Dion isn’t yet twenty-four hours old, and he’s causing more problems in real life than he does in my story.
The six-foot-six holographic Atlantean warrior snorts, scanning the conference crowd. “These posers reek of weak character arcs and chosen-one tropes.”
“That’s rude,” I whisper.
“This place is crawling with tropes.” Dion points at people
“Great,” Mo mutters. “Our plans for watching Star Trek reruns are botched.”
“Full moons always occur on the most inconvenient nights,” I sigh.
We hurry around the facility gathering werewolf hunting supplies. Mo fetches the night vision goggles and thermal imaging cameras. Dad goes for the silver net and wolfsbane tranquilizer guns.
Save my son.
The plea echoed in Marek’s head, as dark and haunting as the forest through which he stumbled. His breathing labored—as did that of the unconscious child cradled in his arms.
“Come on, David, stay with me,” he begged.
Something rustled in the bushes ahead. Marek halted and squinted into
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