CHAPTER 1
FROM THE UMbrAGEOUS LIP of the cavern, the vampire snarls—a sound meant to promise pain. Dried human blood stains the corners of his mouth, his fangs bared in a desperate attempt at intimidation.
He must have had a long day, stuck in the shadows while the sun scorched the world clean. And now, just as the moon is granting him his freedom, he’s about to step straight into my bowstring’s line.
When I twirl the arrow between my fingers, the crystal tip catching what little moonlight filters through the sprawling boughs above me, his pupils dilate with fear.
Good. He should be afraid.
With a powerful leap, I spring from the tree, descending toward the fanged creature. As I plunge, I nock and release faster than he can react. The arrow zooms through the twilight air and buries itself at the base of his throat. It’s not a killing hit, but enough to paralyze.
He drops to his knees, eyes wide with shock.
Hunters have long debated the tools best suited against vampires.
Wood is light to carry, quick to craft, and comes in ample amounts, but it rarely does more than slow a vampire down.
Tungsten packs a punch, but it’s difficult to obtain and demands expert craftsmanship, making it nearly impossible to stockpile.
None of them come even close to lumenite—teal crystals humming with a resonance that interferes with the vitality of vampires. A single strike to the heart can end them outright.
Unfortunately, lumenite is found only beneath the hidden springs and grottos of Mythcrest forests, entwining itself around the roots of trees that draw from its groundwater, keeping Northcross locked in a relentless fight for the land.
If tungsten is rare, lumenite might as well be holy.
Fragments are honed into bullets, bolts, arrowheads, and daggers using machinery Redmoore calls Lumintech, their exclusive domain. As a former slayer, I’m the only venator trained in their use and thus licensed to purchase them, though each piece comes at an exorbitant price.
I lock my longbow into place across my spine, snug against the worn leather harness that catches it with a familiar click. Faye emerges from behind dense undergrowth, her tungsten-tipped crossbow still loaded and ready.
She’s a lean woman with fawn hair and brown eyes—one of the few other venators who actually gets the grind, the risks, and the solitude that comes with bounty hunting vampires.
Someone who doesn’t just do it for the credits and accolades, but because she understands the weight of the work, and what happens if no one else is willing to carry it.
She whistles low. “You’re on fire, Seraph. Can’t say the same for me. Almost all the caves I checked were clear.”
I shrug, hoisting the vampire to his feet and putting him in cuffs. “Seen better days myself.”
“The night’s just started. We could push deeper if you want.” Faye checks her wristband, the holographic display illuminating her face in blue light. “My contact says there are signs of a nest about three miles south.”
After I’ve secured the vampire to our transport vehicle where six others already wait, bound and bruised, I glance at my own timepiece. 9:14 PM.
“Not tonight, got plans with Max.”
She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue, securing her crossbow to her back while climbing into the driver’s seat of our modified rover. “Date or just casual?”
“Depends.” I slam the back doors shut and wait for the automatic locks to engage before swinging into the passenger side. “If it’s casual, I’m doing it wrong.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Well, you’re lucky then. Lawyers love to make a statement, even when they’re just grabbing dinner.”
I smirk, leaning back in my seat. “I did tell you that, didn’t I?”
The drive back to Penn City is serenely quiet, the darkness of the forest gradually giving way to the neon glow of civilization.
The checkpoint is more heavily guarded than usual—four officers instead of the standard two, all armed with automatic rifles.
“Identification,” the senior officer demands, scanner ready in hand.
“Seraph Rosen and Faye Lin.” I stretch over, letting the device read my facial features in a jiffy. “Licensed venators returning with cargo for Redmoore.”
After the scanner beeps in confirmation, the officer peers into the back of our vehicle, counting the vampires in one fell swoop. “Seven captures,” he notes, sounding somewhat impressed. “Nice work. Carry on.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the processing center.
The brutalist concrete structure at the edge of the city, purposefully intimidating with its harsh angles and minimal windows, offers no hint of the activity within.
After all, it’s where our catch of the day will meet whatever fate the authorities deem fit.
Inside, the fluorescent lights are so bright they make my eyes ache after hours in the darkness. A bored-looking clerk takes our paperwork, barely glancing up from her terminal. “Who gets what?”
“One is mine, six are hers,” Faye answers. “Impressive, right?”
“Four hers, three mine,” I correct, not particularly caring about the credit distribution. It all spends the same.
The clerk’s fingers hover impatiently over the keys. “Which is it?”
“Split it four and three,” I tell her. “Doesn’t really matter.”
Faye bites her lower lip, her eyes sparkling, trying to hide a grin.
The clerk nods and enters the information. “Standard rate applies. Five thousand credits per capture, transferred upon confirmation of delivery. Expected payment within forty-eight hours.”
A total of 35,000 credits. Not bad for a night’s work, but not what it should be either. There were times we would’ve easily bagged twelve or fifteen in the same hunting grounds.
They’ve been more careful lately. Less audacious.
“Sign here,” the clerk says, sliding a digital pad toward us. We both press our thumbs to the screen, completing the transaction.
As we walk back to our vehicle, now empty of its deadly cargo, Faye voices what I’ve been thinking.
“It’s been so quiet lately,” she says, frowning. “Last three runs have been below average. I only caught one today. One. I should’ve at least gotten triple that. Something’s off.”
I nod, scanning the city skyline. “Someone may be warning them.”
“Or,” Faye smirks, nudging me, “you’ve been scaring them off our borders. They probably tell each other scary stories about you. Seraph Rosen, the dhampir who drinks her blood red and her coffee black.”
“Much better than that powdered protein sludge you keep calling a meal.”
Faye laughs, giving me another nudge, harder this time.
“That sludge,” she says, “has fifty grams of protein in it and allows me to keep up with your ferocious ass.”
I snort, but there’s no real humor in it. “If only it were that simple.”
The truth is more concerning. Wild vampires may be more animal than human, but they are intelligent nonetheless. My father used to say that in hunting, what you don’t see is more dangerous than what you do. If they’ve gone quiet, it means something bad is coming. I know it, Faye knows it.
And everyone at Redmoore knows it, too.
The heart of Penn City, also known as the entertainment district, is bustling with energy as usual.
Neon bleeds across puddled cobblestone as I pull my fur coat tighter around my shoulders, more out of habit than necessity.
The cold doesn’t bother me like it does humans, but I suppose it’s learned behavior.
Keepers seem to have increased their patrols on the main streets, red armbands stark against black uniforms. Trouble, then. Either a brawl or a body.
I slip away before they notice me, ducking into a side alley where the lights don’t reach. The air back here tastes of rust and rot. My boots are silent on the slick pavement as I duck under a low-hanging fire escape, then leap over a stack of crates that block the narrow passageway.
The alley opens up to reveal Hot Shot, a classic bar nestled between a pawnshop and an outdated arcade. Its weathered brick exterior and opaque windows make it nearly invisible to casual passersby, though perfect for those who prefer their drinking establishments off the grid.
The bouncer gives me a curt nod as I approach, stepping aside. He knows me, or at least knows enough not to ask questions. I slip inside, my eyes adjusting instantly to the dim lighting.
Music thrums from speakers mounted in the corners, loud enough to ensure private conversations stay private.
Worn leather booths are tucked into shadowy corners, while a polished mahogany bar that has survived decades of elbows and spilled drinks dominates the center of the space.
It has a perfect blend of vintage charm and underground grit, making it my favorite place to sit.
Shelves of tall and stout and bulbous liquor bottles hang overhead, gleaming like jewels—whiskeys in rich ambers, vodkas clear as tears, and scattered among them, discreet black bottles with no labels. Those are for patrons like me.
I slide onto a stool at the far end of the bar, where I can keep my eyes on both the entrance and the back door. Force of habit.
The bartender, Lou, a burly man with tattoos crawling up his neck, walks up to me without being summoned.
“Seraph,” he acknowledges, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his waistband. “The usual?”
I nod and scan the room once more. No sign of him yet.
Lou pours two fingers of crimson liquid from an unmarked bottle into my glass, his hand steady from years of practice.
Bliskey—human blood cut with top-shelf bourbon—is legal in Penn City, but only in premises with special licenses like this one.
I take an indulgent sip, savoring the metallic tang followed by the burning caress of alcohol. The taste lingers on my tongue as my phone pings with an apologetic text from Max.
The screen rises in a shimmering 3D hologram, invisible except to anyone perfectly aligned with its beam, words floating in midair:
Running late, sorry. Meeting with Henderson went long.