By David Wellington
All of the respectable studies say they're dead-extinct because the overdue ’80s, whilst a fed named Arkeley nailed the final vampire in a struggle that just about killed him. however the facts proves otherwise.
When a country trooper named Caxton calls the FBI searching for assist in the center of the evening, it truly is Arkeley who will get the assignment-who else? He’s been awaiting one of these name to return ultimately. convinced, it's been years for the reason that any indicators of an assault, yet Arkeley understands what most folk don’t: there's one left. In an deserted asylum she is rotting, plotting, and biding her time in a fashion that basically the undead can.
Caxton is out of her league in this case and greater than a bit afraid, however the fed made it simple that there's just one approach out. however the worst factor is the sensation that the vampires wish greater than simply her blood. they wish her for a cause, one she can’t bet; a cause her sphinxlike companion is familiar with yet won’t say; a cause she has to discover out-or die trying.
Now there are just thirteen bullets among Caxton and Arkeley and the vampires. There are just 13 bullets among us, the residing, and them, the damned.
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Additional resources for 13 Bullets
The nomad Jed had brought to the Skullery. That had to be him. Loki sharpened his senses, focusing on their conversation. “The Circle has a long history in Chicago, of course,” Jed was saying. “We’ve always been here. ” “It’s the crossroads,” Raven said. ” Loki glided closer. It was a hunt, though not of the usual kind. His prey was not mortal tonight, and it was not blood he was after. A sleepy cawk came from somewhere above him. A crow startled in its roost. Crows again. Loki looked up, warily.
Loki tried not to think about charcoal, and took one more deep breath. “Okay, deal,” he agreed. ” She nodded. ” The black-clad blond dug a ring of keys out of a pocket and began to unfasten Loki’s bonds. ” It hurt like hell to pull himself up to a sitting position, and then to his feet, but apart from the bloody mess of his chest, which was partially healed now, and what fighting the handcuffs had done to his wrists, he was apparently not too much the worse for wear. They were in someone’s apartment—Asian geek’s, he guessed, from the Chinese calligraphy scrolls on the walls and the fact that he was the one now putting the kettle on.
Ghostly crows with real claws, and he had felt the scratches (now thankfully healed) to prove it. Ghosts, period, dammit. What had he done to deserve this shit? Better get back to civilization. He stopped long enough to wipe the dried blood from his face and hands with his sleeve—for ghosts, those crows had damned sharp claws—and started walking back toward the firelight. the murder of crows the murder of crows It wasn’t until late the following night that he was able to investigate the package he’d found in the pit.