By David Wellington
In the following 23 hours, there'll be no reprieve,
no mercy, and no time without work for reliable behavior.
When vampire hunter Laura Caxton is locked up in a maximum-security legal, the cop-turned-con unearths herself surrounded via numerous murderers and death-row inmates with not anything to lose . . . and many time to kill.
Caxton’s consistently been in a position to watch her personal back–even whilst it’s opposed to a cell-block wall–but quickly she learns that a good better probability has slithered at the back of the bars to affix her. Justinia Malvern, the world’s oldest residing vampire, has taken up place of dwelling, and her energy grows via the instant as she raids the inmate inhabitants like an open bar with an all-you-can-drink offer of clean blood. The artful previous vampire understands simply the way to pull Caxton’s strings, too, and she's issued an ultimatum that Laura can’t refuse.
Now Laura has simply 23 hours to struggle her approach via a gauntlet of vampires, cons, and killers . . . 23 hours to make one final, determined try out at holding the realm from Justinia’s evil.
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Sample text
Harry Keogh: The Dweller's father, his bloodsire. After the battle, Harry had sojourned awhile with Karen in her aerie; who but a magician out of the hell-lands would dare? She was, after all, Wamphyri! But upon his return to the garden he'd reported Karen's demise: how, in order to avoid some dark, unspoken fate, she had killed herself. Perhaps it was so, but mention her name to The Dweller and he would only smile. Except... these days he wasn't much given to smiling. Lardis arrived at his destination: a white stone bungalow with round windows and a chalet-styled roof, situated close to a hot spring.
But luxury to some. Certainly to Travellers, who hadn't known what a permanent home was before The Dweller and his garden. ' She nodded, 'Yes, Starside, the garden. ' She smiled at him. ' 'My ... ' His eyes went back to her face. It looked very lovely in the soft, uneven yellow flow of the lamplight; most of the electricity from The Dweller's generators went to the greenhouses. 'Yes, my "fever",' Harry said again, nodding wrily. No fever, he knew. Just his shattered mind, gradually pulling its bits together again.
He had lost, been deprived of, several of his senses -like losing touch and taste. Which left him feeling numb, and life flavourless. The Gypsy woman smiled and slowly nodded, as if the sharpness of Harry's words had confirmed some unspoken thing. 'You are wilful,' she said what was on her mind. 'All of you hell-landers are alike, wild and wilful. Zekintha, called Zek, and Jazz Simmons: they were the same. If only they had stayed here. Their hot blood - their children - would be welcome among the Travellers.