Chapter 77

A long, shiny dark oak table sat in the middle of a large dining room, and seated around it were about twelve men and women of various ages and races, all of them slumped forward with their faces pressed to their dinner plates. They were dressed in fancy tuxes and bejeweled silk dresses with white napkins folded in their laps. Silver candelabras adorned the length of a delicate lace centerpiece on the table, their candlelight flickering inside empty crystal wine glasses.

There wasn't a trace of blood anywhere, but I knew they were all dead. Even so, I reached out to the nearest woman's swan-like neck, my palms soaked with nervous sweat, my hand trembling so hard I had to concentrate to keep it steady. No pulse. Not even a hint of one on her still-warm skin.

This was the Slayer Senate. This had to be them. But why? Why were they dead? More importantly, where was the person who did it?