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I grab my trash and throw it in the garbage can across the room, unable to stand the unorganized workspace any longer.
Vae looks like he wants to say something, but before he can, the door creaks open. Gavran enters, his heavy footfalls echoing as he crosses the room and lifts his chin in greeting.
He takes his seat at the head of the table with the same silent stoicism of leadership we’ve all grown to appreciate over the centuries.
Caelan, my second packmate and the anchor of our triad, follows right on Gav’s heels. His onyx eyes flick toward me, taking in the maps, ledgers, computers, and notes I’ve been buried under for the last seven hours.
His frown deepens.
Vae might have immediately picked up on my shitty mood, but Caelan dissects it. He wields his ability to read a room the way he wields a blade—precise, fast, and oftentimes cutting deeper than I like.
Sometimes he’s too intuitive.
He’d feel better if he punched a few more things like the rest of us.
Before Caelan can start an interrogation, the rest of our crew filters in. Silas’ laughter carries through the room ahead of him, probably antagonizing someone before we’ve even called the meeting to order. He’s followed by his two packmates, Ford and Evander.
Ford, as usual, saunters in looking like someone gave James Dean a sword, fangs, and the looks and skill to handle both.
In contrast, Evander moves like a male who knows he towers over everyone in any room—almost self-consciously aware of his muscled bulk, and terrified of accidentally injuring anyone smaller than he is.
Seven warriors. Seven brothers. By choice if not by blood.
Two Fated and Bonded packs, and our leader, a lone Alpha who’s as stoic as he is brave.
This is the core team of Bloodbound’s main headquarters.
We’re vampire warriors—an organization that’s existed for over fifteen-hundred years. On paper, we answer to the Council of Nine, but in reality, we answer to no one but Gavran. He’s not only the leader of the main HQ here in Massachusetts, but he’s the head of the entire global organization.
His official title, Last Shield, is more than ceremonial.
As an organization, we’re dedicated to hunting the Severed and protecting our kind. Some call us cops, some call us military, and a small minority even have the balls to call us antiquated—but never to our faces.
Honestly? We’re whatever we need to be to get the job done.
With thousands of seasoned warriors across the globe, it’s getting harder and harder for vampires involved in criminal acts to outwit or outrun us.
If we didn’t have to deal with the fucking Severed, the vampire race as a whole wouldn’t dare step out of line. As it stands, those undead assholes take up the majority of our time and resources, which allows piece of shit vampires to slip through the cracks more often than we’d like.
Then again, the Severed were once vampires, so it’s not like they wouldn’t exist if they never made the transition. They’d just be normal vampires instead of psychopaths warped by ancient blood magic they don’t understand and can barely use.
Gav flicks his amber gaze at me. “What have you got tonight, Dax?”
Clearing my throat, I prepare to lay out my discoveries, hoping someone will see what I’m missing.
“Something’s off with the Severed’s patterns recently,” I inform the team, pulling a stack of papers out of my mess on the table.
“Around March of this year, I began flagging anomalies. Alexander, a Severed leader in the area, started visiting a human Alpha’s estate outside the city.”
Shuffling through my papers, I find the dossier and pass the copies around the table. I gesture to the photo in Vae’s hands.
“This is the owner of the property. Jonathan Varenthrall. Human, Alpha, works in acquisitions. Public records show his family has lived on that land for decades. His parents were killed in a Severed attack when he was seven. He had a wife who died almost a decade ago. I also found a birth record for one child. A daughter, who would be in her early twenties.”
“So, his parents were killed by Severed, and now he’s entertaining one at his home?” Gav asks, perplexed.
“So it would seem,” I reply, dispersing estate photos pulled from drone footage.
Ford raises a brow. “Deadwalkers don’t interact with humans.” He frowns, twirling his favorite brass lighter through dexterous fingers. “What changed?”
