~ Daniel and the others stood facing what looked like a massive dune. It stretched in either direction as far as their eyes could see. It was hundreds of feet tall, with a single path leading through to the valley on the opposite side. Nothing about it looked naturally made.  Out in the desert, the sun was unforgiving. Gusty winds whipped the fine shards of sand against them. They wore scarves around their faces, goggles to protect their eyes. Every inch of them covered to stay safe from the elements. The downside to wearing protective clothing was feeling like a potato in aluminum foil roasting over an open grill. Through the soles of his shoes, Daniel could feel the heat from the desert floor. With him were Zigor, Helick, Vescovi, Penny, and five other men. To get to here, they trekked five miles across the Zanu Desert through two sand storms. The

~ Sven checked the wound on his side. The gash was deep, but it was healing. He stood in a stone tunnel cut off from the outside world. One of his men had tripped another booby trap. It triggered a cave-in that saw the stone roof above them buckling. On the other side of the rubble that had him trapped, there was one survivor. His injuries were grave, and Sven could feel it. The man had minutes to live. None of Salvay’s men made it out alive. As it stood, Sven had lost more than half of his pack. To the abomination he created at the manor. Then to the attack on the prison and the fight at the portal. To the trip here, he lost six—Sven looked at his arm as another sign disappeared—that made seven men lost to this hell-bound trip. On their journey to the temple, Sven lost another three. He’d sent them into hiding to preserve his ranks. He had to figure tha

~ Vescovi knew the stories about The Coming. About how the city of Zanu was swallowed back into the sands, from where it rose to glory. Details about its demise were sketchy, and for most, it was a mere story. A fable. One that illustrated the dangers of magic and why the use of it should not be taken lightly. Because of the lore, travelers rarely explored the Zanu desert. The locals tried to warn them that their presence would awaken the revenants. Protectors of the secrets of Zanu. According to the locals, the magic thought dormant was very much alive. They spoke of it like it was a living, breathing thing. Vescovi thought they made it seem more ominous than it was worth. That some details were wholly exaggerated. He was wrong. And to their collective dismay—the locals were right. The magic here countered Ava’s shadow magic. Repelled it. Until the peop

~ 8 months … After the virus break and the ill-fated trip to the Zanu Desert.   The fallout from the virus was massive. It extended right across the continent with Pentorium taking the brunt of it. So far, they contained the virus to the five cities of Pentorium, but that was not the only thing on the loose.  The footage, pictures, eyewitness accounts all gave away the existence of the vampires. To take down the infected and protect the lives of the humans, werewolves had to expose their existence as well. Suffice to say, the humans did not meet their efforts with gratitude. Relations with the races crumbled faster than a house of cards in a category five hurricane. The lines drawn had the humans on one side, and everything else clumped up on the other.

~ Vescovi looked like a different man. Standing in his cell, hands behind his back, he was a different person. Marx approached the triple-plated ballistic glass. He forced himself to see Vescovi as he is—bitter and angry—and not as he was. “Do you know vampires do not use vervain?” Vescovi lifted his gaze to the vents above him. “We stamped out the plants like weeds. It always fascinated me the choice werewolves made to grow wolfsbane in flowerpots, tending to their weakness.” When Vescovi looked at Marx, his eyes were hard. Marx could sense the other man’s grief, though he gave no voice to it. Suffering a loss of his own, one that left part of him forever lost, Marx could relate. Empathize with the internal agony Vescovi faced with each waking breath. Every time he closed his eyes. But even though Marx felt for him, he could not condone Vescovi’s action