As an FBI agent, I kick ass. As a psychic FBI agent, I always get the bad guy—until I'm assigned a Dracula copycat case that bites back. Getting my man this time means entering a mysterious underworld where, not every serial killer is human, not every case can be solved, and not everyone can survive.

Standalone urban fantasy novel. No cliff hanger.

EXCERPT

The most innocent things could hold more darkness than I ever wanted to see.

Today's example: Takeout.

What could be so terrible about takeout? Normally, it was awesome. I lived on the stuff. I read the menus like the bible. But this wasn't that kind of takeout.

I stared at the Styrofoam containers on the table. My stomach was already cringing, looking for a place to hide. The containers gleamed virgin white under the fluorescent lights of the FBI conference room, but their contents were not quite so pure.

Each carton had a handwritten label on top. One read, Marion—bright and charming. Another read Stacey—good body. The last, Eileen—agreeable.

The writing was large with strong vertical strokes and half-closed loops. I wondered what a handwriting analyst would make of it.

Was there a particular flourish that indicated someone was a cannibal?