AKissofShadows - (EPUB全文下载)

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Contents
 
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
By Laurell K. Hamilton
Copyright
For everyone who kept the old stories alive in small rooms and great houses, by firelight and electricity, for all who kept the faith and for those who just liked a good story.
Acknowledgments
 
Robin Bell for so many things, the Celtic research being but a small part. Darla Cook, without whom so much would go undone. Deborah Millitello, who read this book and pronounced it good. All my writing group, who due to time constraints did not get to read this final version: Tom Drennan, Rett MacPherson, Marella Sands, Sharon Shinn, and Mark Sumner. And everyone at Ballantine and Del Rey, especially my editor, Shelly Shapiro.
Chapter 1
 
TWENTY-THREE STORIES UP AND ALL I COULD SEE OUT THE WINDOWS was grey smog. They could call it the City of Angels if they wanted to, but if there were angels out there, they had to be flying blind.
Los Angeles is a place where people, those with wings and without, come to hide. Hide from others, hide from themselves. I’d come to hide and I’d succeeded, but staring out at the thick, dirty air, I wanted to go home. Home where the air was blue most of the time and you didn’t have to water the ground to get grass to grow. Home was Cahokia, Illinois, but I couldn’t go back because they’d kill me if I did, my relatives and their allies. Everyone wants to grow up to be a faerie princess. Trust me. It’s overrated.
There was a knock on the office door. It opened before I could say anything. My boss, Jeremy Grey, stood framed in the doorway. He was a short, grey man, four feet eleven inches, an inch shorter than me. He was grey from his dark Armani suit to his button-up shirt and silk tie. Only his shoes were black and shiny. Even his skin was a pale uniform grey. Not from illness or age. No, he was a trow in the prime of life, just a little over four hundred. There were some lines around his eyes, along the thin mouth, that made him appear mature, but he’d never be old. Without the aid of mortal blood and a pretty serious spell, Jeremy might live forev ............

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