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prettyarbitrary
There had been a time when the Hunter was their worst nightmare. When they dreamed of him and woke terrified, threatened their children with him, refused to speak his name after dark. That had been before. Murder had been an art, then; now it was simply a matter of loading bullets into a gun. Now killing was something any fool could do. It was good the Hunter was dead; there was no one left to fear him and he had thrived on fear. No one left to lie awake and waiting, trembling and eager in the darkness, like a hound anticipating the winding of the horn. No one but Damien.
prettyarbitraryThere had been a time when the Hunter was their worst nightmare. When they dreamed of him and woke terrified, threatened their children with him, refused to speak his name after dark. That had been before. Murder had been an art, then; now it was simply a matter of loading bullets into a gun. Now killing was something any fool could do. It was good the Hunter was dead; there was no one left to fear him and he had thrived on fear. No one left to lie awake and waiting, trembling and eager in the darkness, like a hound anticipating the winding of the horn. No one but Damien.
