The black owl spoke into Vjun’s ear. “Are you sure you can do this?”
The vampire hunter rolled his eyes. “For the hundredth time, yes, I’m sure.”
He crept up a hill through dark trees, making his way by moonlight, Aryana perched on his shoulder. He held a crossbow, already loaded with a bolt dipped in fae blood.
When I emerged from my coffin to stalk the darkness, I didn’t expect to find inspiration.
I strolled through a graveyard under a blanket of night. The gravestones glowed a ghostly gray luminescence under the gaze of the full moon, and shadows jittered with ghoulish glee as the boughs of trees swayed
Cal Ravenwood would have killed for a cigarette. Much to his chagrin, he was trying to quit. Not so much for health reasons, but because nicotine and the use of magic didn’t mix well. It was one of the unspoken laws of the Dark Matter, the entity from which all magic was born.
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