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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Megan Harlow watched, one hand on her hip, as money opened yet another door for her. Once she would have flushed with satisfaction at how easily she could leverage others' greed, but now she tapped her foot, barely checking her impatience as the guards counted bank notes and checked their authenticity.
Despite trying to get into this place for months, she didn't want to stay any longer than necessary. The Incantum's maximum security ward was a dank, dark place, eerily reminiscent of an ancient tomb. And the humidity; what torture! She smoothed her hair down again, wishing for a mirror to check her lipstick. Apparently they were too dangerous to keep down here, given the inmates' creativity and propensity for violence.
She thought it a moot point, given the maze of pocket dimensions one had to navigate to get in or out, but the Incantum was nothing if not extravagant. Each member of the Council of Thirteen held a piece of the map that led to this place, and only by bringing them all together could they visit the man behind the door she now faced.
The False Prophet. Destroyer of Worlds.
She'd lost more men to this maze than she could count, but her fortune had changed abruptly last night when Lachlan Smith stumbled into her chambers, bloodied and filthy, brandishing a hastily drawn copy of the map. Five, long years had finally culminated in this moment.
The guards pocketed a year's worth of salary and departed, leaving the key hanging in the lock in a terribly convenient oversight.
Megan waved Lachlan forward, refusing to touch the grimy door handle. He heaved against the solid plate of iron, boots scraping on the stones. A yawning abyss opened up in the stone, threatening to swallow them whole.
Straightening her skirts, Megan held her head high and marched into the void.
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Lachlan barely contained a derisive snort as the Councilwoman lifted the emerald encrusted hem of her robes, stepping over the threshold with an imperious air. She acted like she was the reigning Queen of the Incantum, not merely the Fourth member of its Council of Thirteen. It was honestly pathetic, though he supposed he ought to afford her some credit for infiltrating their illustrious ranks at the scant age of thirty. It made him feel slightly better for being outmaneuvered by her as well.
