The evil was so pervasive that you could easily cut it with a knife. Amid the tall buildings and historical atmosphere near Wall Street, there was another feeling in the air. More a presence, people sensed it as they rounded the corner near Battery Park, walking to or from the subway station. It wasn’t just a foreboding or anxious moment of fear, it was the total absence of good.

In an otherwise bustling area, that part of the street was almost always bereft of activity. People would walk that way, then cross the street wondering why they did it? The Dark Master always gloried in this. He hated people. Perhaps that’s why he had his hideous underlings gather the nightly supply of blood. They would present it to him in a metal goblet made from the swords of enemies he had once vanquished.

Worse then any demon the most religious Life could have imagined, the Dark Master was more then a fiend, but less then a monster. No adult human would see him and live, but he never harmed a child. Conversely, he would horribly murder anyone he thought was hurting a child. His evil came from a lust for everlasting revenge.

So ancient that all thoughts of his youth had vanished, the Dark Master knew this: Sometime before the dark ages he had been wronged by men. These thoughts would never leave him. They raced about his head like pixies dancing around a fire. But he had only told the tale once in a hundred years.

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