Edwin van Hellsong was a simple man.

He proudly continued the traditions of his ancestors: he went to church, yodelled, and hunted vampires for execution.

Of course, that had become more difficult since the Supernormal Accords, but his family was never fooled.

The vampires were just waiting for their moment; the day of reckoning drew ever closer.

And it all started with the New Bloods.

As he’d heard, Lawrence Crispley—their leader and his family’s mortal enemy—had been dispatched by an elite team of Blackwells headed by their heir.

Damn magi stole all the fun.

Still, that didn’t mean there were none left. Hiding in the dark, waiting for their moment to pounce. To enact the twisted ideals of their lost leader.

So he’d come to Blackpool.

He was in an alley, narrow and dark with a viscous feeling in the air that made his skin crawl. Bins and dumpsters lay outside service doors, musty and metallic odours mixing and drifting up his nose—the cold metal of a dumpster pressed through his leather coat.

The low hum of machinery melded with gasps and giggles.

On the other side from where he crouched, a tall and skinny man with glowing red eyes pinned a young woman to the wall.

His arms planted on the bricks to each side, he leaned in, scraping sharp incisors across her throat. She threw her head back, moaning.

“I’m going to suck you dry,” he said, voice low and husky.

“That’s my line,” she said, giggling breathily.

Sharp heat bloomed in Hellsong, making his lip curl. The damn creature had already enthralled his victim—a common tactic among vampires to ensure the pliability of their prey—and was just inches from stealing away her life.

He heard groaning and laughing and the rustling of fabric.

Another spike of indignation pierced him—this was exactly how Crispley had operated. Lure them in, then either kill them or turn them into monsters.

Sometimes even children. His grandfather had saved them, though.

He grit his teeth; pushing back his coattails, he reached into his waistband and withdrew two things. A stake in his left hand, a Desert Eagle in the right.

He exhaled, straightening so he stood.

He leveled the gun on the vampire, who was trying to devour the poor woman’s face—even if he couldn’t erase his family’s eternal foe, he could at least erase his legacy.

He fired.

***

The smell was intoxicating.

When she’d been a child, with only slightly less craving for blood than she had now—there had been a particularly aggressive three months after she first read Fight Circle—the smell had been the best part.

Although clean, there would still be an aroma of dust, almost baked into the pages of the tomes resting there.

In Waterrocks, though, all the books were new. Which she understood, to a degree—only new books made authors any money, and they were an impoverished lot as it was.

But the smell of new pages, although fresh and crisp and calming, had nothing on the scent of a book with history.

Still, Brendan Sanders had released a new novel, so it couldn’t be helped. The internet was too impersonal; the joy of discovery lay in physical pages, not some strings of data on a screen.

The shop was long and narrow, each wall hidden by mountainous shelves, each labeled with a different genre. In the middle of the left wall was a counter, from which the soft ringing of the register came. It was the only noise aside from the light breathing of the few patrons.

Across from the register and its smiling attendant, a staircase stood, and Hannah made a beeline for it. 

All the good stuff was upstairs.

Rounding some railed barriers, she came to her favourite corner—the fantasy section. She found her quarry immediately, being it was on a table with a little card on top reading ‘prepare for the avalanche!’.

That was no fun.

So she ignored it, instead scanning the spines and pulling out anything that looked interesting. If the cover intrigued her, she would read the blurb, and soon enough, she had a pile of over twenty books to buy.

That would eat most of the money she had left.

More importantly, how was she supposed to carry it all? Even vampiric strength had its limits, like the concepts of gravity and balance.

Regardless, she arranged the books into two piles. They wouldn’t fit under her arms, but if she could balance them against her chest, she’d have a better chance of not dropping anything.

Scooping up the two stacks, she realised her mistake.

Rather than resting on her shoulders, the tops rested against her face. If she sneezed, it was over. A strong cough might have the same effect.

There was also the darkness overtaking her vision. That felt important.

But she’d committed. Putting the books down meant defeat, the one thing she would never admit. Heroes didn’t give up. She would descend the stairs without dropping a single one, and carry her haul home to great mental fanfare.

Somehow.

Her plan cemented, she stepped forward. The first obstacle would be the corner.

She felt something sliding on the stacks, and her heart fluttered. Impossible! Had she placed them wrong?

Thump.

A single hardcover bounced off the carpet.

Tittering, she calmed her roiling nerves. It was okay. One failure did not equate to a defeat, because the moment of defeat was when you gave up. She could come back for that one; it was more trips than she’d anticipated, but it didn’t matter.

Thump.

She growled.

Simmering, she carefully paced over the fallen volumes, heart tearing from her chest. She had given herself one job. The one labour of Hannah. By basic maths, it should be a twelfth the difficulty of Hercules’ trials, yet she’d already screwed it up.

Setting her jaw, she shook herself. She could do this. She was strong. She deserved these books.

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind her, “you look like you could use a hand.”

She could have used several, she thought, but she kept her mouth shut. Why did he automatically assume she was struggling? Dropped books aside, she was making excellent progress.

Thump.

Sweating, she heard footsteps approaching, and then one of the stacks disappeared from her grip.

She twitched. “Excuse me, but you’re interrupting the one labour of Hannah, a trial left to me by…” Trailing off, her tongue froze as her newly freed eyes took him in. 

He was average height and lithe, with messy black hair and bright, red eyes and a warm smile—he wore jeans and a bulky coat. 

That smile. She tried to smile back, and released a shaky giggle. “Yes, please; thank you, sir! Uh, I mean… whatever your name is. I’m Hannah!”

Chuckling, he placed more books onto his pile. The ones from the floor. He’d picked them up.

Her heart melted. 

“Yeah, I got that,” he said, eying her. “Derren. So what’s this about a trial?”

“Oh, nothing.” She looked away, cheeks burning. “More importantly, thank you!”

He cocked his head. “No problem—always happy to help a fellow vampiric bookworm.”

That was right, wasn’t it? She hadn’t even noticed the colour of his eyes in her confusion; he was exactly like her. Judging from his slightly-pudgy cheeks and innocent demeanor, he’d been turned as a teen too.

Everything about her softened.

Then she noticed Derren waving a book around, saying her name.

“Sorry,” she said. “I got lost in thought.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I was just saying that this is a really good book. Spinsa’s hands-down one of my favourite protagonists, like, ever.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I know, right? Sometimes I wanna come out with one of those weird speeches, but it’s way too embarrassing.”

He chuckled, his lop-sided smile again making her heart beat quicker. “Don’t worry what other people think; you can wear the teeth of your enemies as a necklace if you want.”

Giggling, she tried to cover her mouth. Books shifted, and she thought better of it.

“Shall we?” said Derren, beckoning her on.

She followed him down the stairs, reaching the counter and dumping her trove. There hadn’t been a rule of her trial saying she couldn’t accept help, so she’d passed, as far as she was concerned.

Of course, if there had been, she could have just changed it—that seemed to be how things worked.

The attendant—a bland middle-aged woman—bagged her items, and Hannah stole glances between her purchases and Derren.

He leaned on the counter, staring at nothing in particular. 

Her intestines twisted around each other. She didn’t want this moment, this meeting, to end. She needed to find what lay behind those enticing eyes and that gorgeous smile. 

But how did she get him to stay?

“Thanks very much!” said the attendant, and she suppressed a sigh.

This was it, then. She looked back at Derren, but he still wasn’t paying attention. A sentence crept up her throat, then fled back down.

She turned away.

“So,” said Derren, “that’s a lot of books for one person to have to carry home.”

***

Jack’s starry gaze wouldn’t move from the plate. No matter what he did, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He didn’t want to.

Sugar was a basic fuel for the brain, but more than that, it was happiness incarnate, dancing across the tongue.

He usually didn’t keep anything sweet around, since for all her faults, Lydia was at least enlightened by the path of sugar content.

That had been proven the previous day, when she’d devoured the Swiss roll in his cupboard. The entire damn thing.

Except the slice he had cleverly hidden in a desk drawer—the one at which he stared. It was a little stale, but such was the price of a piece of Heaven.

Clotted cream swirled between a moist chocolate sponge, inviting his lips closer.

“Do you really have to take a cake so seriously?” said Razor, her tone light.

Shut up! Our entire thing is taking ridiculous stuff seriously!

Grinning in anticipation, he moved to pick up his treat.

He dropped it when someone knocked on the door. A rough and heavy knock, like they were trying to break it down. Probably Barry.

With an exhale, he picked up his cake.

The pounding resumed.

He groaned, standing up and striding out the room.

“Wait, where are you going? Don’t you need me to—”

I’m answering the door, Razor, relax.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. “I’ve told you a million times, Barry, I don’t have your bloody—” He pursed his lips, confused by the lack of a landlord on his doorstep.

Instead, it was a tall man with dark hair, wearing a second-hand suit with obvious patches on the breast. He recognised him, but wasn’t sure where from.

“Jack Of All Trades,” he said.

“Yeah, uh…” Of all the people he’d met, this one had to be recent. “You’re a detective, right? Hercule?”

The man bristled. “What part of me looks Belgian? I don’t even have a moustache!”

Oh, was it the American guy? “Harry Dre—”

“How many times will this story beat that horse?”

He was left genuinely perplexed. Scratching his head, he said, “Kelsier?”

“He’s as far from a detective as you can get!” His nostrils flared. “I literally appeared in the last chapter, you moron.”

Which one had been the last chapter, again? He palmed his fist. “You’re Dylan from school, aren’t you? Never woulda pegged you for the lawman type, if I’m honest.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried.”

Waving him in, Jack began ascending. “You must be here for that Dirby game I borrowed in year six, right? Come on up.”

Eye twitching, the detective followed. “No, I’m here to hire you.”

“Hire me? To find your copy of Cario? All these years, and you’re still losing it?”

He slammed the door shut. “I’m not Dylan!”

“Sure thing,” said Jack, craning his head. “That’s exactly what Dylan would say.”

“Who the fuck is Dylan anyway?!”