It was a dark and gloomy night, where no love could hope to bloom. It was so dark and gloomy that the only thing one could see were the shadows made from the moonlight themselves. Or so it seemed to a lone little girl walking down the silent roads, at any rate.

Such is the way of things that the little lady was far from afraid, and kept walking down the street of the city she found herself in, unwilling to be scared of such little things. 

One of the shadows caught her eye, clearly different from the others. It was jet black, and the ground around it seemed to gray out as if the little color in the earth was sucked out of it. And it was moving, rapidly, towards her. In the blink of her eye, it was upon her, and from the dim figure came two long hands, as pale as the moon above, and two long, thin arms after them. 

And after them, came a face struck in a wrathful frown, mouth wide open and two fangs sticking out among the teeth like sore thumbs, glinting in the almost shade of the darkened street. The little lady, however, didn't even turn to run, simply standing there, her eyes wide open and her mouth slightly turning in a cruel smile.

It would seem, on that cold February night, in a small little city in a lonely corner of this world, where things do tend to go bump in the night, a predator met another, and the lion and the tiger facing each other were just about ready to sink their fangs in the other's jugular.

It was a rather interesting time to be a witch, that's for sure.

Or so thought Sarah, an unfortunate Scottish witch, one of those old ones, unwilling to let the damn Brits come and do as they please, that still remembered humanity as the fire camps littering their forest, little more than intruders in their own domain, but found themselves displaced in the twenty-first century. Oh, what a misery it was, to have survived so long.

So, when she saw a lone child walking the streets, she felt nothing but pity for the young little thing, and sensing something special about her, she was just about ready to invite her into her hut as an apprentice.

Until the thing jumped out of the ground and began drinking deeply on her blood, no more than five meters ahead of where she was running towards the child, hoping to make a memorable first impression on the unfortunate lass.

Child sacrifices, or child pies for that matter, were so last millennia after all, and now child apprentices were all the glory. 'Magical Girls', or something, she heard from one of her friends. Still, Sarah was far from willing to let a potential pupil go for something of such little importance as the random vampire juiced up on who knows what taking a sip.

Far from it. She had some vampire pupils, and they were always fun to hang with. Sometimes literally, depending on how angry the peasant mobs got back then. They were just a little of a thick brick to teach, as they had to unlearn the false superiority, and the magical bad habits typical of self-learners.

So she jumped on her current broom, a particularly large fork she inscribed a shrinking spell on, and set herself on stopping the foul creature from reducing the girl to a dried-up old hag, much like she was.

As soon as she got upon her trusty mount, the girl herself moved her arms, and the old witch immediately recognized how they blurred through the air. As they seemed to flow like water and began to seemingly tear through reality, leaving little sparkles behind, the hair on her head began to stand up, her very hair jutting around her witchy hat like a scared cat's fur, and she quickly shifted the direction of her broom.

She was willing to throw down with a Vampire, but a fairy? Now, that was a whole other matter. Really, really far above her paygrade, especially considering the girl could disguise herself as a human. They were the ones still eating children, after all. 

 Despite the old hag hightailing it out of the suddenly busy street, the fight had now begun, and the two creatures were now fully engaged. One handsome, if skinny man, and a small little thing, looking no older than ten, were openly duking it out, the man biting on her neck like a piranha, and refusing to let go, even as the lass kept bending their body and bones with sheer brute force.

Soon, she began instead quickly hitting the lad's head, trying to split it open like a cucumber at a beach party, raising both her tiny little hands in the sky, and bringing them down on his skull with enough force to tear walls down. But he did not let go, and as time went on, and his body resembled more and more a pretzel, her face began to look more and more pale. Finally, after half an hour of spells of any kind being thrown at the clingy nocturnal predator, her face turned blue.

She didn't have any more blood to give, but that didn't mean that much for either of them. What began flowing out was some ocatrine liquid instead, and whereas before the girl was clearly unsettled, she now began weeping in pain, her tears the same color as the newfound blood, while clear fear started showing on her features.

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Meanwhile, the hag had come back with a handful of friends, armed with popcorn and a few cellphones, for those far enough in the future to have heard of such fantastic innovations as electricity. They were happily chatting, and catching up with one another, as any outing of such horrid creatures would inevitably end up being a terrible, terrible gossip party.

Soon enough, hearing the child's weeping, they hurried over, as the entire set of cutlery could be seen by early risers sweeping through the air, along with more traditional things, such as swords. The Middle Ages taught many of them how to wield weapons, and while spears were generally preferred, it was always fun seeing the humans' expressions as they saw them wielding such large pieces of iron.

The few Scottish grannies, often part of the same social circles, at most hackled at these hyperactive ladies, always ready to grumble, especially if not sure about what, while the women bravely trying to document the fight for social credit with their friends could not help but start worrying as the fight grew direr and direr.

The girl, her own body slowly mutating into a much larger figure, had since long forgone any physical means of harm, beginning to summon smaller weapons and gleams of overcharged magic, to attempt to pry the now much healthier-looking vampire off her neck.

Her more and more desperate attempts didn't meet any success, seemingly invigorating the creature instead. The ladies of the night looked at one another, and nodded grimly, letting the popcorn under the unrealible guard of their familiars, and beginning to gather up their prowess.

"Ay, laddies! Let's get that foreign bloodsucker away from Twinkles over there!" began shouting one of them, raising her giant spoon in a threatening way. Another, instead bearing a chork, and wearing a frilly pink outfit, felt compelled to add, "He do be lookin' like one of 'em Brits!"

At this, many took out their weapons, a fire animating their eyes, as whispers of 'damned brits, comin' here and stealin' our brains,' and 'em besterds, makin' up stories 'bout us,' begun to grow in the small crowd. "If he's really a Brit, all we have to do is bring out some tea! He'll come trying to quench his thirst on that, instead of the fairy!"

The one that had spoken, much to the assent of the crowd, was Bonnie, one of those more modernized among them. Also, her second pupil had married into a fairy bloodline, so she was clearly not an objective source of opinions. Unfortunately, they lacked the willingness to conjure up tea for one of these foul beings, much less a Vampire, and miss the opportunity to put their hands on them, making them feel their wrath from up close and personal. Even if objectively, it'd have been much easier, were the creature of the night so obsessed with the beverage.

But a murder of witches needn't have such complicated things as objectivity. Their old, creaky bones were all but hoping for an unfortunate Brit to somehow make their way to the upper parts of Scotland, perhaps more untamed now than when the jungle was a concrete one, and not a natural one. To shower the damn biscuit eaters with the wrath of the Scottish hags, unwilling to recognize the southerners' crown, or a government at all for that matter, as anything more than an interesting thought subject, and not someone to pay taxes to.

Soon, the fairy's magical weapons were joined by sets of ancient cutlery, weapons, brooms, and enchanted fingernails, all trying to pry the creature away. After all, the fairies might be the hated enemy number one, along with the werewolves, the bean-nighes, the brownies, that damn thing passing itself as a Lock Ness monster, and that odd serpent woman that moved in some centuries ago, and many, many more, but they were still all locals. They were less of a hated enemy than some foreigner, at least.

This guy did, objectively, look like a tea drinker, at least to the now-angered elders. His rather full lips were almost perfectly fit to rest on a teacup's rim, and his tiny, noodly arms would be just strong enough to lift it, or so some among them believed. Some were trying so fervently to force the thing away that their dentures came flying off, hitting it on the head, and finally, his mordacious grip began to loosen. Soon, the fairy's odd blood didn't even reach his mouth, instead simply falling to the ground, spilling and forming puddles between the cracks in the street, and the creature of the night remained attached to her only by the tip of his fangs, the rest of his body being held in a death grip by the maddened Scots, all cursing up a storm.

Unfortunately, by now the sun had begun to rise. Fortunately, it was a bloody Monday, a fact which probably contributed greatly to the hags' wrath, as even witches tend to be grumpier on that day's morning.

What came strolling down the street was the city's singular police officer, worried by the ruckus, his black hat held high in pride, and his feathers ruffled by the insults to the crown. "Down with the Teacups!", "Throw 'em in the sea like the 'muricans did!", and "Give us back our freedom!" were common enough cries to constitute a grave offense to the city's sole enforcer's sensibilities.

As soon as he came into view, Sarah herself was quickly able to act, her swift witt able to save all of them. "The pigs be here! Scatter!" she hackled, the murder of fellow crones hurrying to run from the man, scampering off in dark corners and alleyways, undoubtedly using their forks, spoons, and other obscure cutlery to fly off into the setting sun, bus also managing to finally dislodge the vampiric man in a final, powerful pull.

The old policeman, for his part, sighed in relief, happy to not have to deal with their brand of madness, but still chasing after them out of both habit and vocation, making the most out of his walking stick. All the while, the cadaveric man lay on the ground, looking for the rest of the world as a sleeping babe, not awake in the slightest.

Soon, the panting and half-dead woman was left alone with the somewhat handsome guy. Despite her close call, she was smiling from ear to ear, a cruel grin of crueler fangs splitting her face, much longer than the pale one's. Vengence on her mind, and terrible plots besides, she couldn't help but whisper, "Oh, I'll show this bastard what's coming for him, for harming me so..."

The night had turned to day, and the now sleeping vampire would have one or two nasty surprises to wake up to. One predator met the other, and they both walked away, fangs still at each others' throats, and tails intertwined.