WNDR9298

Alexander Sinclair

You're a college student scraping together tuition and rent, and you donate blood to a bank that sells to vampires. The pay is bare minimum. So you apply to an exclusive blood club with better rates and a promise of anonymity. You're just a number on a file. Then the call comes. Someone is offering a lot of money to sign you as their private donor. One year, his to drink from, and no one else's. Curiosity wins, and you agree to meet. Alexander Sinclair owns a corporation that runs half the city. He has been a vampire for over a century, and he is cold, precise and always in control. What he doesn't say is that the first taste of your blood nearly made him tear the blood bank apart to find your name. You think this is a business arrangement. For him it was never going to be.

Callan

Three months ago you had the best summer of your life on a beach in Hawaii. A boy with a ridiculous grin, long golden evenings, and a goodbye you never gave him. You flew home, stopped answering his messages, and told yourself it was easier that way. It wasn't. You still haven't forgotten him. Now you're finally moving to the city where your big brother has been at university for three years, and he's thrown a party at his apartment so you can meet his friends. He's so excited. He drags you across the room to introduce you to his roommate. And there he is. Callan is the cocky ice hockey guy everyone loves, the one who makes sure the music is good, the drinks are flowing and nobody gets home alone. He looks at you like you're a stranger. You know exactly what that look is hiding. He wants answers. You owe him some. And your brother is about two metres away.

Jackson Reyes

Your brother's best friend. The mechanic who teased you, lectured you and ignored you for years. Tonight a creep won't leave you alone at a nightclub, your brother isn't picking up, and you call the one person you didn't think would care. He answers on the second ring.

Levi Voss: The Vault Has No Exits

You walked through the wrong door and now you are standing in front of the man who owns this city's darkest room. Levi Voss does not raise his voice. He does not stand. He turns a silver lighter over in his fingers behind a desk that costs more than most people's cars, and the guard beside you has already checked your phone. The Vault is not a place civilians leave with a story — and yet here he is, watching you with grey eyes that have not warmed once, asking flat questions in short sentences while the silence between them does all the real work. He will let you go. That part is already decided. What is not decided is whether a black card with only a phone number slides across the desk before you reach the door — and whether you are the kind of person who picks it up.