The worst part was the silence. Death was supposed to be loud — gunshots, explosions, screams and thunder. Not this eerie quiet that wrapped around me like a shroud.

You could say I'm on the troubleshooting squad." "Troubleshooting?" He put a hand on the back of his waistband. "I see trouble and I shoot it.

He’s a war mage. They’re almost impossible to kill.” He scowled. “Even on purpose.

The most temptation I'd experienced had been with Tomas, the Senate's spy who had been feeding off me without permission, and Mircea, who was probably plotting some nefarious scheme. I have no taste in men.

Is there anyone in this apartment who hasn’t seen me naked?” I demanded, grabbing the sheet and the phone. “I genuinely hope so, Cassandra.

I’d been declared—over my loud and sustained protests—Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world.

They always assumed that I did not speak. That I could not. So many had plotted my death, discussed it, laughed about it, even while I was in the same room, because they assumed I was mindless. Like one of the failures of their kind, born mad. But I was not a failure. I was what I was supposed to be. I was dhampir. And they never lived to tell anyone they were wrong.