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Vampyres don't exist. They absolutely do not exist. At least I didn't think they does 'til I tried out to give up smoking and finished up Undead. Who in the hell does I screw over in a former life that my getting healthy equates with deceased? Now I'm a Vampyre. Yes, we exist whether we want to or not. However, I have to admit, the incentives aren't bad. My ladies no more jiggle, my ass is greater than a kite, and the latest Prada helps to keep finding its way to my attire. On the downside, I'm caught with an obscenely profane Guardian Angel who looks like Oprah and a Fairy Fighting Coach who's instructing me to annihilate like the Terminator. To complicate concerns, my libido has risen to Vampyric proportions, and my fascination to a hotter-than-Satan's-underpants killer rogue Vampyre is not only dangerous...it's possibly deadly. For real deceased. Permanent fatality isn't on my plan. Keeping away from him is my only option. Obviously, since he feels I'm his, it's easier said than done. Like that's insufficient to cope with, all the other Vampyres think I'm some kind of Chosen One. Holy hell, if I'm in charge of saving an entire race of bloodstream suckers, the Undead are in for one hell of any ride.