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Every prophecy needs a villain.
This one got a sarcastic vampire with a bad attitude.
Vincent Lupo is a jaded, wine-soaked immortal just trying to finish writing his latest smutty novel and avoid the people he's wronged -- magical or otherwise.
Then a severed head turns up in his fridge, branded with an invocation sigil and whispering lines from a play he wrote a century ago. A play the wrong people believe is prophecy.
Now Vincent's neck-deep in death cults, cursed scripts, and a once-devoted mortal aide who's now a cult leader hellbent on crafting his own narrative -- and casting Vincent as the unwilling Bloodbard at centre stage.
He's not a hero. He's just immortal, inconveniently famous in the wrong circles, and really bad at staying uninvolved.
The prophecy wants him bled dry.
Vincent wants a drink.
Only one of them gets what they want.
A sardonic urban fantasy of blood, banter, and very bad decisions.
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