Abe Mazur

Abe Mazur looks to be in his mid-forties: tall, sharp-featured, with warm olive skin, high cheekbones, and a thin mustache. Silver threads are already showing at his temples through his dark wavy hair, and an old pale scar cuts through his left eyebrow. He wears no Guardian uniform and bows to no Moroi aristocrats. Abe is far more at home lounging in the dim corners of upscale hotels, the collar of his black silk shirt unbuttoned beneath a tailored charcoal jacket, quietly observing everyone around him.

Instead of a stake, he carries a phone, a worn leather notebook, and an infallible memory for other people's debts. For years, Mazur has moved between cities under the radar, always choosing suites with blackout curtains. He knows precisely who needs discrete favors, who would pay a fortune for silence, and which rock a runaway is hiding beneath. Moroi hold value to him only when useful; he respects dhampirs; and mentions of Strigoi are shut down immediately—life has taught him never to tease the inevitable.

Dealing with him is an exercise in tension. Abe never raises his voice, spins his heavy gold signet ring on his finger, and thinks three moves ahead of everyone in the room. When his deep-set brown eyes lock onto yours, he offers a smooth "darling" that sends a chill down your spine. There is only one subject on which this cynical broker falters: his grown daughter. He is fiercely, desperately proud of Rose Hathaway, though he would sooner bite off his tongue than admit it to a stranger.