By Yasmine Galenorn
Nous sommes mes soeurs d'Artigo : mi-humaines, mi-fées, brokers de l. a. CIA d'Outremonde. Ma soeur Camille est une sorcière. Menolly, elle, est un vampire. Moi ? Je m'appelle Delilah et dans les events stressantes j'ai tendance à me transformer en chat. En parlant de tension : Zachary Lionnesse, le représentant de los angeles troupe des pumas, nous a engagées pour trouver le coupable d'une série de meurtres qui frappe les siens. On a tout de suite compris que cette bonne vieille Ombre Ailée se cachait derrière tout ça. Notre activity sera donc de découvrir pourquoi. Mais le sang humain qui coule dans nos veines va nous faire courir un chance mortel. On ne m'y reprendra plus à passer los angeles patte derrière mon oreille !
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Extra info for Changeling (Les Soeurs de la Lune, Tome 2)
The old Mississippi hisself. I was a pilot for eight years, before I got my own boats, licensed for the upper Mississippi and the Illinois. Never for the Ohio, though, or the lower Mississippi, and for all I knew about steamboatin’ I couldn’t have piloted no boat on those rivers to save my life—didn’t know ’em. Those I did know, it took me years to learn ’em, and the learnin’ never stopped. By now I been out of the pilot house for so long that I’d have to learn ’em all over again. The river changes, Joshua, that it does.
The very one, Abner. An astounding man. I had the good fortune to meet him once. ” He began to recite. She walks in Beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. “Byron wrote of a woman, of course, but the words seem to fit our boat as well, do they not? Look at her, Abner! ” Abner Marsh didn’t quite know what to think; your average steamboatman didn’t go around spouting poetry, and he didn’t know what to say to one who did.
There was a cool intelligence peering out of those mists. But there was a beast as well, dark and frightening, chained and angry, raging at the fog. Laughter and loneliness and cruel passion; York had all of that in his eyes. But mostly there was force in those eyes, terrible force, a strength as relentless and merciless as the ice that had crushed Marsh’s dreams. Somewhere in that fog, Marsh could sense the ice moving, slow, so slow, and he could hear the awful splintering of his boats and all his hopes.