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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It was close to dawn when he heard Nora Walker stumbling down the hidden stairs behind the bar, muffled curses and irregular thumps attesting to every step she missed in the dark. The vampire he was serving became a meaningless blur as his senses honed in on her automatically, the product of years of careful training. Everything she did called to him now, like blood to a shark, and he followed with the same cold curiosity.
The door swung open, hitting the wall so hard it made the liquor bottles rattle on their shelves. An impressive show of strength, considering her characteristically human lack of it. And her reflexes...
They were woeful enough to make him pause as she stubbed her toe on a cupboard that wasn't even close to being in her way. Like tasting rain in the air, he anticipated a flicker of exasperation, a tug of drawstrings that would pull his mouth into a sneer. How many times had he saved her from herself? Ruben had never met anyone so oblivious to their own mortality, who openly invited danger and seemed to dare the world to break her. She flocked to chaos like a moth to light, utterly beguiled by the false promise of its power, forever lost in the night.
The feeling — if it could even be called that — passed as quickly as it came. Ruben resisted the urge to rub at the cold lump of stone in his chest, masked by the folds of the too-large shirt he'd had to button up at the sleeves.
Nora was rubbing her arms as she trudged around the bar, though he doubted her shivers had anything to do with the cold. The ambient temperature of the club was perfectly controlled, courtesy of the intricate spells he'd woven into the walls of the pocket dimension when he made it.
"Hello?" the vampire said haughtily, snapping her fingers for attention. "It's a drink, not rocket science. What's taking so long?"
Ruben blinked, noticing the customer again. A blonde bob, wide blue eyes and a daring slash of red lipstick. He recalled that she'd been rude to Nora last weekend, pretending to spill her drink all down the front of her dress by accident, but what had she asked for just now?
It was a foolish lapse in concentration, one that would have earned the wrath of his grandfather, so he racked his memory for what she'd said when she flagged him down. Something flirty, based on the way she leaned over the bar and forced eye contact, but he couldn't recall anything beyond that. He would have to rely on the ingredients he'd automatically set out on the bench.
Vodka. Tomato juice. A dash of human blood (generously donated, of course) and a squeeze of lemon. He performed the task automatically, watching the fledgling Dark Witch out of the corner of his eye, noting the way she slumped in a velvet armchair across the room.
Something had upset her. He had an inkling of what it was, who it involved, but the drink was finished now, and it wouldn't have been pertinent to ask her anyway. He was supposed to be a fly on the wall, a bartender and nothing more. To admit his curiosity would betray his mission.
