The internet makes it possible to “meet” and “know” so many people. As a writer I am always thrilled to hear from fans and readers. One reader, in particular, Anna Dougherty, hung around a bit on a blog I participate in with a group of writers. I didn’t know Anna at all, but sensed from her comments she liked paranormal romance. So when I began my vampire book club project, Bite Club, I e-mailed her to see if she would have an interest in heading it up. She agreed, but I don’t think she realized it would become such a “huge” project. Bite Club takes a lot of time and dedication, and Anna has it in spades. She dived into the project and made it her own, and Bite Club simply would not exist without her devotion, organization and vamp-smarts.

      So, here’s to you, Anna! Many thanks!

       Prologue

      An obsidian sea roiled behind a black titanium throne. The throne grew up from the sea at the tongue of a dark steel island, its surface intermittently visible through the wavering liquid surface.

      A demon sat upon the throne, his horned head bowed. A crown of bone and feathers tilted upon his skull. His powerful forearms relaxed upon the throne arms. Taloned fingers of muscled black flesh tapped resolutely.

      He had been tapping for centuries. It meant nothing. It passed the time.

      A silver cloud, thick as mercury, dusted across the sea. The commotion behind him made no noise.

      Noise did not exist here—Beneath. At times he attempted to sense his own heartbeat. He had a heart. It was black, forged from the same ineffable substance of which he’d been forged. But he had never heard it beat. Never.

      He did not require that confirmation of life. He knew he existed on a level forbidden to most, and unreachable by mere mortals. Feared by all others.

      He was Ashuriel the Black, Stealer of Souls, Master of Dethnyht. Only he wore the crown. Not a mortal or paranormal creature in any of the realms—no matter how twisted and black—should like to claim the same.

      Time did not exist here, though he knew he had once grasped the hours and days and even years that some valued to order their lives. He had no need. He had lost memory of time, of physicality and sensation, and emotion.

      Save the one emotion he yet clung to as if a screaming soul seeking escape—but he would not think on it, for to do so would render excruciating pain throughout his being.

      When a brilliant burst shimmered across the jet surface of the sea it startled him. He had not been aware such light could exist Beneath.

      Ashuriel lifted his head. The black armor he wore—fashioned from demonic metal mined from the depths of his realm—clanked, but the noise was only imagined, not real.

      He waited for the light to form into shape, a recognizable creature, something that would remind him of what he’d once known in another time, another place. It did not.

      Instead the light brightened until he had to close his eyes, and yet the intensity seared a bold flash across the inside of his metallic lids. Strange warmth welled inside him, but he could not touch the meaning or properly label it.

      “You are summoned, Sinistari,” the light intoned in a voice so deep it vibrated inside Ashuriel’s metal chest.

      And then the light vanished, leaving only a fading silver resonance behind his eyelids.

      Reaching for the crown of bone and feathers upon his head, the Sinistari demon removed it. He stroked a talon over the thirteen feathers of all colors and design that marked a kill, each of them.

      The Sinistari were summoned for only one reason. He’d thought the threat was controlled and swept away with the great flood. A time long ago, or perhaps only moments had passed. But he would not question a summons. Cracking his neck from side to side, he stood from the throne and stretched out his arms, thrust out his chest and sucked in the airless nothing about him.

      Ashuriel let out a roar. The noise was audible, and it shuddered waves across the obsidian sea. It pleased him. Dangling the crown on one long finger, he flicked it over a shoulder to land upon the throne.

      The master slayer was back in business.

       Chapter 1

      Eden Campbell worked the small corner art gallery across the street from Chelsea Park like a