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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Tree branches interlocked over the narrow stretch of gravel road, shielding our car intermittently from the winter sun. I felt like we were nestled in the rib cage of some giant, decaying beast; everything in the woods was slowly rotting, and the moist smell of it seeped in through the cracked windows and heating vents. I wrinkled my nose at the motley leaf litter, wondering just how many bugs and spiders called it home.
Somewhere ahead, by all reports, was a mansion with the finest luxuries mankind had to offer. It amused me that this pinnacle of civilisation, as Waters had proudly referred to the recently renovated estate, belonged to what was arguably the least refined example of humanity: a race of half-wild beast men, who inspired the pages of countless romance novels and Netflix scripts with their caveman approach to romance. I wondered if werewolves bought into the cheesy soul-mate nonsense, or worse; the glorification of Stockholm syndrome, masquerading as paranormal romance and littering the discover page of my audiobook store.
My head was so littered with all the various takes on werewolf legends that I realised, as I headed into the den of their most powerful leader, that I knew very little about the mess I was getting myself into. All I knew for certain — if the books and shows were to be believed — was that someone ridiculously powerful and compellingly attractive was sure to fall head-over-heels in love with me at first sight.
And then they would try and force me to love them back.
Ruben tapped my knee. Looking to him in silent question, he proffered a silent answer, bundled in one hand. It was one of the sweaters he'd packed at my apartment without my permission. Suddenly glad for his audacity in that moment, I accepted his offering with grateful haste, sticking both arms through the holes and shrugging it over my head.
The wool caught around my elbows and enveloped my head in a little capsule of darkness. "How long until we get there?" I asked, my words muffled along with the light. No one answered as I shifted this way and that, pulling the navy fabric free of my face.
And then I saw why.
A golden field stretched on for acres, rimmed by dense bushland on all sides. The gravel road had transitioned into smooth, black tar, marked with lines so crisp they must have been recently painted.
But the road, for all its uncanny symmetry in the midst of this wild plain, could not compete for my attention with the glorious house looming beyond the windshield. Glass, wood and stone were ingeniously staggered to create several tiers of luxurious accomodation. Each rooftop featured a new recreational space, and my eyes struggled to accommodate the wealth on display. The crystal blues of swimming pools; lush, emerald gardens, bejewelled with seasonal flowers; bustling restaurants with ruby heat lamps; golden galleries in which to catch one's breath.
I was surprised by the intensity of the urge I felt to explore the mansion; to drink in the unique aesthetic of every room and snatch up every shiny memory the place had on offer, like a greedy magpie pecking up spare change on the sidewalk. I could scarcely believe, looking at how these people lived on the daily, that I'd ever been content with the cramped city apartment I shared with my mother. Was I like that sad, colourful little fish she kept in the bowl on the kitchen bench, getting duller and more lethargic with each day? Enrichment aside, had I ever truly had room to breathe?
