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. 4 stars from Ind Tales Magazine!

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?