Bitter Thirst

Book Cover: Bitter Thirst

Cèsar Hawke works for the Office of Preternatural Affairs, and until now, his detective work has been a secret to the nation. But a Senator has been publicly assassinated in Washington DC…by a demon. Now America knows that the preternatural are real. Everyone knows it's real.

The doomsday clock is ticking. A change is coming. And if Cèsar doesn't stop the Apple cult from sating their bitter thirst for power, then all Americans will end up fodder to feed hungry angels.

Available on: July 31, 2017
Publisher: Red Iris Books

The door to the sidewalk blasted open before he could shoot.

Literally blasted—the holes that appeared around the handle looked a heck of a lot like they’d been made by shotgun pellets. Not that I was an expert. If I had no choice but to swing a gun around, my preference was more of the Desert Eagle persuasion, not a Remington 870 loaded with double aught.

Without a lock, it took only a single swift blow from the heel of a cowboy boot to bounce that sucker open.

A woman stood on the other side. She was shaped like the red marks on a black widow’s swollen gut and her fangs came in the form of steel with a wooden stock. Long, slender braids swayed behind her, tipped with beads that chimed when they hit each other.

“Down, asshole,” she said to me.

And you believe me when I say I got the fuck down.


About a half second later, blood sprayed onto the wall behind me. It wasn’t my blood. Ofelia’s aim was way better than that.

There was skull and brain stuck to the middle of that splatter.

I looked up to see a dead body dropping to his knees, and then sliding onto his face.

When my ears stopped ringing, I could hear an explosion of chatter in my earpiece. Talk, talk, talk. They’d heard the shot. Now people were worried we’d blown the perimeter around the hotel. Weren’t any of them worried about whether I’d got blown away?

I pushed the button on my earpiece as I pushed back to lean on my heels. “Chill out,” I said, ears muffled by the too-close gunfire. It sounded like I was talking through a toilet paper tube. “I’m alive.”

The microphone rustled and when someone spoke again, it was a familiar male voice, which brought to mind narrow features topped with a brush of yellow hair. “We heard a shot. Verify your condition, Hawke.”

Oh man, someone cared about me.

Too bad it was fucking Fritz Friederling, who was obligated to care about me just because I was his aspis.

“I’m all right,” I said.

A hand thrust into my vision. It was a dainty feminine appendage with a piercing on the long pinky nail. Who the fuck pierces their fingernails?

Ofelia. That was who.

I grabbed her hand and she pulled me to my feet. Then she grabbed my earlobe, yanking me down so she could speak into my microphone: “Agent Hawke just got his ass saved by his baby sister.”