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The stars are bright and the moon is high. Eve, VarnLiqn and myself are standing in the middle of an immense amphitheater completely composed of rock—definitely Greek or Roman. The marble grand stands are occupied by dozens of hooded fiends in long cloaks: The Cult of Poseidon. They all rise to their feet as soon as we pop into existence in front of them.

"Wrong cube," I squeak.

"Well, you're early," says Poseidon. We collectively spin our heels to face the First Antecedent as he stands from a stone throne. The old vampire is at least seven feet tall, his stature dense with muscle. He's completely bald with a long gray beard I could easily hide behind. His pale body seems to glow in the moonlight as he steps toward us, dressed only in simple linen pants. An iridescent trident—black and gleaming as spilled oil—is gripped firmly in his hand.

Eve reaches into her bag and pulls out her Glock. She fires wildly at Poseidon's barrel chest. Poseidon returns a smile. "Rude, girl. I was hoping we could chat."

The cultists sprint toward us, emptying from the stands. Brave VarnLiqn screeches in defiance but I can feel him quivering. I put my arm around Eve and throw the other void cube. We fall through the dirt beneath our feet.

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