Loyal Jones, Billy Edd Wheeler:Hometown Humor, U.S.A.: Over 300 Jokes and Stories from the Porch Swings, Barber Shops, Corner Cafes, and Beauty Parlors of America
- edizione con copertina flessibile 2008, ISBN: 9780874831399
edizione con copertina rigida
Bantam. Good. 4.2 x 1.15 x 6.95 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2008. 544 pages. Cover worn.<br>In her acclaimed Women of the Otherworl d series, Kelley Armstrong has created a scint… Altro …
Bantam. Good. 4.2 x 1.15 x 6.95 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2008. 544 pages. Cover worn.<br>In her acclaimed Women of the Otherworl d series, Kelley Armstrong has created a scintillating realm wher e the supernatural and the human coexist on the edge of darkness, romance, and eternity. Now Armstrong tells the captivating tale of a young woman with an insatiable lust for danger. She can't he lp it. It's in her blood. Tabloid reporter Hope Adams appears t o live the life of an ordinary working girl. But in addition to p ossessing the beauty of a Bollywood princess, Hope has other uniq ue traits. For she is a half demon-a human fathered by a demon. A nd she's inherited a hunger for chaos. Naturally, when she's chos en by a very dangerous group for a very dangerous mission that wi ll take her through Miami's hot spots, she jumps at the chance. B ut Hope is a little too good at this job. And soon she's in a lit tle too deep. To save herself, she'll have to unleash her most pr imal instincts-and open herself, mind and body, to everything she most fears . . . and desires. Editorial Reviews Review A page- turning thriller. Fans of the paranormal will delight in the eigh th Women of the Underworld yarn, with its ass-kicking, Bollywoodb eautiful, former-socialite heroine and full complement of sorcere rs, witches, werewolves, and other paranormal beings.-Booklist A bout the Author Kelley Armstrong is the New York Times bestsellin g author of the Women of the Otherworld series. She has been tell ing stories since before she could write. Her earliest written ef forts were disastrous. If asked for a story about girls and dolls , hers would invariably feature undead girls and evil dolls, much to her teachers' dismay. All efforts to make her produce normal stories failed. Today she continues to spin tales of ghosts and d emons and werewolves while safely locked in her basement writing- dungeon. To read more about the Darkest Powers trilogy, visit www .ChloeSaunders.com. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All righ ts reserved. Hope Lucifer's Daughter There was a time in my lif e when the prospect of watching a man die would have filled me wi th horror. Now, as I shivered beside the cenotaph, knowing death was coming, what I felt was very different. Only knowing it was too late to stop what was about to happen kept me from screaming a warning as I clutched the cold marble. Did you bring the money ? the first man asked, his voice tight with an anxiety that strum med through the air. He wore dress slacks an inch too long, hems pooling around scuffed department store loafers. His old leather jacket was done up against the bitter March night, but misbuttone d. I could picture his fingers trembling as he'd hurried out to t his midnight meeting. The other man was a decade older, his jogg ing suit hood pulled tight around his red-cheeked face. Beside hi m, a Chow panted, the chuff-chuff filling the silence, black tong ue lolling as the dog strained the confines of its short leash. Did you bring the money? the younger man asked again as he glance d around the park, his anxiety sharp against the cold rage blowin g off the other man. Did you really think I'd pay? The older ma n lunged. A blast of fear, so intense my eyelids quivered. Then a gasp, rich with shock and pain. Chaos rolled over me and moonlig ht sparked red against the knife blade. The stink of voided bowel s filled the air as the younger man staggered back into a spindly maple. He tottered for a moment, propped against it, then slumpe d at its base. The killer pulled his dog closer. The Chow danced , its chaos fluttering past me, confusion warring with hunger. Th e man shoved its head to the wound, steaming blood pumping. The d og took a tentative lick, then- The vision broke and I reeled, g rabbing the cenotaph. A moment's pause, eyes squeezed shut. Then I straightened and blinked against the bright morning sun. At th e foot of the cenotaph, a shrine had started, with plucked daffod ils and scraps of paper scrawled with We'll Miss You, Brian and R est in Peace, Ryan. Anyone who knew Bryan Mills well enough to sp ell his name was still at home, in shock. The people hugging and sobbing around the shrine were only hoping to catch the eye of a roving TV camera, say a few words about what a great guy Ryan had been. As I circled the crime scene tape, I passed the fake mour ners, and their sobbing rose . . . until they noticed I wasn't ca rrying a camera, and fell back to sipping steaming coffees and hu ddling against the icy morning. They might not have made me for a reporter, but the closest cop guarding the scene did, his glowe r telling me not to bother asking for a statement. I'm sure Hey, I know what happened to your dead guy would have been a guarantee d conversation opener. But then what would I say? How do I know? Um, I had a vision. Psychic? No. I can only see the past-a talen t I inherited from my father. More of a curse, really, though I'm sure he thinks otherwise. Maybe you've heard of him? Lucifer? No , not Satan-that's a whole different guy. I'm what they call a ha lf-demon, a human fathered by a demon. Most of us get a special p ower, like fire, telekinesis or teleportation, without a demon's need for chaos. But that chaos hunger is all I get, plus a few sp ecial powers to help me find it. Like visions of past trauma, whi ch is why I know how your victim died. And I can read chaotic tho ughts, like the one going through your head right now, Officer. Y ou're wondering whether you should quietly call for the ambulance or pin me to the ground first, in case my psychotic break turns violent. So I stuck to my job: reporting the news, not becoming it. I found a likely target-the youngest officer, buttons gleamin g, gaze following the news cameras, shoulders straightening each time one promised to swing his way, then slumping when it moved e lsewhere. As I approached, his gaze traveled over me and his chi n lifted to showcase a square jaw. A smile tweaked his lips. When I took out my notebook, the smile ignited, and he stepped forwar d to intercept me, lest I change my mind. Hello, there, he said. I haven't seen you before. New at the Gazette? I shook my head. I'm national. His eyes glittered, envisioning his name in Time or USA Today. I always felt a little bad about that. True News wa s a national publication, though . . . a national supermarket tab loid. Hope Adams, I said, thrusting out my hand. Adams? That's right. A flush bloomed on his cheeks. Sorry, I, uh, wasn't sure I heard that right. Apparently, I didn't look like this officer 's idea of a Hope Adams. My mother had been a student from India when she met my dad at college. Will Adams, though, was not my bi ological father, and half-demons inherit their appearance from th eir maternal DNA. As I chatted him up, a man lurched from behind the cenotaph. He peered around, his eyes wild behind green-lense d glasses. Spying us, he strode over, one black-nailed finger jab bing. You took him, didn't you? The officer's hand slid to his belt. Sir, you need to step back- Or what? The man stopped inche s from the officer, swaying. You'll shoot me? Like you shot him? Take me away too? Study me? Dissect me? Then deny everything? If you mean the victim- I meant the werewolf. The officer cleared his throat. There, uh, was no werewolf, sir. The victim was- Ea ten! The man leaned forward, spittle flying. Torn apart and eaten ! Tracks everywhere. You can't cover it up this time. A werewolf ? said a woman, sidling over as she passed. I heard that too. Th e officer slid a small can you believe this? smile my way. I stru ggled to return it. I could believe that people thought this was a werewolf; that's why True News had sent their weird tales girl to cover the story. As for werewolves themselves, I certainly bel ieved in them-though even before the vision I'd known this wasn't one of their kills. Sorry about that, the officer said when he' d finally moved the conspiracy theorist on. Werewolves? Dare I ev en ask where that rumor came from? The kids who found the body g ot all freaked out, seeing dog tracks around it, and they started posting online about werewolves. I have no idea how the dog got involved. I was already mentally writing my story. When asked ab out the werewolf rumors, an officer on the site admitted he could n't explain the combined signs of canine and human. That's the tr ick of writing for a tabloid. You take the facts and massage them , hinting, implying, suggesting . . . As long as no one is humili ated unfairly, and no sources are named, I don't have a problem g iving readers the entertainment they want. Karl would have found it entertaining too. If I'd been assigned this story a couple of months ago, I'd have been waiting for his next call, so I could say, Hey, I got a werewolf story. Can I get a statement? He'd mak e some sardonic comment, and I'd curl up, settling in for a long talk, telling myself it was just friendship, that I'd never be fo ol enough to fall for Karl Marsten. Kidding myself, of course. Th e moment I let him cross that line past friendship, I got burned . . . and it was just as bad as I'd always feared. I pushed memo ries of Karl aside and concentrated on the story. The officer had just let slip a lead on the kids who'd found the body-two girls who worked at the 7-Eleven on the corner-when clouds suddenly dar kened the day to twilight. Thunder boomed, and I dropped my pen. As the officer bent to grab it, I snuck a glance around. No one w as looking at the sky or running for cover. They were all carryin g on as they had been. The officer kept talking, but I could bar ely hear him through the thunderclaps. I gritted my teeth and wai ted for the vision to end. A storm moving in? Possible, if it pro mised enough destruction to qualify as chaotic. But I suspected t he source was a Tempestras-a storm half-demon. One offshoot of my gift was the ability to sense other supernaturals through their chaotic powers. I cast another surreptitious glance around. My g aze settled instead on the one person I hadn't noticed before. A dark-haired man, at least six foot three, with a linebacker's bod y ill-concealed by a custom-tailored suit. He seemed to be looki ng my way, but with his dark sunglasses it was impossible to tell . Then he lowered them, pale blue eyes meeting mine, chin dipping in greeting. He walked over. Ms. Adams? A word please? Hope Godfather I checked for chaos vibes and felt nothing. Still, any time a hulking half-demon stranger sought me out hundreds of mil es from my home, I had reason to be alarmed. Let's head over the re. He nodded to a quiet corner under an elm. When we stopped, h e shivered and looked up into the dense branches. Not the warmes t spot, he said. I guess that's why it's the one empty corner in the park. No sunshine. But you could fix that. I braced myself for a denial. Instead I got a grin that thawed his ice-blue eyes. Now that's a handy talent. I could use that in my line of work. And that would be? Troy Morgan, he said, as if in answer. My b oss would like to talk to you. The name clicked-Benicio Cortez's personal bodyguard. I followed Troy's gaze to a vehicle idling fifty feet away. A white SUV with Cadillac emblems on the wheels. Beside it stood a dark-haired man who could pass for Troy's twin . If both of Benicio Cortez's bodyguards were here, there was no doubt who sat behind those tinted windows. My hastily eaten brea kfast sank into the pit of my stomach. If it's about this- I wav ed at the crime scene, -you can tell Mr. Cortez it wasn't a werew olf, so . . . I trailed off, seeing his expression. It isn't abou t the werewolf rumor, is it? Troy shook his head. Why else would Benicio Cortez fly from Miami to speak to a half-demon nobody? B ecause I owed him. The bagel turned to lead. Okay, I said, lifti ng my notebook. I'm in the middle of a story right now, but I cou ld meet him in an hour, say . . . I scanned the street for a coff ee shop. He needs to talk to you now. Troy's voice was soft, ge ntle even, but a steel edge in his tone told me I didn't have a c hoice. Benicio Cortez wanted to talk to me, and it was Troy's job to make that happen. I glanced at the crime scene. Can I just g et a few more minutes? If I can talk to one more witness, I'll ha ve enough for a story- Mr. Cortez will look after that. He touc hed my elbow, gaze settling on mine, sympathetic but firm. When I still resisted, he leaned down, voice lowering. He'd like to spe ak to you in the car, but if you'd be more comfortable in a publi c place, I can arrange it. I shook my head, shoved my notebook i nto my pocket and motioned for him to lead the way. As I moved t oward the curb, a passing car hit a patch of melting snow, throwi ng up a sheet of slush. I scampered back, but it caught my legs, dappling my skirt and nylons, the icy pellets sliding down and co ming to rest in my shoes. So much for looking presentable. I rub bed my arms and told myself the goose bumps were from the ice, no t trepidation over meeting Benicio Cortez. I'm a society girl-mee ting a CEO shouldn't be any cause for nerves. But Cortez Corporat ion was no ordinary Fortune 500 company. A Cabal looked like a r egular multinational corporation, but it was owned and staffed by supernaturals, and the unique abilities of its employees gave it a massive advantage over its competitors. It used that edge for everything from the legitimate (sorcerer spells to protect their vaults) to the unethical (astral-projecting shamans conducting co rporate espionage) to the despicable (a teleporting half-demon as sassin murdering a business rival). I'd spent two years working for the Cortez Cabal. Unintentionally. Hired by Tristan Robard, w ho I thought was a representative of the interracial council, I'd been placed with True News to keep an eye on supernatural storie s, suppressing or downplaying the real ones and alerting the coun cil to potential trouble. My job soon expanded to helping them lo cate rogue supernaturals. It had been the perfect way to guiltle ssly indulge my hunger for chaos. The phrase too good to be true comes to mind, but I'd been in such a dark place-depressed, angry , confused. When you're that far down and someone offers you a ha nd back up, you grab it and you don't ask questions. Then came my toughest assignment. Capturing a werewolf jewel thief during a m useum gala. I'd been so pleased with myself . . . until that were wolf-Karl Mar, Bantam, 2008, 2.5, August House Pub Inc. Hardcover. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included., August House Pub Inc, 2.5<
