Dear reader. Crack open something to steady your nerves and proceed with caution.

John Martin dreams he is on the moon, in a cavern of black diamonds that burn like rage. He kills a Grey alien in a red-and-silver corridor with his bare hands and a knife that wasn't there a second ago.

He wakes up in his penthouse in Jamaica. His wife, Joanna, is naked beside him. He makes love to her and finishes the cigar.

Then he sees the moonrock on the floor.

Three days later, his granddaughter Marion is driving across Oxford in a black Tesla, smoking a joint, listening to Kiss the Fucking Ring on Spotify, sipping Brazilian rum from a bottle on the dashboard. She is twenty-two, redheaded, freckled, and the granddaughter of the wealthiest man on Earth. She has a small knife hidden in the back of her bra. Tonight she is going to fuck her secret boyfriend — a janitor in Whitechapel with a hidden studio in a basement nobody is supposed to know exists.

His paintings cover the walls — AI-generated, hyperreal, one of them showing a lighthouse that is not a lighthouse.

She pushes him onto the couch and gets on top.

She is halfway through when his eyes go fully black. He lifts her into the air and brings her down hard enough to tear her inside. She does not scream. The knife comes out of her bra. She drives it into his skull until he stops moving.

There is no blood. His head is full of metallic liquid.

She washes herself in the sink. She finishes the rum. She calls her grandfather.

Her mother arrives. A psychic. A Jamaican shaman. She looks at the dead machine on the studio floor and the smile on her daughter's face.

"You had sex with THAT?"

They laugh until they cry.

The Magus arrives an hour later. She kisses Marion on the mouth and pulls the alien intelligence out of her body in a stream of black fire. "Sometime in the distant future, you will become a cyborg. By the time it happens, it will serve you well."

The people running the world aren't human. They wear human faces. They sit in boardrooms. They ride in motorcades. They headline tech keynotes.

The lizard Casanova followed up the stairs of a Paris brothel in 1750. The entity Kennedy stared down in the Oval Office three weeks before Dallas. The thing that wore the face of the Count of Saint-Germain through three centuries of European courts and never aged a day. All the same thing. And it is finally close enough to taste.

To save her bloodline, Marion will infiltrate Area 51. Cross the Antarctic ice to a city of black glass beneath the Ross shelf. Sit across a table from a tech billionaire who is not a man and watch his teeth grow while he negotiates.

She will fall in love with something with cobalt scales on a Caribbean beach. She will give birth to something else.

And on the astral plane, on the back of a camel, she will face a demon wearing every face it has ever worn.

Real history is the cover story.

Casanova. Kennedy. Oswald. Malcolm Wallace. The Count of Saint-Germain. Bob Lazar. Jim Morrison. And a tech billionaire whose name you almost recognize.

Written before the disclosure made it news.

If Joe Rogan, Lex Fridman, The Why Files, and Mr. Mythos are part of your media diet — and you've been watching the UAP hearings unfold — this is the novel they would be talking about.

For readers of Robert Anton Wilson's Illuminatus! Trilogy, Pierce Brown's Red Rising, and Justin Cronin's The Passage.

Book 2 of The Feeder Series. Reads as a standalone.