By David Wellington
In the subsequent 23 hours, there'll be no reprieve,
no mercy, and no break day for stable behavior.
When vampire hunter Laura Caxton is locked up in a maximum-security legal, the cop-turned-con reveals herself surrounded through numerous murderers and death-row inmates with not anything to lose . . . and many time to kill.
Caxton’s constantly 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 fair larger chance has slithered in the back of the bars to affix her. Justinia Malvern, the world’s oldest dwelling vampire, has taken up place of abode, and her energy grows via the instant as she raids the inmate inhabitants like an open bar with an all-you-can-drink offer of clean blood. The artful outdated vampire is familiar with simply tips on how to pull Caxton’s strings, too, and she's issued an ultimatum that Laura can’t refuse.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 means via a gauntlet of vampires, cons, and killers . . . 23 hours to make one final, determined try out at keeping the realm from Justinia’s evil.
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Extra resources for 23 Hours: A Vengeful Vampire Tale
The woman moved toward the two sisters, bowing her head in acknowledgment, a faint smile on her red lips. Her feet, clad in the briefest and most delicate of red leather Grecian sandals, whispered on the floorboards as she passed them and walked toward the doorway. She left in her wake a hint of a heavy, exotic perfume, and the train of her gown lifted, floated, and caressed Jane‧s muslin skirt as she passed by. “‘Pon my word, Miss Austen, you‧re as cool as a cucumber, whereas I …” Her dance partner produced a handkerchief with which he mopped his sweaty brow.
I shall make all well. It will take but a few seconds and no one will notice. Or would you rather I introduce myself so we may observe the proprieties? ” She dipped a stilted curtsy, afraid the sleeve would thoroughly disengage. ” Miss Smith‧s nostrils flared slightly. She moved closer to Jane, enveloping her in perfume, as though the two of them were wrapped in a shawl lifted from a chest of exotic, fragrant wood. Her fingers tugged and straightened the muslin at Jane‧s shoulder, twisting the fabric so she could adjust the pin to its rightful position.
The musicians, engaged in tuning their instruments and drinking tankards of ale—playing must be as enervating as dancing—seemed inclined to linger before they began the next dance. It was the perfect opportunity to drink some tea or punch and then hope for a partner, preferably a more athletic gentleman than the last, for the next dance. Double doors at one side of the room led to the card tables; a set of double doors opposite them led to the refreshments room, an excellent arrangement for Mrs.