Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Lowering his head, he studied the group as they arrived at the table. He’d made it his job to know all there was to know about his kind. It was essential for survival. Knowledge was power. Back in Scotland, his old man had a friend in government who was a sponsor of the paranormal crime task force who took their seats with cool indifference, acting as if their only goal was a night out on the town and a good time.
Sean knew better.
Cain Jones, the commander of the team, was discernable because of the birthmark on his cheek. The red mark stretched as he smiled at the woman on his left. Tall and toned with eyes that shone a bright turquoise against her smooth, coffee-colored skin, she could only be Maya Martin, the hydromancist. It was said she could split the sea like Moses with a flick of her fingers. A red silk dress pulled up at her well-defined calf to her thigh as she gingerly balanced a black stiletto on the low table in front of her.
The man on her left pulled the fabric of her skirt over her knee and cupped it possessively. Timothy Fardel’s blond curls fell over his dark eyes. The Australian ambassador, Maya’s husband, didn’t possess one of the seven arts, but he harbored his own secret. He was a dhampir.
Josselin de Arradon flanked Cain on the right. The team leader was one of the most dangerous men that walked the face of the earth. A direct descendant of ancient French royalty, he owned a castle in Brittany that served as the team’s base in France. Joss was the last surviving bloodsucker in the world. He could discern just about anything about anyone by tasting a drop of their blood. Shoulder-length hair fell in tresses around his rugged face. A black shirt and dark pants stretched over an impressively broad chest and powerful thighs as he twisted his tall frame onto the too-small chair.
The delicate Japanese woman he pulled onto his lap was the team’s pyromancist. Clelia d’Ambois was the most powerful firestarter who ever existed. The rumors that had reached his ears reported that she could turn stone to ash. Set off against black velvet shorts and patent leather boots, her skin appeared ghostly white. Joss brushed a thumb over her pale shoulder as she leaned her back against his chest. When she turned her coal-black eyes on Sean, he glanced away instinctively. Those black pools had a spark to them, and even if he knew she was an animal activist and known to be soft natured, he had no desire to invite either her irk or her husband’s jealousy. Joss and Clelia had recently birthed a baby, which was nothing short of a miracle for their kind, seeing that mothers of gifted babies usually died at birth. The boy, Laudren, should be nine months old.
The only other mother in the team, Katherine White, was seated next to Clelia. Married to the Russian aeromancist, Lann Dréan, she ran the library of antique books in his privately owned monastery turned team base in Santiago, Chile. Kat and Lann’s son, Thomas, was almost two.
Sitting on her left, Lann pulled her mass of burgundy hair into a ponytail at the base of her neck and kissed her throat. The Russian was slender but of muscular build and sported the freakiest damn yellow eyes Sean had seen. His long blond hair was braided down his back, exposing his slightly elongated ears. Those slender fingers could not only crush a neck with a mere squeeze, but could also pull a flash of lightning from the sky that would toast their whole bar. His unique power allowed him to stir the weather patterns into any mix he craved. Of course, being a part of Cain’s team, he would’ve sworn to use his art only for the good of mankind. Tinkering with the weather could have detrimental effects on the planet. It could give a man the power to control crops and therefore nations, or it could wipe out mankind entirely. Until Kat had given him a son, Lann had been the last of his kind. Thomas had inherited his father’s gift. Unlike Thomas, Laudren was too young to exhibit any powers, yet. It was impossible to say if he’d be a bloodsucker like his father or a pyromancist like his mother.
Finally, Sean focused his attention on the last member of the team. Bono Black had taken up a standing position behind Joss, his chest muscles bulging as he crossed his arms. His expression was difficult to read, maybe because of the eye patch that covered his left eye. His onyx skin seemed to glow under the overhead lights. The diamond stud in his ear caught a light shard from the disco ball, reflecting it back at Sean in a small zap of lightning, and then it was gone when Bono turned his head. Strictly speaking, the Senegalese pilot worked for Joss, but Joss deployed him for team missions. He could fly just about anything with a throttle and a pair of wings.