By DD Barant
FBI profiler Jace Valchek was once pulled into this parallel realm to seek for Aristotle Stoker, a human serial killer who preys on vampires and werewolves. Now she works for the nationwide defense employer of the Unnatural States of America—and her boss is a vampire. At a strange crime scene, Jace reveals a bloodsucker murdered by means of magic, fried to the bone and wearing the dress of the comedian ebook hero the Flash—a personality who isn’t imagined to exist the following. comedian books were outlawed for his or her powers, together with crossover spells just like the person who transported Jace to this global. quickly, she’s following a path of useless our bodies into the sinister underworld of black-market comics—where a deranged madman supplies new intending to the time period “super-villain”…
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I go to his office, but he isn’t there. His receptionist—a female thrope with short blond hair and overlong eyelashes—tells me he’s at the clinic. ” That was where the NSA had put me when I first arrived. She blinks once, slowly. I feel a gentle breeze wash over me. “He doesn’t do any work for the government,” she says. Blink. It’s like being fanned by tiny palm leaves. “He’s at the anthrocanine clinic on Pike Street. It’s more of a shelter, really, but Dr. ” I get directions, thank her, and leave.
And that was over a week ago. He picked up a few things he had on order, then took off. ” Gus is a blackmarket dealer in various esoteric items—charms, weapons, the occasional shipment of Cloven or Bane. Right now, we’re in a shipping container buried in the middle of a bunch of other shipping containers in a storage lot just outside Seattle. A real rat-in-a-woodpile kind of office, but pires didn’t need things like light, air, or heat. The only way to get in or out is a tunnel that connects to a sewer outflow pipe, and he keeps guards posted on that.
He glances down at his watch. “You’ll have to leave now. ” He pulls a small, dark blue candle from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Here. ” I take the candle. ” “Something like that. ” “Not exactly—it’s a type of magic called oneiromancy. ” I’m halfway up the stairs before I can remember where I’ve heard that term before. Oneiromancy. Dream magic. I half expect the exit to dump me out in a completely different place, but I’m still under the Fremont Street bridge. No sign of Warren, but he’s probably using a completely different entrance to get to the same place.