By David Wellington
In the following 23 hours, there'll be no reprieve,
no mercy, and no day without work for reliable behavior.
When vampire hunter Laura Caxton is locked up in a maximum-security legal, the cop-turned-con unearths herself surrounded via numerous murderers and death-row inmates with not anything to lose . . . and lots of time to kill.
Caxton’s regularly been in a position to watch her personal back–even whilst it’s opposed to a cell-block wall–but quickly she learns that a good larger hazard has slithered in the back of the bars to hitch her. Justinia Malvern, the world’s oldest residing vampire, has taken up place of abode, and her power grows by means of the instant as she raids the inmate inhabitants like an open bar with an all-you-can-drink provide of unpolluted blood. The artful previous vampire is familiar with simply easy methods to pull Caxton’s strings, too, and she's issued an ultimatum that Laura can’t refuse.
Now Laura has simply 23 hours to struggle her approach via a gauntlet of vampires, cons, and killers . . . 23 hours to make one final, determined test at conserving the area from Justinia’s evil.
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Additional resources for 23 Hours: A Vengeful Vampire Tale
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Next an older woman, said to be a fine cook, was auctioned off, and then a young mother with two children, all sold together. Sour Billy waited through several other sales. It was a quarter past noon and the French Exchange was jammed with bidders and spectators when the item he had chosen came up. Her name was Emily, the encanteur told them. “Look at her, sirs,” he babbled in French, “just look at her. Such perfection! ” Sour Billy was inclined to agree. Emily was sixteen or seventeen, he judged, but already very much a woman.
Marsh rounded to face York. “I hoped my Lady Liz would take the Eclipse some day, beat her time or race her head to head, but she never could of done it, I know that now. I was just foolin’ myself. I didn’t have the money it takes to build a boat that can take the Eclipse. “You give me that money, Mister York, and you’ve got yourself a partner. There’s your answer, sir. You want half of Fevre River Packets, and a partner who runs things quiet and don’t ask you no questions ’bout your business?
But at last he looked away. The man at the table pushed away his soup, gestured, and said, “Captain Marsh. I have been expecting you. ” His voice was mellow, educated, easy. “Yes,” Marsh said, too softly. He pulled out the chair across from York and eased himself into it. Marsh was a massive man, six foot tall and three hundred pounds heavy. He had a red face and a full black beard that he wore to cover up a flat, pushed-in nose and a faceful of warts, but even the whiskers didn’t help much; they called him the ugliest man on the river, and he knew it.