Another hour later, after two more victims, he rested once again, this time on the top of an old church. He gasped for breath, and sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the blood around his mouth to leave a pink stain on his chin and neck. He slumped to the roof's surface and rolled on his back, bending his wings painfully under him. He turned his head to the east and hoped to see a brightening; a hint of dawn that would signal his work was finished, but saw only darkness.
He allowed his mind to drift and thought back to the three times he had been shot. He remembered the white flash from the muzzles burning his eyes, causing almost as much pain as the hot bullets ripping through his wings. The pain had lasted for years.
He thought about the time when he had attacked a farmer, and how the man had turned out to be strong, so strong. The farmer had picked up a shovel and struck him several times before he was able to rise up and pivot behind him and finally get his fangs on the muscular neck. He had flown away from the farm with a bruised back and several cracked teeth.