork tight into the mouth of the bottle and hid it within the folds of my black cloak. I would bury this deep in the cemetery later; if the bottle ever gets broken or the cork gets loose, any living creature will die within a five-mile radius (or more, depending on the strength of the witch). It was essential that no foolish mortal ever gets a hold of it and free the malicious presence inside.

Taking out the silver knife I carry with me at all times, I grabbed a fistful of her hair and swiped it clean off her scalp.

Hello, new carpet.