Matthew Kincer stood in front of the decrepit vampire body, shaking his head.
"They always seem smaller when they're dead," he said.
The body was covered in burn marks and silver wounds.
Matthew was a polite predator. He ran a gloved hand through his close-cropped dark hair. He was in his early forties—always perfectly dressed. He'd been exposed to vampire hunting from a very young age. His father had taught him everything he knew: how to kill a vampire, how to weaken them, and where they resided. After his father's death, Matthew had moved from Florida to New Orleans to discover the "heart" of where vampires lived. He was a soft-spoken man who never raised his voice. He didn't hate vampires, but he hated their nature.
Beside him, Eleanor Vale examined the wounds on the body. A strategist and historian in her late fifties, Eleanor was enthralled by the existence of vampires. She'd studied them throughout her adult years and eventually crossed paths with Matthew. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back into a low bun as she pulled out her pen and paper, her fingers already stained with ink.
Then, a darkness approached.
Isaac Rourke.
In his early thirties, his arms and neck were coated with scars and healed wounds. His straw-colored hair curled at the ends and fell over his forehead, just above his mossy-green eyes.
He'd grown up in Mississippi—another vampire-dominated state. He'd lost his family as a teenager to immortals and had vowed, ever since, to destroy their existence. He moved to New Orleans to begin a covenant dedicated to the extermination of vampires.
The three hunters stood around the body before Isaac reached for his duffel bag. He unzipped a pouch and pulled out a box of matches. With one strike, the flame flared to life, and he tossed it onto the corpse.
Engulfed in fire, the body burned down to ash, leaving behind a small pile—and a single golden ring.
Eleanor knelt, examining it. She blew the ash from the band and pulled a small pouch from her pocket, slipping the ring inside.
"I'll show this to Maribel when we return," she said, fixing her glasses. "She'll want to see this."
Isaac didn't respond. He was too satisfied by the pile of ash at his feet. The Louisiana wind picked up, scattering the remains across the clearing.
"We need to head back. Maribel should be finished with the witness soon," Matthew said as he loaded their tools and weapons.
They pulled into the cabin's driveway, nestled deep within the swampy forest. Tree branches hung low over the river, and moss blanketed every inch of the ground. Mosquitoes swarmed their faces as they headed for the porch. Spiderwebs coated the windows, and frogs hopped across the cracked wooden steps. The hunters paid no attention—they had more important things to focus on.
When they pushed the door open, Maribel Cross sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. In her late twenties, she had dark curls and kind eyes. She typically wore a black pantsuit and a silver cross around her neck. She smiled warmly as they entered.
"You get anything good?" Isaac asked, his thick Southern accent slipping through.
"A fledgling," Maribel said, standing from the table. "Her death was covered up—but it was witnessed."
"Well, if she's alive," Matthew spoke up, "it's because he wants her alive."
They all knew Lucian Corvus would burn cities to protect what he claimed. If she was still alive, there had to be a reason.
"Well," Isaac said, "we have another contact."
Eleanor raised a brow.
"We do?"
"He knows the court layouts," Isaac replied flatly. "Despises Lucian."
"Why help us?" Maribel asked between sips of her obnoxiously sweetened coffee. "Is he not afraid of betraying the immortals?"
Isaac's lips twitched.
"Says he doesn't care who rules the city—only that it burns."