My throat is so dry. My tongue so swollen. All I can think of is the great thirst within me. The need to find the one thing which will satisfy my soul—or, what was once my soul before it was stolen from me.
Blood. I need blood. And I need it now.
I sidled closer to the battle trophy, my palm itching to finally hold the rune-etched hilt.
The dead warrior’s blade had been there as long as I could remember—stabbed into the center of the cave’s floor. Every day I’d gaze at it, and the warrior’s name would dance in my thoughts to a tune only I seemed to hear.
They were arguing again. He could hear their voices rising, drowning out the sound of Johnny Carson on the TV. He pulled the covers over his head and tried to ignore them.
“Ugh, this stupid cabinet. I can never get this door open,” She said.
“You know, it’s not easy to find something that shouldn’t exist.”
Bradley shook awake. Ropes held his body to a chair, old and coarse bindings. Sitting alone in what appeared to be an attic lit solely by moonlight from windows to the right and left, he could not trace the deep voice to a source.
The man came to a stop in a beam of sunlight struggling through the dust-smeared windowpane, and the glow peeled a mask of shadow off his face, revealing white skin pulled tightly over his skull and teeth visible through paper-thin lips.
I clutched the countertop to keep from staggering. Okay. Not Indy. “What are you?”
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Only someone with a death wish would risk trespassing on werewolf territory during the full moon, but Tari was good as dead anyway.
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In a world where mythical creatures lived and worked alongside a human population, anything could happen, and it usually did. That’s why they called me, Special Agent Ramses II, and my partner, Bernie Clayberg, with Mythical Crime Scene Investigations.
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