You look up.
You're on a bridge over the river. Standing nearby is a man with icy white skin, ink black hair, and a long tailored jacket, the tails flapping in the wind.
He reeks of death and stale, rotten blood.
Blackwell.
"Take the acquisitions to Thank Q," the vampire says in a voice that sounds almost bored. "Dump the bodies in the river. Wait, no. Not that one. That's their top dog. Cut it up, make it look like a wolf attack, and leave it somewhere they'll find it. Better take the—oh." Blackwell's eyes light on you. "This one is still alive. You fools. I told you, use the silver. These beasts aren't human. The damn things don't die unless—"
You leap at him. In that instant, your injury doesn't matter. All that matters is killing that filthy dead fuck. You fly forward, a storm of rage, teeth, and death. But the vampire that ends up in your jaws isn't Blackwell. You rip its head off anyway.
KILLKILLKILLKILLKILL
Somewhere, not too far away, seventy-something werewolves stop what they're doing. You feel them, eyes bright and ears pricked.
hunt?hunt?hunt?hunt?hunt?
You look around at the dozen vampires on the bridge with you. Two are in police uniforms. The rest wear tacky, green aprons. They're all smiling, eyes dead and glazed.
But then you see him...
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