Needle

The instant D spied the pair of fangs jutting from the corners of the
creature’s detestable lips—the only part of the figure clearly visible as he
nosily lapped at the blood bubbling from the wounds on the woman’s throat
—the Hunter’s right hand unleashed a volley of white light.

As the sound of five wooden needles sinking into the planks of the wall
was heard, those bloody lips formed a grin. Not a single change had
occurred in the figure’s twisting embrace of the woman. Without moving a
muscle, the creature had avoided the needles D had hurled.
D bounded from the floor.

The wan body of the woman flew up, and averting it introduced a delay
of a mere hundredth of a second in his attack. A flash of silver slashed the
sleeve of the ashen cloak, and D and the figure swapped positions.
An air of desolation filled the room.

At long last he’d met a worthy opponent. In any battle, the most
important factors were, primarily, speed and, secondarily, strength. In terms
of speed, at least, the shadowy figure was D’s equal.

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