Nora Walker, a psychic vampire, is conscripted into a task-force of supernatural legends that care more for themselves than the cataclysmic threat they face...
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Lithe fingers dug into his shoulders like steel rods, yanking him into the darkness. Ruben's boots scraped against the asphalt, the only sound as a cold hand clamped over his mouth, manicured nails digging into his cheek, sharp and sturdy as kitchen knives.
They both paused their quiet struggle as Nora looked over her shoulder, squinting into the night. "Hello?"
She can't find out, he thought, keeping his body rigid, even as his instincts screamed at him to move. Akira would kill her if his alias was compromised. The only reason Nora was allowed to live was so that Ruben could shadow her every move, intercepting and interrogating any agents the False Prophet sent her way. Akira suspected they were working in tandem, but Ruben believed Henry was afraid of her potential. Why else would he send so many thugs and assassins her way?
Like this one, he thought, grunting as he bit down on the woman's hand. It was like trying to take a chunk out of a porcelain mug, his teeth squealing as they grazed over her luminous skin. Vampire. She huffed a laugh, but Nora had already turned away, resuming the long trek back to her apartment. Ruben waited until she passed through the dangerous gap in the streetlights, only relaxing once she emerged unharmed.
The woman clasped his head with both hands, fixing it in place with supernatural strength. It seemed he was to be the prey this night. One sharp twist was all it would take to snap Ruben's pitifully human spine and end his life. There was no fear in the thought, but cold curiosity prevented him from embracing death. There was so much more he wanted to see of that paradoxical girl's life. Nora never bored him, and yet he sensed her adventures were only just beginning; he wanted to observe them all.
Ruben reached into the lapel of his jacket, pulling out the bulkiest of his knives. She chuckled when he buried it in her thigh, evidently the type of vampire that enjoyed toying with its prey.
"Did you really think that would work?" she asked. Ruben caught a flash of red lipstick — the girl from the bar.
Refusing to stoop to her banter, he muttered a chant, twisting the knife. Her wound glared ultraviolet and she screamed as he ripped a seam along her thigh, blood sizzling under the light of the crystal blade. It was no mere UV emitter; this blade housed a tiny fraction of the sun itself, and was specially forged to slice through vampires like they were warm butter.
Nothing was beyond his means. Space and time was his needle and thread, and he moulded the universe to his will, tailoring the Mother Dimension as he pleased. It was a neat compromise for the supernatural strength he lacked, along with his stout refusal to learn the ways of a battle mage. He didn't trust himself to control wild and destructive magic, but he could channel the arcane through his tinkering, and he could control his body with rigorous training. His artefacts would have inspired ancient ballads, imbued with the power of the Gods themselves.
Ruben was no God. He was a man, and he had somewhere pressing to be. So he whipped the glowing blade up to the vampire's chin, pushing her up against the brick wall of the alley.
