“A tripod?” Siena’s pulse quickened. “Someone was filming.”
A legendary 200-year-old vampire posing as a top-tier movie director. Faye Stapleton:
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Venandi’s hand shot out, clamping over Siena’s mouth. She pulled them both behind a kapok tree, her body a solid wall against Siena’s back. Through the thin fabric of her shirt, Siena felt the tracker’s heartbeat—slow, steady, absurdly calm.
“And Mira went after them?”
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The jungle went silent. Not the peaceful hush of evening—the absolute, prey-animal silence of a predator in the vicinity. “A tripod
Venandi looked at Siena. For the first time, something soft passed over her face. Not pity. Understanding.
It smiled. Its teeth were stained blue.
The woman leaning against a stack of fuel drums was tall, sinewy, and tan as teak. Her hair was a short, practical mess of dark curls. A scar cut through her left eyebrow. She wore tactical pants, a sleeveless shirt that showed the coiled muscle of her arms, and the kind of stillness that predators wear.