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Copyright © 2022 by J.D. Monroe

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Editing by Three Points Author Services

Cover Design by Yocla Designs
Formatting by J.D. Monroe
 Contents

Reader Note

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
The Warrior’s Curse - A Sneak Peek

About the Author

Also by J.D. Monroe
 Reader Note

Dearest readers, I want reading to always be a wonderful escape. If you have concerns about tropes
or content, please visit my website for a description of elements in this book.

Thank you and take care of yourselves!

 1

A mournful jazz singer crooned a haunting lullaby as Olivia Pierce crossed the dance floor to a
distinguished gentleman. She offered her hand and said, “Mr. Boyd, may I have this dance?”
Eddie’s silver-blue eyes were partially obscured by bushy gray eyebrows that rose in
surprise. Gripping his cane tightly, he stood up and grinned. “I thought you would never ask. As long
as you don’t mind my assistant, Biltmore.” He shook his cane at her with a little laugh.
“Mr. Biltmore may join too,” she said. Letting Eddie hold her arm for balance, she guided him to
the dance floor and put her hand on his shoulder.
He cleared his throat. “Oh, Miss Pierce, is it all right? I don’t want to overstep.”
She laughed and placed his hand lightly on her waist. His hand barely brushed her, as if he was
afraid to offend. “Yes, sir,” she said. “And I appreciate you asking first. You are truly a gentleman.”
His eyes closed as he swayed, a little out of time as he leaned on her for balance. A mild stroke
had weakened Eddie’s left side, but he was as quick-witted as ever. “My Jeannie would sing to me
every morning while she cooked breakfast,” he said, a wistful hint in his voice. “I used to tell her she
could have sung with Duke Ellington or Glenn Miller if she’d been born a little earlier.”
“I bet that was wonderful,” she said. “What was her favorite song?”
“She loved Paper Moon. Sometimes she’d sing Cheek to Cheek, but then I’d try to sing like Louis
Armstrong and she’d laugh so hard she cried.” His eyes glistened with tears as he said, “I wish she
could be here.”
“I know,” she said, her throat clenching tight. “Tomorrow after book club, would you like to go
for a walk and tell me more about her?”
“Ah, you don’t want to hear an old man rambling,” he said, averting his gaze.
She squeezed his shoulder gently. “No, I don’t. But I do want to chat with my new friend about his
wonderful wife. If you have some pictures of Jeannie, I’d love to see her.”
Eddie laughed a little and brushed a trickle of tears against his crisply pressed shirt sleeve. “I
think that would be nice. It’s a date.” As the song came to a halt, he gently kissed the back of her hand.
“Thank you for the dance, Miss Pierce.”
“It was my genuine pleasure, Mister Boyd,” she said, giving him a little curtsy before guiding him
back to his seat.
The main room of the activity center at Fernbrook Commons had been transformed into a
ballroom for the night, with gold tinsel streamers and silver stars decorating the beige walls. A buffet
table held picked-over trays of finger foods, while a few of the residents were laughing like teenagers
in the photo booth. The elaborate photo booth had eaten up most of her budget and left her decorations
looking like a half-assed high school prom. But there had been a line all night as the guests printed
pictures of themselves in silly hats and feather boas. Money well spent, as far as she was concerned.
Her assistant, Desmond, grabbed the karaoke microphone and tapped it lightly. “Attention to our
party guests. It’s last call, so if you want a little something for the road, head over to the buffet table.
We’ve got the photo booth until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, so anyone who missed their
chance can pop in at breakfast.”
She met Desmond at the buffet table, where they’d already prepared a stack of to-go boxes and
cups. After their first few parties, they’d learned to send their guests home with leftover snacks.
Olivia had nearly perfected the art of ordering just enough food to keep her guests happy and not have
to throw anything away afterward. While a few stragglers did a respectable swing dance to “In the
Mood,” she and Desmond quickly distributed finger sandwiches, sliced fruit, and mini-cupcakes into
boxes for those who lined up.
Desmond laughed to himself as the music faded into “Every Time I Say Goodbye.” He elbowed
her lightly and whispered, “Let’s hope they get the hint.”
She’d been at Fernbrook for just over two years. After a year of working as an assistant, she was
now the full-time activities director at the facility. It was not, as she gently corrected the family
members of some of their guests, a nursing home. Their residents were mostly independent and lived
in their own condos or cottages. Olivia, Desmond, and their part time assistant Julia worked to plan
social activities and outings, keeping the residents physically active and engaged with the community.
Maisie Jones, elegant and poised as always, walked up to the buffet. Her glittering red dress was
flawless, as was her silver hair. If Olivia aged half as well, she’d be thankful. “Excuse me, Ms.
Pierce and Mr. Lewis?” Maisie said, with a drawl that was sweet and thick as clover honey.
“Miss Maisie,” Desmond said. “You know you can call me Dez.”
“I can, but I won’t,” she said archly. She waved off his attempt to give her a to-go box. “I saw on
the Facebook that some older folks have been disappearing from communities around the city. I’ve
voiced my concerns to Mr. Talbot, but he assures me that our security is quite good.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Olivia said. Rumors of the Senior Snatcher had been circulating for a few weeks.
The reality was that the elderly, particularly those with cognitive disorders, were prone to wander
off. Several had returned, swearing they’d only just left, despite having lost days. “I don’t believe any
have come from communities like ours.”
Maisie regarded Olivia with a stern look that made her feel like she was standing before an angry
school principal with a backpack full of contraband. “Well, I certainly don’t want us to be the first. I
hope you’ll pass my concerns to Mr. Talbot. Perhaps he can increase security temporarily.”
“Yes, of course. If you’d like, I’ll walk you back to your condo tonight,” Desmond said.
Her schoolmarm stare faded into a smile. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.” She nodded to
Olivia. “Ms. Pierce, thank you for the lovely party. I speak for all of the Peach Club when I say that it
was tremendous.”
“Well, that is certainly high praise,” Olivia said. “Please thank the ladies of the club for the
wonderful desserts.”
With an imperious nod, Maisie offered her arm to Desmond. He talked animatedly to her as they
left the makeshift ballroom, leaving Olivia to finish shutting down. She kicked off her high heels,
turned the stereo to quiet piano music, and called on her radio for the kitchen staff.
Four workers in scrubs entered with trays and briskly bussed the tables. She followed close
behind, folding her tablecloths, gathering candle sticks, and stuffing decorations back into a plastic
tote. Once the kitchen staff finished, she sent them home with generous slices of the hummingbird cake
baked by the Peach Club. She was not above bribery in the form of baked goods.
 Thirty minutes later, she put the last of the party supplies in a storage closet and locked up. She
made a quick stop by her office to grab her purse. Her phone lay on her desk, glowing insistently in
the dark room.
From the doorway, she could see that the screen was covered with notifications. She barely had
enough friends to make a social triangle, let alone a circle, so a flurry of messages was certainly odd.
When she picked up the phone, her blood went cold.
Danielle: I need your help
Danielle: Are you there?
Danielle: Olivia, please answer me
Her twin sister had called a dozen times in the last two hours. Olivia fumbled at the phone and
texted back.
What’s wrong? Call me
They hadn’t spoken since their epic shouting match months ago. Within seconds of sending the
text, her phone rang. “Ollie, I’m in trouble,” Dani said, breathless and quiet. “I need you to come get
me.”
A tsunami of terror washed over her. Olivia gripped the edge of her desk for balance as she said,
“Dani, what’s going on? Should I call the police?”
“No!” she blurted. “No police. I’ll get in trouble.”
Her stomach plunged through the floor as she felt the admonition bubbling up on her tongue. What
kind of trouble had Dani gotten herself into now? “Okay, where are you? I’m leaving work right
now.”
“I’m at my apartment,” she said. “211 Delmore Avenue, Unit G3.”
“OK, are you hurt? Did you take something?”
“Just come get me, please,” she pleaded. “I have to go.”
“No, stay on the—”
The call ended with four eerily final beeps. Her stomach twirled itself in a knot around her
esophagus as she fumbled at her purse. She kicked off her heels and shoved her feet into her
comfortable sneakers.
The world was far away as she ran down the dim corridor and out into the parking lot. It took her
three attempts to start her car before she realized she was trying to use her house key. “Breathe,” she
told herself, taking a moment to ground herself like her therapist Cara had taught her. “Five things I
can see,” she murmured. Streetlight. Fairy lights on the gazebo. Manicured nails. A half-empty water
bottle. Her phone, which had delivered the terrifying omen. “Shit.”
Decision time. She owned a gun, but it was stored safely at home. Did she risk the hour round trip
to go home for it? Anything could happen to Dani in that time.
Her stomach lurched as she pulled onto the road and headed for the interstate. Bracing herself for
the death race of Atlanta traffic, she took a deep breath and slammed the gas to merge onto I-85.
The smart choice would be to call the cops. But if Dani was up to something illegal and got
arrested, she’d hate Olivia even more than she already did. Over the years, Olivia had bailed her
twin out quite a few times, both figuratively and literally.
But there had been only radio silence from Dani for nearly six months, ever since the screaming
match that ended with Dani telling her to get out and never come back. Olivia had just been trying to
help, but Dani hadn’t seen it that way. And if she was being honest with herself, she’d probably
pushed too hard. She’d tried to apologize, tried to reach out, but Dani had cut her off entirely.
If Dani was reaching out now, then this had to be nowhere-else-to-turn, life-or-death bad. And
maybe this was the only way to finally make things right and get her back.
By taking extreme liberties with the speed limit, Olivia made it to Dani’s new apartment complex
in nineteen minutes. Her new place was in an upscale community with a higher price tag than her
usual choices. Olivia hadn’t even realized that her sister had moved until she worked up the courage a
few months ago to take her a birthday gift. After pacing in the parking lot for ten minutes, she’d
marched up to the door and knocked, only to find a very confused older woman who brought her a
stack of mail for Dani.
“Unit G3,” she murmured, carefully following the signs around the neatly landscaped complex.
Her heart pounded in anticipation. Whatever she found at Dani’s doorstep, they’d deal with it
together. Maybe she could prove that she was worth having around, and they could close this awful,
aching gap between them.
All she’d ever wanted was to protect Dani. With a deadbeat mom who ran through abusive
boyfriends like she’d bought them in bulk at the world’s shittiest Costco, they’d had to stick together.
And when Mom was with Mike Mason, dirtbag extraordinaire, they’d realized they couldn’t depend
on anyone else to keep them safe.
They’d survived some bad years together, but it wasn’t until they were adults that Olivia learned
how much worse Dani had it during Mike Mason’s reign of terror. Mom was still a mother in name
only, listed as Jackie in her phone contacts. But it was some small comfort that Mike had gone to
prison, pissed off the wrong guy, and got shanked with a whittled-down toothbrush. She’d never
wished anyone dead, but she had celebrated the news of his death with a bottle of champagne and a
slice of cheesecake.
But this was no fairy tale. The fall of a villain didn’t wind back time and magically heal all his
evils. The damage he did to them, particularly Dani, was just a part of his shitty legacy. And they
were still feeling the echoes of it, in bad boyfriends and quiet self-destruction.
Building G was at the back of the complex, near an access road that connected to the back of a
shopping center with a huge grocery store. She parked in one of the visitor spots and stared up at the
building with fear tangling around her like choking vines.
“Whatever I find, we’ll figure it out,” she said. Her chest tightened, and she was bombarded with
the image of her sister, pale and cold and foaming at the mouth, a needle in her arm. Her face beaten
and bloody. Gunshot wounds. A dozen terrible ends that Olivia hadn’t prevented. “Whatever it is,
we’ll figure it out,” she repeated. “She’s going to be okay. She’s going to be okay.”
Olivia gripped her keys tightly, letting the toothy blade of one key protrude between her fingers.
She barreled up the stairs to the third floor and hurried around the corner to G3. Quiet voices spoke
inside. She tested the handle. Locked. “Danielle?” she asked as she knocked. “Dani, it’s me. Come let
me in.”
Adrenaline spiked through her system as the lock disengaged and the door swung open. Her sister
stood in the doorway, wearing a cute cocktail dress and a manic smile painted the color of fresh
blood. “You came,” she murmured, as if it was a great disappointment.
“Dani, what’s wrong? Are you on something?” she asked. At the center of a nasty purple bruise on
her neck were twin trickles of blood from a pair of punctures. Olivia reached for her hand and said,
“Come on. Let’s get out of here, okay? Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
Behind Dani, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard approached. He dwarfed her sister,
making her look tiny and frail. He shoved Dani to the side, then held out his big hand. “You must be
Olivia.”
The stranger’s eyes were blood red. Not smoked-weed-all-night bloodshot, but movie quality
contacts red. Her throat went dry as she stared up at him and said, “I just came to get Danielle.”
“Ah, but now that you’re here, the party can start,” he said. In a blur, he grabbed her wrist and
yanked her inside. She tried to pull away, but his grip was like steel. The door slammed behind her.
Her eyes flitted around the sterile room. With generic furniture and no personal touches, the
apartment looked like a model that no one had ever lived in.
A petite blonde woman sat on the black leather couch with Dani, holding her hand tightly. Dani’s
wide green eyes flitted to the door, as if telling Olivia to run.
None of it added up, but there would be plenty of time to do the math when she got Dani the hell
out of here. Shifting her hand carefully, Olivia looked up at the brawny man. He grinned, baring
strangely sharp teeth. “Shit, you really are identical. Darken her hair a little, and they’ll be a matching
set,” he said. As he spoke, a thick vein shifted along his throat.
“I just want to leave with my sister,” she said calmly, watching that vein wiggle like a juicy
worm.
“That’s not going to happen, lass,” he replied.
“Move out of my way, please,” she said.
The big man crouched and bared his teeth in a frightening smile. “Or what?”
She had often fantasized about returning to the past, finding Mike Mason, and putting something
sharp in his neck to teach him a lesson about laying his hands on teenage girls. That ship had long
sailed, but this would have to do.
With a strength that surprised her, she stabbed the key into the man’s throat. The man jerked in
surprise and clapped a hand to the gushing wound. Blood spurted through his fingers. “Bitch,” he
gurgled.
“Dani, let’s go!” she screamed, breaking away to reach for her sister.
But Dani just sat on the couch, staring at her as if she didn’t understand Olivia’s frantic beckoning
gestures. “I’m so sorry.”
Where was the blonde woman?
Hands wrapped around her shoulders as she was yanked backward, nearly off her feet. “You
shouldn’t have done that,” a woman’s voice hissed. Then something sharp pierced through her skin,
and a hand closed on her throat. The last thing she heard as the black pressed in was her sister crying
out a fading apology.
I’m so sorry.

CONSCIOUSNESS ARRIVED WITH SHARP , biting pain and the sounds of slurping. Olivia shook awake and
let out a shrill scream when she looked down to see a head of messy, dark hair over her bloodied
arm.
Gleaming red eyes lifted to glare at her. “It’s awake,” the man complained. Blood dripped from
his full lips.
Her blood.
A man was drinking her blood.
She lurched away from him, but something bound her limbs to a chair. The man with the glowing
red eyes clutched her arm. “Help!” she screamed.
Feet shuffled behind her, but instead of rescuing her, the unseen arrival shoved a cloth into her
mouth and tied it tightly. Her head whipped around as she took in her surroundings. Lit only by a harsh
electric lantern in one corner, the room was small, with peeling walls covered in graffiti.
In the far corner, a man in black folded his arms over his chest, watching her intently. Recognition
slammed into her. She recognized the dark brown hair and well-groomed beard from the man in
Dani’s apartment.
“Mmph!” she protested, lunging in vain against her bindings.
The man disappeared in a blur. Cool lips brushed her ear. “Go ahead and scream,” he said.
Paired with his cruel words, the rich warmth of his voice was unsettling. “It tastes better when you’re
afraid.”
Teeth sank into her arm again as he held her from behind. The pain of the bite intensified, bringing
tears to her eyes. She gasped against the gag, letting out soft hitching sobs that made it hard to breathe.
Why was this happening? Why couldn’t she just wake up?
Eventually, the big man behind her reached out to tap the other man’s head. “That’s enough for
you. Pay up if you want more.”
The man who’d bitten her raised his head. His red eyes skimmed over Olivia appreciatively.
“Tasty,” he said. His tongue darted out to catch a trickle of blood.
The bearded man held her bloody wrist tight and pressed his fingers to her throat as if he was
checking her pulse. A few seconds later, he said, “That’s enough for today.” Then he loosened the
straps on her other wrist and pointed one finger in her face. “Don’t fight me. I’d rather not, but I’ve
got no qualms about breaking your spine if you get feisty.”
He moved so fast it made her head spin, and before she registered where she was, she was in a
larger room with a sagging tile ceiling. The windows were all shuttered by black-painted wood. The
warped frame of a chalkboard hung on one peeling cinderblock wall.
A classroom?
The man hauled her to the far corner of the room and dumped her on the filthy floor. In the corner,
a heavy chain hung from a metal plate bolted to the wall. After securing the chain around her wrist, he
pointed to a plastic bucket. “Be civilized and don’t mess on the floor.”
Stunned into silence, she finally realized he wasn’t holding her anymore. After fumbling the dry
wad of fabric out of her mouth, she swallowed and said, “What are you doing with me? Who are you?
Where’s Dani?”
“Dani’s just fine,” he said. The way he said her name with such familiarity infuriated her. “And
you will be, too.”
“Let me go!” she screamed, lunging against the length of chain.
“Or what?” He grasped her chin and tilted her face to inspect her. “It’s remarkable. You really are
identical. Our patrons will love it.”
“What?” she breathed. “What are you talking about?”
“Rest up,” he said, patting her cheek.
“Hey! Who are you?” she shouted.
But he ignored her and walked out of the dark room without looking back. With about four feet of
chain, she had just enough slack to get to the center of the room. Rusted desks were crammed into the
far corner of the room, but everything near her had been cleared away except the stained bucket that
reeked of sewage.
“This can’t be happening,” she whispered. She still wore the sequined dress that she’d worn to
the seniors’ party at Fernbrook.
No purse. No phone. Nothing.
 And no one was expecting her. No one was waiting at home for her. No one would know where
she’d gone. By the time someone called the police for a wellness check, she’d be dead. Her chest
tightened as terror threatened to drown her.
After sucking in a ragged breath, she screamed, “Danielle! Danielle Pierce!”
Voices echoed back at her, and the broken door swung open again. This time, a petite woman with
short-cropped platinum hair entered. It was the same woman who had been in Dani’s apartment.
“Hey, shut up,” she said sharply. “Some of us are trying to work here.”
“Where the hell is Danielle?” she bellowed.
In a blur, the blonde woman lunged across the room and shoved her against the wall. Her small
fist twisted into the sequined fabric as she glared up at Olivia. “Do you want me to rip your tongue
out? You’ll still taste just fine with no tongue.”
Olivia’s eyes widened, and she slowly shook her head.
“The next time I have to come in here, I’ll make sure you don’t scream again,” she said. “Got it?”
The woman’s eyes were pure red. She had to be on something. Olivia nodded and prayed that her
bladder wouldn’t give out. The smaller woman stormed out and slammed the door behind her.
Olivia sank against the wall with tears trickling down her face. She was doomed. They were
going to kill her and Dani. Probably rape them, before and after. And they were both going to be
dumped somewhere, never to be found.
What did it matter anyway? No one was left to bury them, no one to cry over their graves, and—
“Get off this toxic train,” she said aloud. Her therapist, Cara, had taught her a simple phrase.
Olivia used to say that she was “riding the crazy train” when her anxiety took over, but Cara gently
told her she wasn’t allowed to call herself crazy anymore. They settled on the “toxic train,” and the
simple act of recognizing a spiraling thought pattern was a big step, or so Cara said.
Riding the toxic train was a one-way ticket to nowhere. It usually resulted in her predicting a grim
future and rendering herself blind to any other possibilities that weren’t the worst-case scenario.
“Off the train. Off the train,” she muttered. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and
murmured, “Five things I can see.” When she exhaled, she looked around the room to ground herself.
Graffiti on the walls, spelling out James B. Crinkled fast food papers. A massive spider web. Yuck.
Her own bloodied forearm, with the clear marks of teeth. Her scuffed gym shoes. “Four things I can
feel.” Mostly ouch. As she proceeded through the exercise, she took deep breaths to ground herself.
This situation completely sucked. But if she was going to get out of it, she had to keep her head on
straight. When she finished the exercise, she was still in another galaxy light years away from okay,
but she was calm enough to look for a solution. It didn’t matter what these people were doing, nor
how she and Dani had gotten into this. All that mattered was finding Dani and getting them both out.
First, she tried to pull her hand free from the shackles. Two handcuffs looped through a length of
thick chain, both of them secured tight around her narrow wrist. Even if she could peel all the flesh
off her hand, it wasn’t sliding through.
Then she traced the thick metal links to the bolted plate on the wall. She pried in vain at the bolts
until her fingernails were sore. If she could find a tool, she might have a chance, but her bare hands
weren’t budging the metal hardware.
With her free hand, she patted herself down. There was a zipper pull on the back of her shiny
dress. Maybe she could repurpose it into a screwdriver. Then she glanced down at the toes of her
dirty sneakers. She hiked up her feet to pull out the laces.
Once the laces were free, she tucked one into her bra for safekeeping, then prepared the other by
tying small loops into the ends. She hooked one around her thumb, ready to jump whoever came in
next with her makeshift garrote.
Eventually, the door creaked open again. Beyond her little prison, it was strangely quiet. Her new
visitor was a man she hadn’t yet seen, on the younger side and relatively handsome. Short reddish
hair flopped to one side, revealing a stylish undercut and a row of earrings in one ear. He stepped
inside with a bottle of water and a paper-wrapped bundle that looked like a sub sandwich.
Around her area was a perimeter of footprints in the dirt, marking the length of the chain. With her
head bowed like she was asleep, she watched for his black sneakers to cross the line. He crouched to
set down his gifts. When he started to pivot and move toward the door, she pounced on his back and
viciously pulled her shoestring against his exposed throat.
“Fuck,” he croaked as she cinched it tight. He flailed wildly, but she wrapped her legs around his
waist to hold on. Muscle shifted and writhed beneath her. With a rumbling growl, he reached back to
grab her arms and flipped her over his shoulder, slamming her onto the hard concrete floor.
Air rushed from her lungs, leaving her gasping. Before she could recover, he hauled her up by the
throat and shoved her against the wall. As he glared at her, his canines elongated into snake-like
fangs.
Horror washed over her. “What are you?”
“Hungry,” he growled. He wrenched her head to the side and bit into her throat.
And as the blood flowed, she understood that she was in far deeper than she could swim. This
was not the world she knew, but as the black pressed in, she realized it might not matter for much
longer.
 2

A fter thirty minutes of perching on the roof of the little house in Alpharetta, Nikko Baudelaire
had heard quite enough of Bill Burton’s mouth and the poison that flowed from it. Each
muttered bitch or cunt stabbed into Nikko’s eardrums like an ice pick. The man used the
words like punctuation for his constant insults.
Then, Nikko heard what he’d waited for: the unmistakable sound of a slap, and the incredulous
gasp that followed.
A woman whimpered, “Bill!”
“Well if you would just listen instead of being such a bitch, I wouldn’t have to,” Bill complained,
as if he was the real victim.
His girlfriend, Katherine, protested through clipped sobs. “I didn’t do anything!”
Nikko dropped from the roof and landed neatly on the immaculately swept patio. The twinkling
lights strung across the backyard evoked a cozy suburban wonderland that masked the nightly horror
show in Katherine’s home. With a single kick, Nikko shattered the glass door in a satisfying rain of
crystalline shards.
Katherine screamed.
“I’ll shoot the bastard!” Bill bellowed as he bolted like a spooked rabbit. It was quite telling that
the paunchy man left Katherine alone in the kitchen to fend for herself while he fetched a gun.
A real man, to be sure.
Nikko stepped over the pile of broken glass and into the cozy little house.
“Oh my God!” Katherine cried as she scrambled to hide behind the kitchen island. Tendrils of
steam drifted up from a white ceramic dish, filling the air with the smell of roasted chicken and
buttery potatoes.
God, he missed food sometimes.
“Don’t worry, mademoiselle,” Nikko said. “I’m not here for you.”
Nikko darted through the neat living room, bounded over the couch, and hurtled up the stairs. He
landed in front of Bill Burton, whose watery eyes went comically wide. With a wicked smile, Nikko
kicked him in the chest and sent him flying backward down the stairs with his arms pinwheeling
uselessly through the air. Nikko lunged to catch him by the collar before he struck his head and stole
the satisfaction of killing him.
Teetering precariously in midair, Bill screamed, “What the fuck?”
Nikko lifted the burly man easily and hurled him onto the couch in the living room. Before Bill
could get up, Nikko pounced and planted one foot on his broad chest. His breath stank of fast food and
cheap whiskey.
 “Oh my God,” Katherine whimpered. “Don’t hurt him!”
Nikko glanced up. “Katherine Martin?”
“Y-yes?”
“Don’t call the police,” he said. “I promise I’m not here to hurt you. I know what he’s been doing
to you.”
She was silent, then stepped out from behind the kitchen island. Beneath her tear-filled brown
eyes, her porcelain cheek was marked with a red handprint. The sight of it infuriated him, and Nikko
felt his fangs beginning to emerge. Primal hunger roared to life in him. He wanted nothing more than
to drain Bill dry and let him feel a fraction of the terror he’d been inflicting on Katherine.
“How did you know that?” Katherine asked.
“It’s not important,” he said. “Get your phone and take a picture of your face right now. And that
door.”
“Katherine, don’t you fucking—”
Nikko kneed the human man in the crotch just hard enough to hurt. If he’d really wanted to do
damage, he could have ruptured the man’s testicles with one hit. Still, he enjoyed the pitiful cry of
pain and the way he curled into a ball like a dying insect. It was a mere fraction of what Bill
deserved. He leaned in and said, “First lesson. You will never speak to her that way again. You don’t
deserve to eat the scraps from her garbage, let alone live in this house and make demands.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Bill said as tears streamed down his blotchy cheeks.
“That’s up to you,” Nikko said. “I could be Jacob Marley, or I could be Charon.”
“What does that mean?”
“For fuck’s sake, read a book,” Nikko muttered. “I’m going to give you a choice. If you get out of
this house and never return, then I’ll leave you alone. You never cross Katherine Martin’s path again,
and you make it your life’s goal to not be such a miserable piece of shit.”
“And if I don’t?” Despite his current position, Bill still had a spark of defiance.
“If you ever come here again, I’ll kill you,” Nikko said. The man’s face went fish-belly white. “If
you put your hands on another woman ever again, I will know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I know your social security number,” Nikko said. “You have a bank account at Peach Trust
ending in 4389, where your current balance is just over ten thousand dollars, with a pending charge
for that handle of whiskey you picked up on the way home. The white Nissan you drive has a license
plate of—”
“Who are you?” Bill whispered. His eyes couldn’t stay with Nikko, his gaze trying to make the
escape that his body couldn’t. Fear mixed with his boozy sweat to create a uniquely unpleasant blend.
Nikko leaned on his knee and applied enough pressure to prompt a wheeze of pain from Bill.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous. I usually don’t believe in second chances, but I saw that you
donated a hundred dollars to charity last week.” He tilted his head. “How does a guy go from buying
food for shelter dogs to slapping his girlfriend?”
“She just—”
“That was rhetorical, you waste of skin,” Nikko said. “You get one extra chance from me. Am I
absolutely clear?”
Bill nodded rapidly.
“Good,” he said. “Now get up and get out. And if I ever hear of you touching a woman again, I
will kill you. They will not find your body, I assure you.” When Nikko moved his foot, Bill tumbled
off the couch and ran for the stairs. Nikko dashed ahead of him and cut off his advance. He said, “No.
Get out of her house right now.”
“But my—”
Nikko launched himself at Bill, stopping short before he plowed into him. “Go,” he snarled.
Bill whimpered and ran out the door. From the front porch, Nikko watched the man back out of the
driveway and bang into the neighbor’s mailbox in his hurry. Tires screeched as he sped around the
corner and out of Katherine’s life.
Nikko closed the door behind him, then turned to find a handgun aimed at him. Katherine’s hands
shook as she said, “Who are you?”
He smiled gently, careful to keep his lips sealed over his sharp teeth. “Just a friend.”
“You’ve been stalking me or something?”
“Perhaps by some definitions,” he said with a chuckle. Her eyes widened, and she brought the gun
up. He put up his hands and said, “No, not like that. I heard him yelling at you a few nights ago. So I
listened out for you, did some research on him, and found he’s not such a nice guy.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He’d noticed Bill at a bar downtown when his drunken ramblings kept
circling back to his stupid bitch of a girlfriend. And with the obnoxious bullhorn voice of someone
who’d never once been told to shut the fuck up, Bill was impossible to ignore.
From there, he’d followed Bill home. The first night he’d gone back to his place, but Nikko
picked up his trail again the next day and found Katherine’s home. He’d taken a few days to do
research and make sure he was judging Bill accurately, and tonight he’d made his move.
Her head tilted. “Obviously.”
“Do you know how bad he really is?”
Her silence spoke volumes.
Nikko continued, “He was brought up on charges of sexual assault down in Tampa, but they got
dropped mysteriously. My guess is he paid off a cop, maybe threatened to share some compromising
pictures. Two of his old girlfriends filed restraining orders against him before he moved here. You’re
not the first woman he’s hurt.”
Her lip trembled, but she clenched her jaw and fought back the tears. She finally lowered the gun
and said, “I was so scared. I broke up with him once, and he just pretended like it never happened.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said gently. He gestured to her kitchen. “Point me to a broom.”
Her brow furrowed, but she pointed with one shaky hand toward a closet. He opened it, took out a
broom and dustpan, and started cleaning up the shattered glass surrounding the empty door frame.
“What are you—”
“I can clean up my own mess,” he said. “You must know deep down that he’s not going to change,
no matter how good you are to him. And you seem like a decent person. You deserve much better
treatment than that.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” she said.
“God, no. I realize that a stranger breaking into your house to kick out your boyfriend looks
questionable, but I only wanted to help you.” He finished sweeping up the glass and took it to her
trash. After double checking for glass on the kitchen floor, he took out his wallet and peeled off a
stack of hundred-dollar bills. Counting silently, he said, “Twenty-five hundred should do it.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she took the cash. “For what?”
He gestured to the empty frame. “Your door. Try your insurance first, but that depends on how
well you can lie. If it’s easier, just tell them some asshole from your neighborhood broke it. It’s not
too far from the truth.”
She surreptitiously thumbed the stack of bills and said, “This is bizarre.”
 “I get that a lot,” he said. “Your door’s not secure, so please go and stay with a friend tonight. Or
use some of the cash to get a hotel.” She nodded. He took a black business card from his pocket. It
read only Durand—770-555-2145. “If you have any more trouble from him, you can call me. No
questions asked. It’ll never happen again.” He slid the card over the stone counter. “Have a good life,
Katherine. You deserve it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because everyone does until they’ve proven otherwise,” he said. He didn’t want to add to her
fear of being stalked, but he’d done his research on her. Not so much as a speeding ticket for two-time
Teacher of the Year and frequent food pantry volunteer Katherine Martin.
She gestured to the stove and bit her lip. “Do you want something to eat before you go? It’s
chicken and parmesan potatoes. I tried a new recipe from the Food Network. I could wrap up some to
go if you’d like.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” he said. “But I’m not hungry. Take care.”
And with that, he darted out the door and clambered up to the roof. He listened for a while as she
let out a quiet sob, which disintegrated into hyperventilating. That wasn’t unusual. His methods were
a bit frightening.
Eventually, she caught her breath and spoke aloud. “God? I know I asked for a sign, but that was
weird,” she said. “But I hear you. I hear you.” He heard a shower running, then watched as she
walked out the front door with a small duffel bag and drove away.
With that, Nikko strolled down the street and took in the sights and smells of the tidy suburban
neighborhood. Neatly manicured yards gave it an orderly appearance, though Katherine was proof
that appearances weren’t everything. On the cool evening air, he smelled a dozen meals cooking,
tinged with the scents of cigarette smoke and booze.
He hoped that was the last Katherine would see of Bill Burton. For a few weeks, he’d
surreptitiously check on her and Bill to make sure that his lesson had sunk in, but his track record was
pretty damned good. Men like Bill were only tough when they perceived weaker prey; they turned
into sniveling cowards when faced with an apex predator. Every once in a while, one of them didn’t
take the hint and turned up to call his wife a whore who’d been sleeping around with a long-haired
hippie, and then Nikko got to remove one more abuser from the population permanently.
When he got back to his sleek black car parked at the end of the street, he checked his phone to
find a message from Julian Alcott. In the older man’s usual brusque style, it simply read Report in.
New intel.
As he pulled onto the main road and headed for the interstate to take him back into the city, he
called Julian on speakerphone. “Nikko,” Julian said gruffly. “What are you doing?”
“A bit of personal business,” Nikko said.
“Personal business bleeds into court business.”
“When has it ever?” Nikko asked. “I’m not sloppy like Thorne.”
Julian was silent for a while. “Just get to the club. We need you here.”
“On my way,” he said, hanging up before Julian could press him further. As he drove, his eyes
drifted to the bulging veins on his forearms. The strain of tossing Bill around like a rag doll had
awakened his hunger, and with it, his curse. Dull pounding ricocheted between his temples, just
enough that he couldn’t ignore it entirely.
Black lines tangled across his skin like overgrown ivy. A few pointed barbs rose over his
collarbones, with another one that had just reached the base of his thumb. It would be soon. A few
weeks if he didn’t get injured, sooner if he did. He only hoped that it wouldn’t come when he was
desperately needed.
The drive back to Midtown took half an hour, which was a welcome stretch of quiet to gather his
thoughts. The last year had been difficult, thanks to the rising turmoil with the Casteron vampires. For
decades, Nikko had largely been left to his own devices. He kept up with technology, built dossiers,
and conducted surveillance as requested for the Shroud. But his nights were often his own. Now, he
was fully embroiled in the troubles of two rival courts.
Walled in black glass, Infinity was tucked into a nondescript block of Midtown. It was set behind
low gates that sent a silent message of exclusivity more than providing any real security. At a glance,
Infinity looked like an office building or another expensive condominium. During the day, a
receptionist was stationed in the lobby to turn away curious humans by telling them that there was no
available rental space. Over the last few years, Nikko had heard rumors among humans about Infinity
being a day spa, a cult workshop, and a sex club.
Human curiosity was unquenchable. Their first club, Solo, had been a nonstop hotspot for curious
socialites who were only more intrigued by the supposedly exclusive guest list. They’d eventually
given up and turned it into a high-end nightclub for humans, which fed the Auberon coffers and
bankrolled their new building.
He drove around the block to the underground parking garage entrance, then took the elevator
upstairs. After swiping his ID to open the security door, he strolled into the lobby.
With dark walls and gleaming gold accents, the small lobby was too gaudy for Nikko’s tastes. The
day receptionist was gone, replaced by two younger vampires that checked in guests on tablets. Upon
crossing the threshold, a flash of light rippled across Nikko’s vision and left an afterimage of
interlocking shapes. It left an unpleasant tingle crawling on his skin, but he was grateful for
Shoshanna’s magic keeping the club slightly more secure.
Dressed in glittering green sequins, Safira Brandt was in the lobby with a human man in a bright
blue tie signifying his veravin status. She rose on her toes to kiss the man’s cheek. “You can’t come in
with me?” he protested. The air was thick with the spicy scent of lust.
She patted his ass and pointed toward the wooden double doors. “I’ll be there soon,” she called
after him.
“You promise?” he asked eagerly.
“Pinky promise.” She blew him a kiss, watched him leave, then whirled on her heel. “Nicolas!”
“Midnight snack?”
“All you can eat buffet. You can share if you like,” she replied.
“Generous, but no thank you,” he said. Another unfortunate side effect of his curse was the slow
destruction of his appetite. Even when he was hungry, the thought of drinking blood turned his
stomach.
Her head tilted. “Who was on the receiving end of your plainclothes Batman act tonight?”
He scoffed. “Katherine Martin, lovely schoolteacher in Alpharetta.”
“Head pusher. Date rapist?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised on either count,” Nikko said dryly. “He was an abusive prick. She won’t
have any issues with him again.”
Safira grinned, flashing her sharp white fangs. “You can’t keep having all this fun alone. I wish
you’d let me hunt with you some time.”
“Some things are better alone,” he said, brushing past her.
“Not many,” she replied. “Just a heads up, Julian’s not happy with you about your vigilante act.”
“God forbid we use our superhuman powers to help someone,” he said, swiftly dodging her
attempt to swat him on the ass. She chuckled and fell in behind him as he bypassed the entrance to the
club and headed for the stairs.
Infinity reminded him of the blood dens and underworld burlesques of the Old World. While it
was safe and familiar for the court, it conjured memories Nikko preferred to leave in the past. Still,
he appreciated blood on tap, as well as the strict policy that no humans were allowed without being
vetted. The humans that fed the Auberon were desperate for more, not for escape.
On the second floor of the club was a big conference room nicknamed “The War Room.” Though
the war room was decorated in the dark wood and burnished gold of the lower floor, its old-
fashioned elegance was marred by a few flat screen TVs and laptops. When he wasn’t prowling the
night, he’d work here or in his small office in the basement, chasing down leads and compiling
intelligence files.
The long, polished conference table was only half full. At the head was Julian, the oldest of them
and Number One of the Shroud. Their merry little band of dysfunction protected the vampires of the
court from all threats, from would-be vampire hunters to power-hungry outsiders to vengeful witches.
Next to Paris Rossignol was Alistair Thorne, who had recently returned to the Shroud after a century-
long absence. His head was bowed, hands clasping a glass of whiskey. Their compatriots Jean-
Michel Allaire and junior member Phoebe McFadden rounded out the bunch.
Considering Alistair had recently found the love of his life and broken the curse that had plagued
him for nearly a century, he would have expected the other man to be in a fine mood. Instead, he was
paler than usual, his expression grim.
Safira sat next to Jean-Michel, while Nikko took a seat at the end of the table. He waved off
Phoebe’s attempt to pour him a glass of blood and settled in.
“We have a unique opportunity before us,” Julian said. “Alistair, give us your report.”
Alistair raised his head, then drained his glass. His gaze flicked to Paris, who silently rose, took a
decanter from a sideboard, and poured him another. With their metabolism, liquor would just take the
edge off for a few minutes, so drinking alcohol was more a habit than a necessity. “I’ve been visiting
Iacovelli’s for several weeks,” he said. After his curse was broken, they’d realized a huge tactical
advantage staring them in the eye. No one in Atlanta, outside the Blade of Auberon, had ever seen
Alistair’s real face, so he was the perfect undercover operative. Recently, he’d been gathering
information at a nightclub frequented by vampires outside the court. As he continued, Alistair’s gaze
was fixed on the liquid in his glass, as if he couldn’t bear to look at his brothers. “I’ve been
ingratiating myself with some of the Casteron vampires there to get more information. There’s been
talk of secret clubs and blood farms. I haven’t been able to get my name on the list for the club yet, but
my contact got me to the farm tonight.”
“Farm?” Safira murmured. Her crimson-painted lips curved into a frown. “Tell me that’s not what
it sounds like.”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Alistair said. “They charge three hundred dollars at the door, and
you choose the human to feed on. The conditions are horrific. They’re clearly not willing.” He closed
his eyes and tossed back the remains of his drink.
Paris gently touched his arm. Of course, Paris was more concerned with Alistair’s feelings than
the imprisoned humans being used as livestock. “We’re sketching a layout of the property based on
Alistair’s report. Violette is trying to get blueprints, but it could take another day,” Paris said.
“Did you do anything to stop them?” Nikko asked incredulously. Then his head tilted as the
realization struck him. “Did you feed on them?”
When Alistair’s head snapped up, the haunted look in his blue-green eyes answered Nikko’s
question. “I was trying to be inconspicuous. I was as gentle as I could be without being obvious.”
Nikko’s skin crawled at the thought of it. Vampires already existed in morally questionable
territory. The Blade of Auberon had strict standards, though they were more concerned with
preserving secrecy than human life. Once they began to compromise, where would it end?
“I don’t like this,” Nikko said. Alistair averted his eyes and stared at the table as if he was
looking through it.
“I don’t care what you don’t like,” Julian said, shooting Nikko a stern glare. “Thorne did exactly
as I requested. I told him to blend in so we can keep the flow of information open. Now we know
where the farm is, and we have an estimate of the number of vampires there.”
“And what are we doing about it?” Nikko asked. “We still have several hours until sunrise. What
are we waiting on?”
Jean-Michel scoffed and shook his head. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Because I take issue with innocents being used like livestock,” Nikko said.
The younger man raised an eyebrow. “And one more day will change nothing.”
“One more day could be the difference between life and death,” Nikko said.
“And if we run in blindly, we risk losing all of them,” Jean-Michel said.
A heated pulse rocked through Nikko as his anger swelled, twining with his hunger like thorny
vines. His skin felt too tight. He pushed back from the table and clasped his hands tightly in his lap to
keep from digging into the fine wood.
Sliding a few inches further from him, Paris said, “Dragomira and Dominic are surveilling the
farm now. They’re tracking who comes and goes to determine the best time for us to strike.”
“Are the Casteron behind this place?” Safira said.
Alistair cleared his throat and said, “It’s unclear. Iacovelli’s is owned by an Untethered vampire,
but their clientele is made up of Untethered vampires and Casteron vampires in nearly equal numbers.
But I’m careful about the questions I ask. All I know is that one of the men running the farm is a man
named Kieran.”
Nikko surged to his feet and gestured broadly. “How long do you plan to gather information?
Lives are at stake.”
Paris rolled his eyes and said, “Release your pearls, Nikko. Provided we get the intelligence we
need from Dom and Draga, we’ll move tomorrow night. No one wants a pile of dead humans here.”
“Alistair, what else can you tell us?” Safira asked, her eyes drifting to Nikko. “I agree with
Nikko. I’d prefer to move sooner rather than later.”
They spent the next half hour reviewing the information Alistair had gathered from his visit. The
blood farm was housed in an abandoned elementary school in the suburbs, surrounded by overgrown
woods. Nikko pulled up the location on a map and projected it onto one of the large screens. While
Alistair pointed out key locations, Nikko followed along and used a tablet to annotate the map.
Quiet beeps broke through their conversation, issuing from watches and phones in a shrill chorus.
Without glancing at his watch, Nikko knew they had an hour until sunrise.
“We’ll resume tomorrow,” Julian said. “Be here and ready to move by nine.”
While the others trickled out, Nikko lingered and uploaded a copy of the marked-up map to his
cloud drive. Soon, only Alistair remained. He hung back a few feet, as if to give himself ample time
to escape if Nikko took a swing.
It was still hard to wrap his head around seeing Alistair restored. Fate had seen fit to bring him a
lovely human woman. They claimed to be soulmates, which sounded melodramatic and foolishly
naïve. But he couldn’t argue with the evidence; the handsome, arrogant man stood before him instead
of the grotesque, horned beast he’d known for nearly a century.
“I couldn’t have dealt with that alone,” Alistair said.
“What?” Nikko said. He glanced up to see Alistair looking solemn.
“I know you disapprove of my actions,” he said. “I wanted to tear the whole place down, and I
considered it. Even if I could have handled all the vampires myself, the humans would have been hurt
in the process. There wasn’t a win.”
“Hm,” Nikko said quietly. “You must do what your conscience dictates.”
Alistair’s hand closed on his arm. Even the light touch on his curse markings sent a prickling
wave of pain through his body. “Nikko.”
Shrugging off the familiar touch, he said, “I understand your logic perfectly well. It doesn’t mean I
like it. You do not need my approval. Soothe your conscience on your own.”
Alistair opened his mouth, then closed it again as his shoulders slumped. “Be well, Nikko.” He
left without another word, and Nikko found himself alone as he gathered his belongings.
Why had fate given Alistair Thorne a second chance? It hardly seemed fair. Alistair had spent the
better part of a century hiding away from the world, and salvation had fallen right into his lap.
Shoshanna was as witty and charming as she was lovely, and it was her stubborn studiousness that
had broken Alistair’s curse, not any bravery or nobility of his own.
He supposed he should be happy for his old comrade, but it was hard not to be jealous, especially
with the warning signs of his own curse growing stronger each day. Alistair would no longer suffer,
and still he would. But if nearly three centuries on this planet had taught him anything, it was that fate
was fickle and unkind, and justice was rare.
Fortunately, being a monster came with its own perks. He could not depend on fate to deliver
justice, but he was happy to deliver it himself. And tomorrow night, he would deliver a heap of
justice onto the vampires responsible for this atrocity.
 3

T he world was a blur. A hundred tiny cuts and bites pulled and stretched, making her feel like a
human pincushion. Olivia was clawing her way to consciousness when the door of the grimy
classroom swung open to reveal a petite blonde woman. Dread washed over her, and she
considered just closing her eyes and sinking back into a hazy stupor.
Lilah, the woman who’d been in Dani’s apartment, seemed to be running this place along with the
bearded man, Kieran. One of them was always at her side to supervise when she was bitten.
But this time, Lilah had human company trudging behind her. Her sister was corpse-pale, eyes
heavy-lidded like she was drugged.
“Dani?” Olivia asked, her lips thick and dry. This was the first she’d seen of her twin since
waking up here.
“Anders,” Lilah snapped. “I need you on tap.”
How long had she been here? She had lost track of time long ago. Between bouts of fitful sleep,
Olivia had been visited multiple times by the...
Vampires.
Her conscious mind protested every time she thought vampires, because vampires weren’t real.
But what else was she supposed to call the psychos who kept biting her and draining her blood? She
had lost track of how many people had touched her, bitten her, fed on her.
Now and then, someone brought her food and water. She’d been here for at least four bottles of
water and three soggy gas station sandwiches. Here in this timeless purgatory, time meant nothing, so
measuring by the empty bottles was as good as anything else.
Their prison seemed to be an abandoned elementary school. The state of decay and weeds
growing through the boarded-over windows said it had been empty for years. No one was coming
here anytime soon to save them.
A young man with short chestnut curls walked into the room and knelt in front of her. Bringing his
forearm to his mouth, he tore at the skin. Blood trickled down his arm. Then he pressed it to Olivia’s
lips. She recoiled, but he trapped her between his chest and his impossibly strong arm. Her
instinctive revulsion faded as the metallic taste turned to something far more pleasant, like rich dark
chocolate and espresso.
There was a twinge of heat between her legs that made her feel ashamed and at the same time,
ravenously hungry. This wasn’t the first time they’d made her drink. It was horrifying and shameful
and beyond pleasurable. Her resistance faded, and she pulled greedily at his arm. It left her with the
floaty numbness of painkillers and the loose warmth of sweet wine, a marked improvement over her
circumstances.
 When Anders pulled his arm away, Olivia groaned in displeasure and tried to lick her lips clean.
Lilah grabbed her jaw and examined her. “She looks a little better. Feed the other one,” she said.
Then her pretty features twisted into a cruel smile. “You’re going to be the main course tonight.”
At the words main course, fear pierced her hazy, narcotic veil. “Please let us go,” Olivia
pleaded. “I won’t tell anyone about you. Just let us go.”
Lilah ignored her and said, “When you’re done with that one, take them to Joanna to get dressed.”
Across the room, Anders was cradling Dani with his bloody arm pressed to her face. Her hands
were curled tightly around his muscular forearm. Eventually, he released Dani and leaned her against
the peeling cinderblock wall. Her head lolled to one side as blood dripped onto her dingy bathrobe.
After Anders left them alone, Olivia crept closer and said, “Dani, wake up!”
Dani’s lips moved, but no sound emerged.
“Dani, please!” Olivia shouted. She rattled the thick metal chain to make a racket.
Her sister didn’t budge, but Anders stuck his head in the room. “Shut up,” he said firmly.
His command seemed to echo in her head. When she tried to shout fuck you, it felt as if a phantom
hand closed around her throat. Horror washed over her as he grinned.
“Much better,” he said. “I’d be quiet if I were you. Next time someone comes here, it’ll be Lilah,
and she’s not nearly as patient as I am.”
He left her to simmer in fear as she stared at her sister. With her arm chained to the wall and Dani
practically comatose, all she could do was sit and wonder what was next in this three-ring horror
show.
Eventually, Anders and an unfamiliar vampire came to retrieve them. They were taken into
another dilapidated classroom, this one illuminated by a harsh worklight that threw a bluish glow
over a plastic table covered in makeup and jewelry. Several black garment bags hung from a hook on
the wall.
She didn’t resist when Anders pushed her into a folding chair. “Da...” she murmured, testing her
voice. It took a monumental effort, but she was regaining control. Her limbs were stiff and achy, but
she wasn’t bound. For the first time in days, she felt a spark of hope.
Biding her time, Olivia sat patiently while a beautiful vampire woman painted Dani’s face with
heavy makeup. This was presumably Joanna.
Thick foundation and blush couldn’t entirely conceal the gaunt hollows of Dani’s face. When
Joanna was done with Dani, another female vampire dressed her in a snug red dress.
Once upon a time, Dani would have thrown a punch at the first stranger to grab her arm, to say
nothing of stripping her down. It made Olivia’s heart ache to see her sister handled like a rag doll.
When she was done with Dani, Joanna fixed her attention on Olivia and used a damp cloth to
wipe down her grimy face. While the vampire woman expertly applied makeup to her face, Olivia
watched Dani over her shoulder. She sat slightly crooked in the chair, her head drooping as if she was
on the verge of falling asleep.
A light pop against her cheek startled her. The vampire woman said, “Open.” She brandished a
red lip gloss, somehow making it look as menacing as a knife.
Olivia reluctantly opened her mouth to let the woman paint her lips. When she was done, Joanna
turned away to root through a case of jewelry. While she was distracted, Olivia murmured, “Dani.”
Her twin’s shadowed eyes opened. A split second of eye contact sent a warm thrill through
Olivia. She was still in there. Olivia looked toward the door, hoping she got the message. Dani shook
her head slightly. Olivia widened her eyes and leaned forward.
We have to get out, she thought. If there was ever a time that she wished for some supernatural
bond with her twin sister, it was now.
Behind her, Joanna sprayed a suffocating cloud of dry shampoo on her hair, then twisted it into a
bun like Dani’s. Metal teeth scraped against her scalp as she added a jeweled comb. Olivia winced,
but didn’t protest.
She let Joanna pull her to her feet. “Lose the dirty clothes,” she said, opening a garment bag. With
a blush of humiliation rising in her cheeks, Olivia peeled off her dress. If she survived this, she was
going to bathe for hours and never take for granted a fresh pair of underwear.
“I could use a shower,” she said.
“I agree,” Joanna said. “If they like you enough to keep you, I’ll recommend improved
accommodations.” The woman brought her a red dress that was nearly identical to Dani’s. After she
put it on, the vampire woman zipped it up. “Shit, it’s a bit big. You’ve lost weight.”
Somehow, she doubted being kidnapped by vampires was going to be the next big diet trend.
The woman set a pair of red heels in front of her. The spindly stilettos weren’t quite a wooden
stake, but they’d do. Olivia perched on the edge of her seat, watching the vampire woman as she
turned to pack some of the makeup into her case.
Dani was still watching her, blinking furiously like she was trying to see. As Olivia picked up one
of the heeled shoes, Dani shook her head. She mouthed no.
Olivia nodded. Her muscles felt tight, like they were filled with fizzing candy and carbonation. It
was an unpleasant feeling, like she’d been drinking caffeine instead of sleeping for the last three days.
But she felt strong. And there was no way she was waiting around to be the main course for anyone.
They were both unbound, and this was the best chance they would get.
She lunged. With a wild swing, she stabbed the stiletto heel into Joanna’s neck. It was like cutting
into an overdone stake, all gristle and bone. Blood sprayed back on her hands. The woman reeled, but
she didn’t go down. She snarled and whipped around with a fierce backhand. When her jeweled hand
caught Olivia across the face, it felt like a baseball bat had knocked her skull off her shoulders. But
by some miracle, she was still on her feet. She stumbled across the room, grabbed Dani by the arm,
then sprinted for the door.
Dani staggered, then planted her feet. “Olivia, don’t, you’ll make them—”
A blur of red flickered in front of her. The vampire woman intercepted her at the door. Blood
trickled over her exposed cleavage. The stiletto was still buried in her neck, but she seemed unfazed.
When her hand rose, Olivia was certain she would tear her throat out.
Instead, the vampire tilted up her chin. “You’re lucky I just painted that face so beautifully, or I
would peel it off,” she said. Then she lifted her head and shouted, “Anders!”
Olivia trembled as the curly haired man appeared at the door. Something in her surged with heat
at the sight of him. Her tongue tingled, and she realized it was the power of his blood. Every little red
drop was a tiny puppetmaster pulling her strings.
“Get this one under control,” the woman said.
Anders narrowed his eyes and met her gaze. “You do whatever she tells you,” he said. “Go sit
down.”
A weird, prickling heat radiated down her limbs, and her feet moved of their own accord. She
plopped back into her chair.
The vampire woman swore as she pulled the stiletto out of her shoulder, then tossed the bloody
shoe at Olivia’s feet. “Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t try that at Le Cirque. Some of them
like it when you fight back, and even better when they can punish you for it.”
S HE WAS a lamb on a one-way trip down the chute to the slaughterhouse. With the vampire’s command
echoing in her head, she was helpless to fight. Her voice was stolen by fear as the vampires
blindfolded her and Dani, then loaded them into a car. Instead, she listened, but their conversation
sounded like German.
Tires scraped against gravel as the engine rumbled to life. Dani’s leg touched hers. Sweeping her
hand across the leather seat, she found her sister’s hand and squeezed her limp fingers. Dani had been
through a lot in their lives, and this was too much on top of it.
Olivia took a deep breath and scrunched her nose, sliding the blindfold up a millimeter. Then she
waited, taking measured breaths.
No one stopped her.
She awkwardly rubbed her face on her shoulder. The shape and feel of the blindfold felt like a
soft sleep mask with a loose elastic. It shifted easily and slid up enough to give her a narrow field of
vision in her left eye. Tilting her head carefully, she watched out the window.
Beyond the tinted windows was a strip of aged suburbia that she didn’t recognize. Then there was
a sickening rumble as the vehicle accelerated and merged onto the busy Atlanta interstate. Lights
blurred by in hazy yellow arcs, sprinkled here and there with glowing red.
Her hands were free, and the door handle was in reach. But it was self-preservation, not vampire
mind control that kept her from grabbing it. Jumping onto an eight-lane highway at ninety miles an
hour was a fate worse than being drained dry by these creatures.
Instead, she watched for landmarks. If she could get her hands on a phone and call for help, she’d
need to tell them where she was. On her left, she glimpsed the golden curves of the Olympic torch.
Then they passed into a vaguely familiar tunnel that filled the vehicle with roaring ambient noise.
Eventually, they exited the interstate. Green signs pointed toward the Mercedes-Benz Stadium and
Georgia World Congress Center, helping her orient herself. They rode through a residential area,
where she could only make out a series of nearly identical apartment buildings.
Then they drove into a fenced lot, with a wrought iron gate set into a wall of thick shrubs. Inside
the gated lot, the vehicle turned left. With her angle and the blindfold, she couldn’t see the building.
Her heart thumped. Remember all of this.
To remember was to hope, to believe that she would escape and survive long enough to tell
someone who could help. Knowledge was for survivors.
The darker, pessimistic side of her was just shaking her head grimly. Who the hell was going to
stop these people? Even if she could bring in the damned National Guard, what were they going to do
to vampires? She’d watched the vampire makeup artist shrug off a stiletto to the jugular. Bullets were
just going to piss them off.
Still, she had to hold onto that rapidly unraveling thread of optimism as hard as she could. If she
let go of it, she was lost. And if there was one thing that Olivia Pierce did not do, it was give up.
When the vehicle stopped, the door opened and let in a rush of balmy evening air. Firm hands
grasped her arms and pulled her out of the car. A familiar voice said, “Careful. Big step down.” It
sounded like Anders. He supported her while she found her footing, then led her across an expanse of
concrete. The humid atmosphere gave way to cool, dry air, and then she felt the whoomp of a door
closing behind her.
In the distance, string instruments played an eerie lament punctuated by clinking glasses and
overlaid by quiet chatter. Fragrant smoke hung in the air. Someone pulled off her blindfold, and she
frantically looked around for an escape route.
Lit by low candlelight, the room was a macabre dining room, with a polished cherry table
surrounded by crimson-cushioned chairs. With a distinct chill, she noticed that there were metal rings
bolted to the table, as if something would be secured there.
Or someone.
Before she could contemplate the implications of the hardware, one of the vampires grasped her
arm and led her into the louder room beyond. The chorus of clinking glasses and quiet conversation
rose.
Black and red decor created the ambience of a creepy circus crossed with an old-timey bordello.
A trio of cellists sat on a raised dais in the center of the gaudily decorated chamber. High above them,
a slender woman in a glittering black costume swung on a suspended hoop. Her lithe body contorted
in agonizing curves and angles that were as frightening as they were beautiful.
All around, well-dressed patrons gathered at small tables and sipped from glasses filled with red.
Several of them turned to watch Olivia and Dani enter. With ruby-red eyes fixed on her from all sides,
she knew what it felt like to be the gazelle spotted by a pack of lions.
Lilah entered from another door with Kieran on her arm. Dressed in all black, they might have
been glamorous if not for the fact that they were blood-sucking monsters. Lilah’s snug pants and
tailored jacket reminded her of a ringmaster’s costume, complete with long, sparkling tails. With a
flick of her hand, the musicians stopped.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Lilah announced, to a smattering of applause. “As
promised, we have a delicious main course this evening. Place your bids with a hostess for your
chance at these lovely imports from the north. Identical twins with Russian ancestry. You’ll enjoy a
taste of the Old World with these two.”
Olivia frowned. The closest they got to Russian ancestry was the fact that their mother, Jackie,
had a penchant for cheap vodka. But saying so would have been even stupid than launching herself out
of a moving car into the middle of Interstate 85.
Her stomach dropped through the floor as Kieran took her hand and led her around the room. With
the vampires staring at her, she felt like a prize pig at the state fair. An elegantly dressed blonde
woman crooked two fingers at them. When Kieran brought her closer, the woman gave Olivia a long,
scraping look from head to toe. Her nostrils flared. Then she shook her head disdainfully, as if she’d
smelled something distasteful. Olivia didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.
At the next table, a pair of men grasped her hands and sniffed her wrists. One of them, with an
impeccable suit and silver streaks at his temples, simply raised two fingers. A scantily clad attendant
rushed over with a tablet.
There was a quiet discussion as Kieran moved her along. Across the room, Lilah was displaying
Dani at one of the tables. Her eyes were closed as someone ran a finger up her pale arm.
What the hell were they going to do? When was the right time to run away? When would she cross
the line of too late and be left to whatever fate the vampires had in store?
She’d watched plenty of horror movies. Like anyone with two brain cells, she’d screamed at the
idiotic heroines to run away, to fight back and do something, anything to survive. But now that she
was in her own personal nightmare, it was far less simple.
Maybe if she complied, she’d get out of this alive. With a gauntlet of hungry vampires between
her and the outside world, making a run for it now was suicide. But did they intend something even
worse for her? Maybe death would be kinder. And maybe she wouldn’t know until the worst had
happened, as she saw her last chance receding in the rearview mirror.
Her heart was racing so fast that she was dizzy by the time they returned to the bar at the back of
the room. Shelves behind the bar held only a few opaque bottles, rather than the usual eclectic
assortment of liquors. The bar itself was an odd T-shaped construction, with bolted hardware like
she’d seen on the dining table.
Not hardware.
Shackles.
To her surprise, Kieran leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Calm down, lass,” he said, his
Irish accent thick as honey. “Given the bidding, we’ll do what we must to keep you alive. You’re
worth more with your heart beating.”
“Please don’t do this,” she pleaded. With a viselike grip on her arm, he ignored her protests and
led her back the way they’d come.
The dark dining room was no longer empty. A woman with a sleek black bob leaned over the
table and poured shimmering pink liquid into two champagne flutes. She looked up, smiled, and
offered one of the glasses to Olivia.
“No,” Olivia said flatly.
But Kieran gripped the back of her neck and forced her down into the nearest chair. He set the
glass in front of her and said, “Drink up. Don’t make this harder than it must be. You might enjoy
yourself if you allow it.”
What was worse? Was it better to suffer on principle, to go down fighting and be overpowered
anyway? Or was it better to go along, to cause herself less pain and suffer the guilt of surrender?
We might live through this.
She reluctantly sipped from the glass. A pleasantly sweet, berry-like flavor exploded on her
tongue. She drank it in one long pull. A warm sensation poured down her throat and radiated to her
limbs. It didn’t taste alcoholic, but she quickly felt the familiar warmth and looseness of a sweet shot.
Kieran glanced at his sleek black watch. “Five minutes?” he asked.
The other woman nodded. “That’s more than enough.”
When he left the room, Anders entered with Dani in tow. He gently pointed her to a chair across
the table. She sat without argument and drank the glass placed in front of her. Her compliance was
almost as disturbing as the corpse-like color of her skin.
“Dani,” Olivia said quietly. Her sister glanced up, her heavily lined eyes narrowing. “Are you
okay?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely audible.
She rose and took a single step toward Dani, but Anders cleared his throat. “Sit in that chair and
don’t move until you’re told,” he ordered.
The resonance of his voice ignited a prickling warmth in her veins. His blood was still strong in
her system. Without a second thought, she plopped into the nearest chair as if she was a puppet. She
sat stock still, her mind drowning in fear as they waited. Even if she wanted to fight, she wasn’t sure
she would be able.
Soon, the door creaked open again, and a group of well-dressed vampires entered the dining
room. The silver-haired man who’d sniffed her took the seat at the head of the polished table. He
sipped from a glass of whiskey and watched Olivia expectantly.
A young woman in a skimpy sequined outfit rounded the table, guiding each of the patrons to a
seat. When she reached Olivia, she crooked her finger and pointed toward the silver-haired man.
Her heart thumped, and she gripped the arms of the chair tightly. Anders sighed and said, “Get up
and go to him.”
Dread poured over her in a cold rush. Rising on shaky fawn legs, she crept toward the older man.
She fought the tears pricking her eyes as she sat on his lap. Please don’t do this, she thought
desperately. With high cheekbones and full lips, he was beautiful, but it was the beauty of a lion,
something to be appreciated from a safe distance. His sharp white canines gleamed in the dim light.
She glanced over her shoulder to see Anders gesturing for Dani to lie across the table, arms
outstretched toward the shackles.
“No,” she protested, lunging to her feet. The older man yanked her back into his lap and locked
his arm around her waist.
Dani was limp as a doll as the vampires maneuvered her limbs for easier access. On either side
of the table, they sank sharp fangs into her sister’s pale flesh. There was only a tiny gasp, and then
Dani was so still that she could have been dead.
The silver-haired man brushed his lips on Olivia’s ear. “Do you know how much a human can
survive?” he asked. Strong fingers traced over her stomach, then pressed deeper over her hip. Her
skin crawled with the overly intimate touch. “Perhaps I’ll tear out your liver as an appetizer. Perhaps
it’ll grow back. Perhaps not.”
Her spine went straight and stiff. “No,” she murmured.
“Or I could peel you like an orange,” he said. A sharp nail traced an arc over the curve of her
shoulder. “Perhaps I could get it all in one piece. I’m out of practice, but I’ll give it a try.”
The room spun around her. “Please don’t,” she whispered, fighting to breathe against the band of
terror clamping tighter and tighter.
“Don’t what?” he said in a mocking tone. “You are mine to do with as I please. Bought and paid
for.” He traced her jaw, then pressed one finger against her windpipe in a subtle threat. “I could tear
you open. There is no flavor quite like the final drops of human life. No one will find you. You will
not be missed. And I will spare you no more thought than a bit of garbage.”
Tears stung her eyes. If this was it, she wasn’t going to let this jerk have it without a fight. She let
out a noisy sniffle and turned to him, looking up at his deep red eyes. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said.
“I intend to hurt you quite a lot,” he replied, his lips twisting into a cruel sneer.
She sniffled, her eyes drifting down to his spotless white shirt. The crisp, open collar exposed the
pale skin of his throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his glass of whiskey on the table,
just inches from Dani’s pale ankle. Already preparing for her kamikaze run, she whimpered, “Please
just be kind. I won’t fight back.”
His nose wrinkled. “Oh, I want you to fight. It tastes even better. Even though you couldn’t
possibly—”
She twisted, grabbed the glass, and smashed it against the table. Pain pierced through her hand,
but she ignored it as she slashed at his face with a jagged shard. Blood spurted over her hand as he
bellowed curses. She stabbed the jagged glass into his throat and lunged off his lap.
Grabbing her sister by the ankles, she yanked hard enough to pull her away from the greedy
vampires. Dani stirred with a faint questioning sound.
“Come on!” Olivia screamed. She had Dani entirely off the table now. With one arm looped
around her sister’s waist, she stumbled toward the door.
A strong hand twisted into her hair and pulled her away. Olivia let out a wail of sheer anguish as
she fought in vain. Dani fell to the floor in a loose heap of limbs, while Olivia was trapped against a
laughing vampire. She kicked her feet uselessly and found no purchase.
The older man was still shouting and swearing. Despite his condition, the others didn’t seem
angry. Several of them were even chuckling as if she’d told a funny joke. This was nothing but a game
to them.
Kieran and Anders stormed in. “What the fuck,” Anders muttered, glaring intently at her. Kieran
lifted Dani and deposited her on the table. Her sister barely stirred.
“You’ve got a feisty one,” the man holding her said. “She cut Niall pretty good.”
“I told him to quit antagonizing his meals,” a dark-haired woman said, examining her nails. “It
makes them taste too salty.”
Niall had one hand pressed to his eye, and blood poured down his face and onto his no-longer
pristine shirt. “Fucking human bitch,” he swore.
The man holding her chuckled and said, “He had it coming. He did tell her to fight back.”
“Please help us. Just let us go,” Olivia begged, squirming in his grasp.
But the man behind her sat, keeping her pinned against his body. His voice was a dangerous
rumble as he said, “Ah, but we’ve paid well for a meal. And you smell delicious.”
“But I—”
Vicious fangs pierced her neck. She gasped, arching back against the man as he took a long drink
from her throat. The lovely woman next to him scooted closer and bit into her forearm. She lost the
will to struggle, her muscles going weak and rubbery.
“They do taste identical,” the woman marveled.
And to her horror, Niall dabbed at his bloody face with a handkerchief, then tossed the soiled
cloth aside. His left eye was a swollen mess, but she was fixated on the long, sharp teeth extending
over his lip. He snarled, “Now I’ll take what I paid for.”
 4

N estled behind overgrown trees, the abandoned elementary school stood like a silent fortress in
the moonlight. Dulled paint peeled away from ancient playground equipment. Weeds sprang
up from cracked concrete parking lot. A chain across the access road read No Trespassing,
but three new cars were parked in the lot. Safira had been watching all night and reported the arrival
of four vampires, as well as one car leaving with two humans inside.
Ancient memories roared to life as he stared at the yawning back door, listening to the thrumming
heartbeats inside. Blood and piss and unspeakable things hung in the air, so pungent that Nikko could
practically feel a film forming on his skin.
Centuries ago, he had lived in a place that disguised itself as a neat, warm orphanage to care for
the abandoned, hungry children of Paris. But the manicured façade and smiling caretakers couldn’t
mask the same stench of death and despair that hung thick here at the blood farm.
Though they had not yet proven themselves as depraved as the vampires who had devoured his
childhood, the Casteron represented the worst of their kind. He’d had a brush with them a few months
earlier, when he’d helped Alistair rescue the witch who turned out to be his soulmate. One of the
Casteron had snatched Shoshanna, enthralled her, and bound her to his will. It was only Eduardo’s
command to obey vampire law that kept Nikko from killing every vampire in his path. Back then, it
was only the rogue vampire, Elliott McAvoy, that was a threat, and action against the Casteron was
not justified.
So Eduardo said.
This was different. If seeing this didn’t make Eduardo act swiftly against the Casteron, he would
be forced to reconsider his loyalties. Eduardo had remained aggressively neutral when the Casteron
were pursuing Shoshanna York, which Nikko could forgive under the circumstances. But this was far
beyond what had been done to Shoshanna. Neutrality was complicity.
Nikko had warned Eduardo long ago that he would not tolerate the kind of abuses he had been
subjected to while he was human. He was content to follow and serve, but if Eduardo ever allowed
such depravity under his watch, he would meet the same fate as Rene Bisset, who had led the ill-fated
court of Le Fleur Noire. Eduardo’s bemused expression made it clear that he thought Nikko’s promise
was nothing more than the bluster of a young, foolish vampire, but it was not bluster. He would not
serve such a man, and he would topple an empire before he allowed it to fall into evil.
Eduardo’s handling of this situation would shape his fate and Nikko’s. But for now, he had only
one goal, which was to recover as many humans as possible. At the very least, Julian took this
seriously enough to send a skilled team.
Dressed all in black, Jean-Michel skulked in the shadow of a crumbling brick sign. He gestured to
the building and flashed a thumbs up. They had done enough planning. The time to move was now.
Nikko nodded. Time to go.
In a blur, Jean-Michel leaped into action. One second he was there, and in the next, he was a dark
streak against the night sky. At the sound of his foot on the gravel, another figure emerged from the
shadows of the old bus. Safira barreled through the side door with a screech of tearing metal.
From inside, he heard shattering glass and snarls. Nikko counted down from ten, then burst
through the nearest window and listened for the sounds of life.
The incursion of the first two vampires was all the warning Nikko would give. When a wiry,
curly-haired male rushed him, he ducked low and drove his fist into his sternum. Bone shattered
around his hand. The man bellowed in pain and grabbed Nikko’s wrist. “One chance to surrender,”
Nikko growled.
“Fuck you,” the other man spat.
Good enough. Nikko drew his gun and shot two wooden bullets into the man’s chest. The other
vampire flew backward. As he struggled to get up, Nikko fired another shot into each of the man’s
knees, prompting an animalistic scream of pain.
The hall was empty. In the distance, he could hear a scuffle and Safira’s distinctive laughter.
Closer to him, Jean-Michel was speaking rapidly in French. Nikko smelled human blood and
something strangely medicinal.
He followed the scent of blood down the hall, but before he could investigate, a dark-haired male
rounded the corner. “Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.
Nikko didn’t answer. He simply brought up the gun and fired twice. The other vampire dodged,
pinging off the walls like a giant pinball. In a flurry of hard punches and kicks, they tumbled back and
forth against the walls. Dust and peeled paint rained down in a cloud of filth.
His back slammed into cinderblock, breaking through the wall. The bigger man pounced on him,
closed one big hand around his jaw, and wrenched his face to the side. Fear stitched through Nikko as
the other man grabbed his hair. A big guy like this could tear his head clean off. With every tendon
and joint in his neck screaming in protest, Nikko jammed his gun under the man’s jaw and pulled the
trigger.
Bone and blood splattered Nikko’s face. The other vampire roared in pain, but he was still
standing. The bullet had struck at an angle, instead of going straight back into his brain.
Fuck.
Still, the man let go to clap his hand over his mangled chin. Bloody bone peeked through ripped
flesh. Nikko dove at him and wrapped his arms around his neck.
“No, don’t!” the man protested, his garbled voice wet and edged in fear.
He’d left one alive in the hall, per the plan. They didn’t need more. Nikko twisted his head
roughly and snapped the man’s neck. Superhuman or not, a severed spine would paralyze a vampire
for a few days at least.
“Want to tell me what you’re doing here?” he asked as he unhooked the wickedly sharp blade
from his belt.
“Go fuck yourself,” the man slurred. Up close, Nikko could see the telltale bulging veins around
his eyes, a sure sign of an Untethered vampire.
“Try again,” Nikko said.
“Suck my cock, you fucking—”
Before Nikko could bring the blade down on his neck, a firm hand caught his wrist. He whirled
instinctively, but it was Safira holding him back. “Leave him alive,” she said. “You can kill him later
if he’s not useful.”
“That’s right, listen to the girl, you little bitch,” the man said, blood bubbling over his lips.
Safira let out a snarl and kicked the man in the crotch like she was going for a game-winning field
goal. His eyes rolled back, but he couldn’t move to protect himself. “My goodness, you talk a lot for
someone in your unfortunate circumstances,” she said.
“We’ve got runners!” Jean-Michel shouted from down the hall.
Safira yelled back, “Outside team’s on it.” She knelt next to the prone male and patted his bloody
cheek lightly. “You and I are about to become friends.”
His smartwatch buzzed against his wrist. A text had come from Draga, reading simply Runners
intercepted. Following
Still watching for signs of other vampires, Nikko prowled down the hall of the abandoned school.
He peeked into each room. Some were devoid of life except for a few roaches skittering across the
floor. Two trembling humans huddled in one room, eyes wide and terrified. “I’ll be back,” he said.
Jean-Michel was in one of the rooms with a human female. He sat on the floor, holding the dark-
haired woman’s head in his lap. Her heartbeat was quick, but slowing gradually as Jean-Michel
murmured soothing nonsense like you’ll be just fine.
As he stood in the doorway, Nikko took out his phone and activated the walkie-talkie app.
“Phoebe, we need medical evac at the site,” he said.
The younger woman’s chipper voice responded immediately. “On our way. How many?” The
junior agent and a medical team from the clinic were parked a few blocks away with an ambulance
and several nondescript vehicles to evacuate the humans.
“Not sure yet,” Nikko said. “Prepare for at least four. I’ll update you.”
Further down the hall, Nikko could hear ragged breathing and a thready, uneven pulse. As he crept
closer, he caught a scent of a woman. It was mixed with the filth and fear of this place, but there was
something sweet and warm there. It inexplicably made him think of fresh-baked cookies. The scent
was not at all the same, but it had the warmth and welcome of something in the oven, something that
filled a room with pure comfort and safety.
He braced himself and listened for movement beyond the door. Unlike most of the other doors,
this door had gleaming new hardware on it. The bright silver chain was a marked contrast to the
warped wood and peeling paint. After prying the chain off, he threw the door open to find a young
woman curled in a ball in the far corner. This was the source of that wonderful scent. It overpowered
the filthy surroundings, nearly overwhelming Nikko’s senses. It beckoned him closer, demanded that
he take it in.
Her bruised wrist was cuffed to the wall by a heavy chain that pulled her arm awkwardly
overhead. Angry red crescents and bruises covered her bloodied arm, marching up to her neck.
Inexplicably, she wore a sparkling red dress, and her dark hair was pulled up in an elegant twist.
Though he would have never treated a human this way, he felt guilty, as if he had to apologize for
his own kind. He knelt at her side and gently touched her arm. As his fingers grazed her bare skin, a
shiver ran up his arm and down his spine. Raw, burning desire sparked in his chest, and he snatched
his hand away. It felt wrong and invasive to feel such a thing while she was so helpless.
Her pulse was so weak and quiet. If he’d felt such a pulse while feeding, he would have torn
himself away and gotten her help immediately. These bastards had left her here like trash.
He snapped the chain and pulled her into his lap carefully. Her pretty face was marked with
bruises, her lower lip split by a vicious blow. Who could have been so cruel to such a lovely
creature?
 “Jean-Michel!” he called. “Come to me!” Staring down at her, a sense of roiling heat twisted in
his gut. Dried blood traced web-like patterns over her neck from half a dozen recent bites.
“Wake up,” he said quietly, giving her a gentle shake.
Humans were so fragile. He was overcome by a memory of kneeling on filthy cobblestones, tears
mixing with blood as he shook a woman’s limp body. Her blood was hot and rich, filling him with
life even as he cursed himself for what he had done in his desperation.
Wake up, he had wept. You must wake up.
Her skin had been pale like this, her arms limp as a discarded rag doll. Empty brown eyes stared
up at him, as if to say I see what you are. I will remember.
“Nikko!” Jean-Michel’s voice shattered his haunting reverie. He snapped his head around to see
the other Frenchman standing nearby, frowning as he said, “Q’uest q’cest?”
Nikko’s cheeks heated as he looked up. “Give her your blood.”
Jean-Michel’s head tilted as he approached. “Wait...” He shook his head. “The other one looks
just like her. They’re twins.”
“Who cares? Give it to her,” Nikko said. Twins? Again, he was blinded by ancient memories.
Long ago, before the world had revealed what a cruel place it truly was, he’d laughed and played
with a little blonde girl who was a spitting image of him. And like this woman and her twin, he and
his sister had fallen into the hands of monsters.
Jean-Michel used a sharp knife from his belt to cut a short seam in his arm, then carefully let the
blood fall on her lips. Her body jolted as if she’d felt an electric shock. A weak whimper of protest
reverberated through her, and Nikko gently cradled her neck. “I’m sorry. This is just to strengthen
your body. We won’t hurt you,” he said.
When her head twisted away, Jean-Michel pulled back to watch her. But she barely noticed him.
Instead, the woman stared up at Nikko, her green eyes full of fear. Her red-stained lips parted, and a
soft voice rasped from her chest. “Please. No more.”
No more.
Her sad resignation filled him with fury, but he tamped it down. Instead, he gently caressed her
cheek, careful to avoid the bruise beneath her eye. Her eyes never left him. He fought to keep his
voice steady as he said, “The people who hurt you are gone. You are safe now.”
“Safe?” she asked.
“Safe,” he confirmed. “I promise.”
As if he’d flipped a switch, her eyes rolled back, and she went limp. He pressed his fingers to her
throat and found a steadier pulse that grew stronger with each second. “C’est bon,” he murmured,
looking up at Jean-Michel. Nikko gently brushed a trickle of blood from her mouth, entranced by the
full curve of her lower lip.
Despite his usual glacial demeanor, Jean-Michel spared a small smile. He wiped his bloodied
arm against his dark pants and glanced over his shoulder. “There are more live victims that seemed to
be in decent shape, just frightened. Two dead bodies.”
“How long have they been dead?” Nikko asked.
“Judging by the smell, at least two days. Coming last night wouldn’t have changed it,” Jean-
Michel said. His brow lifted. “I assume that’s why you asked.”
Nikko nodded silently. It was a small comfort, though he couldn’t help but wonder what this
woman had suffered. Could she have been spared if they’d come sooner?
Minutes later, Phoebe and the medical team arrived with several vehicles. One of the medics, a
young vampire named Agustin, confirmed Jean-Michel’s report that the two dead humans had likely
been dead for days. After quickly assessing the survivors, he directed Jean-Michel and Nikko to carry
the unconscious humans out to the ambulance and the dark van. Phoebe carried the vampire with the
broken neck, who was mumbling curses that were quite bold for the vampiric equivalent of a garbage
bag.
Safira followed with the knee-capped vampire tossed over her shoulder. “Quit your
complaining,” she ordered, dropping him unceremoniously.
Exposed bone peeked through the torn legs of his pants. Judging by his bloody fingers, he’d tried
to dig out one of the bullets. “Want to tell us who you work for?” Nikko asked.
“Fuck off,” he said, even as tears trickled down his bloodied cheeks.
Safira grabbed his curly hair and pulled his head up. With her phone, she snapped a picture of the
back of his neck. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Casteron mark. Nikko?”
Nikko bent to examine the tattoo-like mark. Faintly raised crimson lines formed an interlocking
pattern of spirals and whorls that was unique to the Casteron vampires.
“He’s Casteron,” Nikko confirmed.
Safira beckoned to the medics and said, “Sedate them both just to be safe.”
One of the medics took a syringe from his bag and jabbed it into the groaning vampire. He did the
same with the other prisoner, then helped load them into the back of a van.
Agustin briskly examined the other dark-haired woman, who could have been a mirror image of
the one Nikko had cradled. He looked grim, then climbed into the ambulance with her. Exhaust
billowed over them as the ambulance sped away. A few seconds later, a siren squalled in the night.
Watching them pull away left Nikko feeling hollow. Though he had no place there, he wanted to
be in the back of the vehicle, holding the woman’s hand. Such saccharine affection was not his usual
way, but he could still feel the weight of her gaze on him, could still taste the promise on his lips.
You’re safe now.
For the next hour, the three remaining agents of the Shroud swept through the abandoned
elementary school. Given the disgusting conditions, he expected to find half-decomposed bodies, but
there were no other signs of corpses.
In one corner of the decrepit building, they found what might have once been a music room,
judging by the peeling music notes on the dingy walls. Soundproofing panels hung on the walls,
though they were wet and covered with mold. The thick stink of pesticide hung in the air.
Several lamps had been arranged around a table, where a handful of papers and pens were
strewn. Near a rumbling generator, a white charging block and its cable were coiled on the floor like
a snake, clearly discarded in a rush.
“They were working from here. Grabbed everything they could on the way out,” Nikko said. He
shook his head. They should have brought more agents to close off all the potential exits.
He surveyed the room, following the scent of vampires and dusty footprints. The trail led him out
the back door of the music room and around to a side exit. In the damp earth, deep curved ruts
indicated a vehicle that had spun out of there quickly.
Leaving the dead end, Nikko returned to the music room, which inexplicably smelled of
cinnamon. Safira held an open glass flask and coughed. “That’s potent. Way too spicy for me,” she
said. She gestured to a small cooler filled with flasks. “Looks like they’re from FLOW.”
If the assholes running this place were charging three hundred dollars a head to bite one of their
prisoners, then they could certainly afford the overpriced blood from FLOW, an expensive vampire
restaurant in the suburbs.
“Seems our targets have expensive taste. Let’s bring them back,” Jean-Michel commented. He
shot Safira a stern look. “No tasting.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Did you give me an order, Jean-Jean?”
He scowled at the nickname. “Safira,” he complained.
With a wicked smile, she zipped the bag and put the strap over her shoulder. “I never share a
glass with someone I don’t know. No telling where those mouths have been.”
Nikko found several hard-shelled plastic cases stacked near the generator. Opening the first one
revealed a pile of wallets and phones on top of several balled-up garments. He swept one hand
through them. There had to be at least two dozen wallets, a mix of designer patterns, pastel glitter, and
rugged leather. He flipped one open to find only a driver’s license and a Costco card. No credit cards
or cash.
His first instinct was to be angry, but he appreciated the stupidity of the Casteron. If they’d used
any of the stolen cards, there would be a paper trail.
Thank you, assholes, he thought.
They spent another hour scouring the building from top to bottom. Most of the crumbling rooms
looked as if they hadn’t been used in decades. By the time they were done searching, they were
confident that there were no surviving humans left.
In the long-defunct kitchen, Nikko was bowled over by the stench of decay and death. “This was
where the bodies were,” Jean-Michel said, covering his nose.
Safira shoved a rolling steel rack aside and pointed to the ground. “Looks like they bought in
bulk.”
At her feet was a large box of folded body bags. Judging by the empty space, they had filled quite
a few bags already. Double doors at the back of the kitchen opened onto a concrete loading dock.
More tire tracks here indicated where they’d likely been disposing of the bodies.
They made a final sweep of the school, then called Julian for an all-clear to leave. Nikko and
Jean-Michel lugged the cases out of the music room and out the front door to Safira’s borrowed car.
For reasons no mortal could possibly understand, Safira had driven a dark blue minivan with peeling
paint and faded honor student bumper stickers.
After they loaded their cargo into the back, Jean-Michel remarked, “This car is an atrocity.”
Safira buckled into the front seat. “Buckle up, boys.”
“Safira, I once watched you refuse a gift of diamonds because they were too small for you,”
Nikko said, taking the front passenger seat. “How in the name of God can you drive this car?”
“They were too small,” Safira said. “Size matters. Besides, I think this land boat is rather
adventurous. Variety is the spice of life, after all.”
“Bullshit,” Jean-Michel said.
“Yes, it’s bullshit,” she admitted. She threw the car into reverse, spun through the loose gravel,
and drove onto the main road. “If you two had your way, we’d have been driving a testosterone-
fueled penis machine that attracts every bored cop on a third shift. And I’d rather not explain why I
have blood on my clothes along with a case full of wallets belonging to a dozen missing humans.”
“It’s still terrible,” Jean-Michel grumbled.
Nikko’s watch vibrated again with an alert from Julian. He called and put it on speakerphone.
“Julian, you’re on speaker.”
“Give me an update,” he said gruffly.
“The place is cleared out. Paris and Draga were following the runners,” Nikko said. “We sent the
survivors ahead to the clinic, along with two of the vampires involved.”
“We also have a trunk full of evidence,” Safira added. “You’re welcome, love.”
 Julian let out a clipped sound that was the closest to a laugh that he managed. “Come back to the
club.”
“Be there in twenty,” Safira said.
Late night traffic in Atlanta was like normal traffic in another city, and they made it back to
Infinity in twenty-four minutes. Safira parked in the secure underground garage, right next to her high-
end electric car. She patted the rear of the van and said, “Don’t listen to them. You’re very reliable.”
As they carried their gathered evidence into the club, Nikko couldn’t help thinking of the lovely
woman he’d held in his arms. Surely this fixation was nothing more than hunger and a pathetic streak
of lust.
For decades, his life had felt inconsequential. He found shreds of meaning in his late-night
excursions into the city, putting the fear of God into would-be rapists and abusers. It felt as if the city
was a tiny bit safer with each scumbag who ceased to taint the light.
But the feeling of satisfaction always passed quickly, as if he was building a tolerance, and he
sank deeper into an increasingly hopeless ennui as he realized that humanity was simply fucked. No
matter how comfortable their lives got, they would never stop killing each other, never stop abusing
power over one another.
Tonight felt different, as if he had done something that would matter for longer than the fleeting
moment. This would not be another business card left behind, another name in his mental file of lives
rerouted. This mattered.
She mattered.
God, he was a fucking fool. Perhaps it was time to go on the hunt again, but this time for an
equally hungry woman who wanted to slake the same hunger he did. Who was he to think that any of
this mattered?
When they reached the war room, Julian was already there with a cup of coffee and a computer.
Dominic, Number Five of the Shroud and perpetual cynic, was at his side, but none of the others had
returned.
Julian glanced at his watch. “We have two hours until sunrise. Update us,” he said.
Dominic nodded, his dour expression never shifting. “Alistair has been notified not to leave
Iacovelli’s until it closes. Paris and Draga tracked the vehicle that left the site onto I-85. They pushed
two humans out of the car. It caused a pileup on the road,” he said with a slight flinch. Nikko felt his
temper rising but kept quiet as the other man continued. “They stopped long enough for Draga to get
out and move the humans off the road, and Paris tried to follow. He got a license plate but lost them.”
“Did the humans survive?” Nikko asked.
“One was struck by another car and died on impact,” Dominic said. “The other survived. Draga
carried him out and met a medevac on the next exit ramp.”
“Based on the preliminary reports, that puts our total at eight survivors and three dead,” Julian
said.
“Likely many more dead,” Nikko said. He took several wallets from the case and tossed them on
the table. “I’d guess at least two dozen in here.”
Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fucking Casteron,” he murmured. “I told—” He pressed
his lips together and spread his hands against the table. “What else?”
“We took two prisoners,” Safira said. She took out her phone and showed him the picture she’d
taken. “That was on his neck.”
Julian’s face fell. “That’s the Covenant marking of the Casteron.”
She nodded. “Yes.” They locked eyes for a while, as if a silent conversation was transpiring.
 Most vampire courts were tethered by ancient spells called Covenants. Each spell was anchored
on the court’s Elder and bound all their subjects together by blood. While it gave the Elder power
over his subjects, it also made them more stable, rational, and far less bloodthirsty. When each of
them was initiated into the Covenant, a red symbol appeared on their neck. Every vampire in this
building bore an identical marking of crimson spirals twining around an intricate knot.
As good as a fingerprint on a murder weapon, the Casteron mark gave them the ammunition to
finally make a decisive move.
“Eduardo has to act,” Nikko said.
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m certain that he will.”
“As he acted to protect Shoshanna York?” Nikko asked.
Dominic let out a barking laugh and glared at him. “Do not pretend for a moment that you give a
damn about a human witch, especially one that is bound to Alistair Thorne. Your personal agenda is
all you care about.”
“Is it not part of the court’s agenda to protect humans?” Nikko asked. “One of is confused.”
Dominic scowled at him. “Our agenda is—”
“Enough,” Julian said sharply. “I have neither the patience nor the energy for your bickering. I’ve
already spoken to Eduardo with our suspicions that this was linked to the Casteron. It is his job to
deal with Vanessa Moretti, and it is ours to handle this mess. Nikko and Safira, I want a
comprehensive list of victims. You’re certain there were no other bodies?”
“Not on the grounds,” Nikko said.
Safira nodded. “I suppose they might have been buried. I saw no signs of graves, but I wasn’t
looking particularly hard for them. I can take a team back tomorrow night to search again.” She set the
cooler bag on the table and pushed it toward Julian. “We also found these. They look like flasks from
FLOW.”
Dominic took one of the bottles from the cooler. “Can these be traced back to the buyer?” he
asked.
“I don’t know. Call Elsa and ask for her records,” Julian said brusquely. Dominic nodded. “That’s
all for now.” He pushed back his chair and rubbed at his eyes. He met Nikko’s gaze and made a subtle
beckoning gesture with one finger.
Nikko lingered as the others left, bracing himself for another dressing-down from Julian. “How
have I displeased you this evening?” he said.
Julian’s shoulders lifted, as if he was preparing to fight. “You haven’t,” he said. His stony mask
slipped, revealing a rare glimpse at the haunted man behind their leader. “I simply wished to ask how
you’re feeling. I noticed...” His eyes drifted down to Nikko’s hands, where the dark lines were
creeping closer to his knuckles.
Being treated with pity made him want to lash out, though he knew it was genuine concern. He
leashed his ego, took a calming beat, and said, “I have time. I’ll be fine for a while longer.”
“And...” Julian trailed off. He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I fear there are dark times
ahead of us.”
“I fear that’s where you’re wrong,” Nikko said. “We are already in them.”
He left the other man to complete his work, then headed for the elevator. Below the nightclub,
there were several sublevels of offices and sparse apartments for the employees of the court.
But before he realized what he was doing, he jogged down the stairs, bolted for the parking
garage, and climbed into his car. The sportscar growled to life, its deep rumble a significant
improvement over Safira’s incognito vehicle. He peeled out of the parking garage and onto the street,
where he zipped through a yellow light.
He needed to see that she was safe. He needed to hear her heartbeat. Then perhaps he could get
this nonsense out of his head.
Nikko was halfway to the Night Rose clinic when Safira called him. He activated the
speakerphone on his dashboard. “Nikko, are you bringing those IDs downstairs or not? I don’t want to
be stuck here until sunrise.”
“You’ll have to get them from the war room,” he said. “I’m on my way to the clinic.”
She paused. “Why?”
“I want to follow a thread,” he lied. He cut off her wheedling complaints and hit the gas.
The clinic was just a few blocks from Infinity, in a three-storied building of glass and steel. A
simple sign was stenciled onto the doors, reading The Montgomery Financial Group, LLC. He
parked on the street and hurried for the doors with a strange sense of urgency.
He swiped his ID card through the security reader and hurried into an austere lobby decorated in
shades of gray. A single painting of a stylized rose, red on a field of black, hung on the opposite wall.
Just inside, a young woman named Anissa approached.
“Good evening, Mr. Baudelaire. How can I help you? Do you need treatment?” she asked brightly.
“I want to see the humans that came in earlier,” he said.
Anissa nodded briskly, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She swiped through a
screen on her tablet. “We accepted quite a few. Miss Karaskova brought us one that had been...” She
cringed. “Tossed from a car. Dr. Venegas had him sent to Grady with a request to send him to St.
Anthony’s after being stabilized. The others are being treated on three. I can escort you.”
They rode the elevator in silence to the third floor. Hidden beneath the façade of a generic office
building, the Night Rose clinic was part hospital and part jail. Though the Casteron were the most
recent threat to their territory, there had been other conflicts over the years, as well as ill-advised
vampire hunters who didn’t understand the threads they pulled. The clinic had seen much more
business in the last few years, thanks to the Casteron’s careless treatment of humans and the
increasing number of Untethered vampires in the city. Whenever possible, they cared for humans to
keep them out of normal hospitals, where animal-like bites and exsanguination would raise eyebrows.
The harsh lighting of the third floor made him wince. There was a flurry of activity as several of
the black-clad nurses moved from room to room. Anissa stopped at the reception desk and flagged a
red-haired woman. “Elspeth, can you escort Mr. Baudelaire to see the new patients?” she asked.
The nurse glanced up at him. “Can it wait?” she asked.
“It’s important,” Nikko said firmly. “I’m here on behalf of the Shroud.”
“I know who you are,” Elspeth said irritably. “I’m ordering meds for one of the humans you
brought us, and I want it here for the day shift. Can you wait?”
Despite her sharp tongue, Nikko appreciated her devotion. He nodded and leaned against the
counter while Elspeth worked. He caught her glancing up at him a few times, but he left her alone
until she finally shoved her chair back.
Her smile was entirely forced, making it clear that she was not impressed by Number Four of the
Shroud being in her presence. She grabbed a tablet, then crooked her finger at Nikko to follow her to
the end of the hall.
First, they saw one of the humans they’d brought out of the school. He was resting, his skin chalky
pale against raven-black hair. They peeked in on several more patients who were sedated and
sleeping, with only dehydration and a few bites to show for their ordeal.
“Jane Doe number one,” Elspeth said, pausing at the next door. Her scent called to him well
before he saw her, but the sight of her still hit him like a stake to the heart.
Someone had unfastened her hair and gently brushed it, taking away the tight knot at the back of
her head. Her skin was clean, though she was sickly pale. Several IVs connected to her arms, while a
monitor emitted a regular beeping. Though he knew the tubes and wires were helping, it felt too much
like seeing her restrained and captured again.
Holding her tablet to her chest, Elspeth gazed sadly at the woman. “She’s stable. Dr. Venegas is
having further tests done to test the extent of the damage, but her brain and heart activity seem healthy.
It appears that she was bitten quite a few times, so we’ve administered antibiotics just to be safe.”
“Can you give her blood to help her heal?”
Elspeth shook her head. “We were informed that both women had been given blood during the
raid. In their condition, Dr. Venegas is afraid of turning them,” she said. Her tone was markedly softer
as she spoke about her patients.
With a pang of guilt, he realized that he’d all but forgotten about the other woman. Tearing his
gaze away, he asked, “What about the other one?”
Elspeth shook her head. “She’s alive, but her condition is shaky at best,” she said. “Dr. Venegas is
considering a move to St. Anthony’s for more extensive care. She and Rhys are still working on her,
so we can’t visit. I can text you if that changes before sunrise.”
He nodded. “Please do. Is there somewhere here I can rest? I’d like to be here in case any of them
wake.”
Her head tilted. “I guess. You know it’s only a few hours until sunrise.”
“I know,” he said.
She shrugged and swiped at her tablet. “I’ll put you in one of the rooms downstairs.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He lingered at the woman’s door and watched her in silence. Why was he so drawn to her? He’d
only heard her speak three words and didn’t even know her name. Standing in the doorway, he
murmured a quiet prayer. His prayers were to a nameless force, as the saints of his boyhood had long
abandoned him. Instead, he simply whispered, give her peace and gentle dreams and a kinder
world. Give me strength to protect her.
He dared to take a single step inside and murmured, “You’re safe now.”
 5

H er eyes were sandpaper dry. A single lamp cast a pleasant glow across the unfamiliar room.
No more filthy classroom, nor finely furnished slaughterhouse.
Where the hell was she?
She sat bolt upright, then instantly regretted it as a dozen sharp aches rippled through her. Her
mouth tasted like blood and dirt.
Terror flooded her senses as it came back in a chaotic blur. Chained to a wall in a place that stank
of decay and filth. Red-eyed beasts biting her like rabid animals. Laid out across a table like a feast
for monsters.
Red eyes flashing in the dark.
Pain, then numbness, then oblivion.
Again and again.
And now she was free.
She lurched out of the unfamiliar bed, realizing too late that there were tubes connected to a
needle in her arm. They pulled painfully, and she bit back a cry of pain as she retreated toward the IV
pole.
When her vision cleared, she looked around frantically.
Big computer-like monitor.
Fluid-filled bags with tubes.
This didn’t look like any hospital she’d ever seen, with pale wood furnishings and dark curtains
pulled over a window. Instead of a hard white plastic construction, the bed looked like a proper bed,
with fluffy pillows and a fuzzy blanket folded neatly at the foot.
“What the hell,” she murmured.
A door creaked open. Fear rolled over her in a sickening wave as a shadow crossed the room. In
the low light, she caught a glint of red eyes looking her way.
Vampire.
Panic injected a gallon of adrenaline into her system. When the intruder approached, she grabbed
the IV pole and swung it at him. To her surprise, she nailed him in the chest.
“Huh—” he grunted as he skidded backward.
“Let me go!” she shouted at him.
She went to swing it again, but he was gone. Then strong arms folded around her and pinned her
arms to her body. She let out a piercing scream. “No!”
“Shh,” he said. “Danielle, you are safe. The people who hurt you are gone.”
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 CROQUETTES OF RICE. (ENTREMETS.)

Wipe very clean, in a dry cloth,

seven ounces of rice, put it into a
clean stewpan, and pour on it a quart
of new milk; let it swell gently by the
side of the fire, and stir it often that it
may not stick to the pan, nor burn;
when it is about half done, stir to it five
ounces of pounded sugar, and six Croquettes.
bitter almonds beaten extremely fine:
the thin rind of half a fresh lemon may
be added in the first instance. The rice must be simmered until it is
soft, and very thick and dry; it should then be spread on a dish, and
left until cold, when it is to be rolled into small balls, which must be
dipped into beaten egg, and then covered in every part with the
finest bread-crumbs. When all are ready, fry them a light brown in
fresh butter, and dry them well before the fire, upon a sieve reversed
and covered with a very soft cloth, or with a sheet of white blotting
paper. Pile them in a hot dish, and send them to table quickly.
Rice, 7 oz.; milk, 1 quart; rind of lemon: 3/4 hour. Sugar, 5 oz.
bitter almonds, 6: 40 to 60 minutes, or more. Fried, 5 to 7 minutes.
 FINER CROQUETTES OF RICE. (ENTREMETS.)

Swell the rice in thin cream, or in new milk strongly flavoured with
vanilla or cocoa-nut; add the same ingredients as in the foregoing
receipt, and when the rice is cold, form it into balls, and with the
thumb of the right hand hollow them sufficiently to admit in the centre
a small portion of peach jam, or of apricot marmalade; close the rice
well over it; egg, crumb, and fry the croquettes as usual. As, from the
difference of quality, the same proportions of rice and milk will not
always produce the same effect, the cook must use her discretion in
adding, should it be needed, sufficient liquid to soften the rice
perfectly: but she must bear in mind that if not boiled extremely thick
and dry, it will be difficult to make it into croquettes.[136]
136. We must repeat here what we have elsewhere stated as the result of many
trials of it, that good rice will absorb and become tender with three times its
own bulk or measure of liquid. Thus, an exact half pint (or half pound) will
require a pint and a half, with an extremely gentle degree of heat, to convert
it into a thoroughly soft but firm mass; which would, perhaps, be rather too
dry for croquettes. A pint of milk to four ounces of rice, if well managed,
would answer better.
 SAVOURY CROQUETTES OF RICE. (ENTRÉE.)

These are made with the same preparation as the casserole of

rice of Chapter XVIII., but it must be boiled very dry, and left to
become quite cold before it is used. A few spoonsful of rich white
sauce stirred into it when it is nearly tender, will improve it much.
Form and hollow the croquettes as directed in the last receipt; fill
them with a small portion of minced fowl, partridge, or pheasant in a
thick sauce, or with a stewed oyster or two cut in quarters; close the
rice perfectly over them; egg, and crumb the croquettes, fry and
serve them garnished with crisped parsley. French cooks mix
sometimes a little grated Parmesan cheese with the rice at the
moment it is taken from the fire, and roll the croquettes in more after
they are egged; they press this on and dip them again in egg, and
then into the crumbs. Raise the pan high above the fire when the
croquettes are lightly browned, that they may heat through; then
heighten the colour, and lift them out immediately.
 RISSOLES. (ENTRÉE.)

This is the French name for small fried pastry of various forms,
filled with meat or fish previously cooked; they may be made with
brioche, or with light puff-paste, either of which must be rolled
extremely thin. Cut it with a small round cutter fluted or plain; put a
little rich mince, or good pounded meat, in the centre, and moisten
the edges, and press them securely together that they may not burst
open in the frying. The rissoles may be formed like small patties, by
laying a second round of paste over the meat, or like cannelons; they
may, likewise, be brushed with egg, and sprinkled with vermicelli,
broken small, or with fine crumbs. They are sometimes made in the
form of croquettes, the paste being gathered round the meat, which
must form a ball.[137]
137. If our space will permit, more minute directions for these, and other small
dishes of the kind, shall be given in the chapter of Foreign Cookery.

In frying them, adopt the same plan as for the croquettes, raising
the pan as soon as the paste is lightly coloured. Serve all these fried
dishes well drained, and on a napkin.
From 5 to 7 minutes, or less.
 VERY SAVOURY ENGLISH RISSOLES. (ENTRÉE.)

Make the forcemeat No. 1, Chapter VIII., sufficiently firm with

unbeaten yolk of egg, to roll rather thin on a well-floured board; cut it
into very small rounds, put a little pounded chicken in the centre of
one half, moistening the edges with water, or white of egg, lay the
remaining rounds over these, close them securely, and fry them in
butter a fine light brown; drain and dry them well, and heap them in
the middle of a hot dish, upon a napkin folded flat: these rissoles
may be egged and crumbed before they are fried.
SMALL FRIED BREAD PATTIES, OR CROUSTADES OF VARIOUS
KINDS.

These may be either sweet or savoury, and many of them may be

so promptly prepared, that they offer a ready resource when an extra
dish is unexpectedly required. They should be carefully fried very
crisp, and of a fine equal gold colour, either in clarified marrow, for
which we give our own receipt, or in really good butter.
 DRESDEN PATTIES, OR CROUSTADES.

(Very delicate.)
Pare the crust neatly from one or two French rolls, slice off the
ends, and divide the remainder into as many patties as the size of
the rolls will allow; hollow them in the centre, dip them into milk or
thin cream, and lay them on a drainer over a dish; pour a spoonful or
two more of milk over them at intervals, but not sufficient to cause
them to break; brush them with egg, rasp the crust of the rolls over
them, fry and drain them well, fill them with a good mince, or with
stewed mushrooms or oysters, and serve them very hot upon a
napkin; they may be filled for the second course with warm apricot
marmalade, cherry-jam, or other good preserve. This receipt came to
us direct from Dresden, and on testing it we found it answer
excellently, and inserted it in an earlier edition of the present work.
We name this simply because it has been appropriated, with many
other of our receipts, by a contemporary writer without a word of
acknowledgment.
 TO PREPARE BEEF MARROW FOR FRYING CROUSTADES,
SAVOURY TOASTS, &C.

At a season when butter of pure flavour is often procured with

difficulty, beef-marrow, carefully clarified, is a valuable substitute for
it; and, as it is abundantly contained in the joints which are in
constant request for soup-making, it is of slight comparative cost in a
well managed kitchen. It is often thrown into the stock-pot by
careless or indolent cooks, instead of being rendered available for
the many purposes to which it is admirably adapted. Take it from the
bones as fresh as possible, put it into a white jar, and melt it with a
very gentle degree of heat at the mouth of the oven, or by the side of
the stove, taking all precaution to prevent its being smoked or
discoloured; strain it off, through a very fine sieve or muslin, into a
clean pan or pans, and set it aside for use. It will be entirely
flavourless if prepared with due care and attention; but, if dissolved
with too great a degree of heat, it will acquire the taste almost of
dripping. A small quantity of fine salt may be sprinkled into the pan
with it when it is used for frying.
 SMALL CROUSTADES, OR BREAD PATTIES, DRESSED IN
MARROW.

(Author’s Receipt.)
Cut very evenly, from a firm stale loaf, slices nearly an inch and a
half thick, and with a plain or fluted paste-cutter of between two and
three inches wide press out the number of patties required,
loosening them gently from the tin, to prevent their breaking; then,
with a plain cutter, scarcely more than half the size, mark out the
space which is afterwards to be hollowed from it. Melt some clarified
beef-marrow in a small saucepan or frying-pan, and, when it begins
to boil, put in the patties, and fry them gently until they are equally
coloured of a pale golden brown. In lifting them from the pan, let the
marrow (or butter) drain well from them; take out the rounds which
have been marked on the tops, and scoop out part of the inside
crumb, but leave them thick enough to contain securely the gravy of
the preparation put into them. Fill them with any good patty-meat,
and serve them very hot on a napkin.
Obs.—These croustades are equally good if dipped into clarified
butter or marrow, and baked in a tolerably quick oven. It is well, in
either case, to place them on a warm sheet of double white blotting-
paper while they are being filled, as it will absorb the superfluous fat.
A rich mince, with a thick, well-adhering sauce, either of mutton and
mushrooms, or oysters, or with fine herbs and an eschalot or two; or
of venison, or hare, or partridges, may be appropriately used for
them.
 SMALL CROUSTADES À LA BONNE MAMAN.

(The Grandmama’s Patties.)

Prepare the croustades as above, or use for them French rolls of
very even shape, cut in thick equal slices. If quite round, the crust
may be left on; mark each slice with a small cutter in the centre, dip
the croustades into butter or marrow, fry them lightly, or bake them
without permitting them to become very hard; empty, and then fill
them; dish them without a napkin, and pour some good brown gravy
round, but not over them.
Obs.—From being cooked without butter, these and the preceding
patties are adapted to a Jewish table.
 CURRIED TOASTS WITH ANCHOVIES.

Fry lightly, in good butter, clarified marrow, or very pure olive oil,
some slices of bread, free from crust, of about half an inch thick, and
two inches and a half square; lift them on to a dish, and spread a not
very thick layer of Captain White’s currie-paste on the top; place
them in a gentle oven for three or four minutes, then lay two or three
fillets of anchovies on each, replace them in the oven for a couple of
minutes, and send them immediately to table. Their pungency may
be heightened by the addition of cayenne pepper, when a very hot
preparation is liked.
Obs.—We have spoken but slightly in our chapter of curries of
Captain White’s currie-paste, though for many years we have had it
used in preference to any other, and always found it excellent.
Latterly, however, it has been obtained with rather less facility than
when attention was first attracted to it. The last which we procured
directed, on the label of the jar, that orders for it should be sent per
post to 83, Copenhagen Street, Islington. It may, however, be
procured without doubt from any good purveyor of sauces and other
condiments. It is sold in jars of all sizes, the price of the smallest
being one-and-sixpence. We certainly think it much superior to any
of the others which we have tested, its flavour being peculiarly
agreeable.
 TO FILLET ANCHOVIES.

Drain them well from the pickle, take off the heads and fins, lay
them separately on a plate, and scrape off the skin entirely; then
place them on a clean dish and with a sharp-edged knife raise the
flesh on either side of the back-bone, passing it from the tail to the
shoulders, and keeping it nearly flat as it is worked along. Divide
each side (or fillet) in two, and use them as directed for the
preceding toasts or other purposes. They make excellent simple
sandwiches with slices of bread and butter only; but very superior
ones when they are potted or made into anchovy butter.
 SAVOURY TOASTS.

Cut some slices of bread free from crust, about half an inch thick
and two inches and a half square; butter the tops thickly, spread a
little mustard on them, and then cover them with a deep layer of
grated cheese and of ham seasoned rather highly with cayenne; fry
them in good butter, but do not turn them in the pan; lift them out,
and place them in a Dutch oven for three or [TN: missing word.]
minutes to dissolve the cheese: serve them very hot.
To 4 tablespoonsful of grated English cheese, an equal portion of
very finely minced, or grated ham; but of Parmesan, or Gruyère, 6
tablespoonsful. Seasoning of mustard and cayenne.
Obs.—These toasts, for which we give the original receipt
unaltered, may be served in the cheese-course of a dinner. Such
mere “relishes” as they are called, do not seem to us to demand
much of our space, or many of them which are very easy of
preparation might be inserted here: a good cook, however, will easily
supply them at slight expense. Truffles minced, seasoned, and
stewed tender in butter with an eschalot or two, may be served on
fried toasts or croûtons and will generally be liked.
 TO CHOOSE MACCARONI AND OTHER ITALIAN PASTES.

The Naples maccaroni, of which the pipes are large, and

somewhat thin, should be selected for the table in preference to the
Genoa, which is less in size, but more substantial, and better suited
to the formation of the various fanciful timbales[138] for which it is
usually chosen. We have inserted here no receipts for these,
because unless very skilfully prepared they are sure to fail, and they
are not in much request in this country, unless it be at the tables of
the aristocracy, for which they are prepared by efficient cooks. Of the
ribbon maccaroni (or lazanges) we have given particulars in the
pages which follow. The macaroncini, though not much larger than a
straw, requires much boiling for its size, to render it soft. The celery-
maccaroni is made very large and of an ornamental form, but in
short lengths. It is used by “professed” cooks as a sort of crust or
case for quenelle-forcemeat, or other expensive preparations of the
same nature. The ring or cut maccaroni is another form given to the
Italian paste: it may be had at almost any good foreign warehouse.
138. For an explanation of the term timbale, the reader is referred to the glossary
at the commencement of this volume.

All these pastes should be of a yellowish tint (by no means white

as one sees them when they are of inferior quality); they should also
be quite fresh, as they contract a most unpleasant flavour from being
too long stored. The Naples vermicelli, which is much larger than any
other, may be dressed like maccaroni: by many persons it is also
preferred to the smaller varieties for serving in soup.
 TO BOIL MACCARONI.

We have always found the continental mode of dressing

maccaroni the best. English cooks sometimes soak it in milk and
water for an hour or more, before it is boiled, that the pipes may be
swollen to the utmost, but this is apt to render it pulpy, though its
appearance may be improved by it. Drop it lightly, and by degrees,
into a large pan of fast-boiling water, into which a little salt, and a bit
of butter the size of a walnut, have previously been thrown, and of
which the boiling should not be stopped by the addition of the
maccaroni. In about three-quarters of an hour the Naples maccaroni
will be sufficiently tender: every kind should always be perfectly
cooked, for otherwise it will prove very indigestible, but the pipes of
that commonly served should remain entire. Pour it into a large
cullender, and drain the water well from it. It should be very softly
boiled after the first minute or two.
Time of boiling:—Naples maccaroni, about 3/4 hour; Genoa,
nearly or quite 1 hour; macaroncini, 20 to 25 minutes; cut maccaroni,
10 minutes; Naples vermicelli (in water), about 20 minutes; longer in
soup, or milk.
 RIBBON MACCARONI.[139]
139. The best ribbon-maccaroni which we have ever had, was from Mr. Cobbett’s,
18, Pall Mall. It is rather higher in price than the pipe maccaroni, but swells
so much in the boiling that a large quantity of it is not required for a dish. We
ought to add that Mr. Cobbett’s is not a professedly cheap house, but that all
he supplies is of excellent quality.

This kind of maccaroni, though more delicate in flavour and much

more quickly boiled than the pipe maccaroni, is far less frequently
seen at English tables; yet it is extremely good in many simple forms
and very wholesome, therefore well suited to invalids and children as
well as to persons in health. Drop it gradually into plenty of boiling
water, and turn it over occasionally that it may be equally done. Drain
it thoroughly when it is perfectly tender, and serve it quickly either
quite plain, to be eaten instead of vegetables or rice; or with a
compote of fruit; or with sugar and cinnamon, or lemon juice; or
prepared in any of the modes indicated for the Naples maccaroni.
To be boiled 15 to 18 minutes.
 DRESSED MACCARONI.

After careful and repeated trial of different modes of dressing

various kinds of maccaroni, we find that in preparing them with
Parmesan cheese, unmixed with any of a more mellow nature, there
is always a chance of failure, from its tendency to gather into lumps;
we would therefore recommend the inexperienced reader to
substitute for it in part, at least, any finely flavoured English cheese;
and the better to ensure its blending smoothly with the other
ingredients (when neither white, nor any other thickened sauce is
used with it), to dissolve the butter, and to stir to it a small
teaspoonful of flour, before any liquid is added, then carefully to mix
with it the cream or gravy, as directed for Sauce Tournée, Chapter V.,
and to give this a boil before the maccaroni and cheese are added: if
gently tossed as these become hot, the whole will be smooth, and
the cheese will adhere properly to the paste. Four ounces of pipe
maccaroni is sufficient for a small dish, but from six to eight should
be prepared for a family party where it is liked. The common English
mode of dressing it is with grated cheese, butter, and cream, or milk.
French cooks substitute generally a spoonful or two of very strong
rich jellied gravy for the cream; and the Italians, amongst their many
other modes of serving it, toss it in rich brown gravy, with sufficient
grated cheese to flavour the whole strongly; they send it to table also
simply laid into a good Espagnole or brown gravy (that drawn from
the stufato,[140] for example), accompanied by a plate of grated
cheese. Another, and an easy mode of dressing it is to boil and drain
it well, and to put it into a deep dish, strewing grated cheese on
every layer, and adding bits of fresh butter to it. The top, in this case,
should be covered with a layer of fine bread-crumbs, mixed with
grated cheese; these should be moistened plentifully with clarified
butter, and colour given to them in the oven, or before the fire; the
crumbs may be omitted, and a layer of cheese substituted for them.
An excellent preparation of maccaroni may be made with any well-
flavoured, dry white cheese, which can be grated easily, at much
less cost than with the Parmesan, which is expensive, and in the
country not always procurable: and we think that the brown gravy
and a seasoning of cayenne are great improvements to it.
140. See Chapter of Foreign Cookery.
Maccaroni, 6 oz.; butter, 3 oz.; Parmesan (or other) cheese, 6 oz.;
cream, 4 tablespoonsful.
Obs.—Less of butter and cheese can be used by the strict
economist.
 MACCARONI À LA REINE.

This is a very excellent and delicate mode of dressing maccaroni.

Boil eight ounces in the usual way, and by the time it is sufficiently
tender, dissolve gently ten ounces of any rich, well flavoured white
cheese in full three-quarters of a pint of good cream; add a little salt,
a rather full seasoning of cayenne, from half to a whole saltspoonful
of pounded mace, and a couple of ounces of sweet fresh butter. The
cheese should, in the first instance, be sliced very thin, and taken
quite free of the hard part adjoining the rind; it should be stirred in
the cream without intermission until it is entirely dissolved, and the
whole is perfectly smooth: the maccaroni, previously well drained,
may then be tossed gently in it, or after it is dished, the cheese may
be poured equally over the maccaroni. The whole, in either case,
may be thickly covered before it is sent to table, with fine crumbs of
bread fried of a pale gold colour, and dried perfectly, either before
the fire or in an oven, when such an addition is considered an
improvement. As a matter of precaution, it is better to boil the cream
before the cheese is melted in it; rich white sauce, or béchamel,
made not very thick, with an additional ounce or two of butter, may
be used to vary and enrich this preparation. If Parmesan cheese be
used for it, it must of course be grated; but, as we have said before,
it will not easily blend with the other ingredients so as to be smooth.
A portion of Stilton, free from the blue mould, would have a good
effect in the present receipt. Half the quantity may be served.
Maccaroni, 1/2 lb.; cheese, 10 oz.; good cream, 3/4 pint (or rich
white sauce); butter, 2 oz. (or more); little salt, fine cayenne, and
mace.
 SEMOULINA AND POLENTA À L’ITALIENNE. (GOOD.)

(To serve instead of Maccaroni.)

Throw into a quart of milk, when it is fast boiling, half
a teaspoonful of salt, and then shake lightly into it five
ounces of the best semoulina; stir the milk as this is
added, and continue to do so from eight to ten minutes,
letting the mixture boil gently during the time. It should
be very thick, and great care must be taken to prevent
its sticking to the saucepan, which should be placed
over a clear fire on a bar or trivet, but not upon the
coals. Pour the semoulina, when it is done, into a
basin, or a plain mould which it will not fill by an inch or
two, and let it remain some hours in a cool place, that it
may become perfectly cold; it will then turn out quite
solid, and like a pudding in appearance. Cut it with a
large, sharp carving-knife, or a bit of thin wire, into half-
inch slices; wash the basin into which it was poured at
first, and butter it well; grate from six to eight ounces of Maize.
good cheese (Parmesan, or any other), and mix with it
a half-teaspoonful of cayenne, and twice as much
pounded mace; clarify from two to three ounces of fresh butter, and
put a small quantity into the basin, strew in a little of the cheese, and
then lay in the first slice of the semoulina, on this put a thick layer of
the cheese, moisten it with some drops of butter, and place the
second slice upon it; then more cheese and butter, and continue thus
until all the semoulina is replaced in the basin; put plenty of cheese
upon the top, add the remainder of the clarified butter, and bake the
mixture for about half an hour in a gentle oven. It should be of a fine
golden colour when served. Turn it carefully into a dish, and send it
instantly to table. A little rich brown gravy poured round might, to
some tastes, improve it, but it is excellent without, and may be
substituted for maccaroni, which it much resembles in flavour. It may
be enriched by adding butter to the milk, or by mixing with it a portion
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