1200 pages of spellbinding dystopian urban fantasy.
In a world with few choices, evil runs rampant and none of the old rules apply. What began as an exploratory mission to see if anything is left on Earth turns sour fast. A Vampire attack, a possessed priest, and a gateway to Hell mean fallout from the spell gone bad that pinned everyone in South America is far from finished.
Retreat is tempting, but nowhere is safe.
Evil is leaching in from somewhere. If they can’t find the breach, they’re finished.
Vampires aren’t supposed to feel anything beyond hunger and bloodlust, but Viktor still feels a whole lot. He hates what he’s become, but there’s no escape. Not from the dying city smothering him, or from his maker, an arrogant tyrant who demands absolute loyalty.
The sea is the only life Juan’s ever known—not counting the decade he spent as a Vampire. Those years gave him a healthy aversion for anything supernatural, but he’s a shifter now. It’s way better than being one of the undead, but he still doesn’t trust magic. Paired up with Aura to teach him, he falls and falls hard, but she spurns his advances.
Recco misses his cozy lab and well-organized veterinary clinic, but ten years as a Vampire stripped him of any illusions. Life is done handing him everything he wants. He could rail against fate—which never bought him much—or suck it up and keep going. Defeating the Cataclysm broke Vampirism’s hold on him, though. Even better, it threw Zoe square in his path and kicked open the door for him to bond with a wolf.
I'm basically a mountaineer at heart. I remember many hours at my desk where my body may have been stuck inside four walls, but my soul was planning yet one more trip to the backcountry. There's a timeless element to the mountains. They feel like old friends as I visit them, and visit them again. There's nothing like standing on a remote pass where I've been before and seeing that the vista is unchanged. Or on an equally remote peak. Mountains are the bones of the world. They'll prevail long after all of us are dust. It feels honest and humbling to share space with them. I hope I'm blessed with many more years to wander the local landscape. The memories are incomparable. They warm me and help me believe there will be something left for our children and their children after them.