Crimson Shadow (The Shadows Saga, Book 2) by Katherine Keller, Angela C. Ryan, Patrisha Mar

By Katherine Keller, Angela C. Ryan, Patrisha Mar

In una Londra popolata di creature che vivono nell'ombra, si muove sicura e sfrontata, los angeles cacciatrice Sophia Holloway, una donna temeraria, irriverente, senza peli sulla lingua, pronta a tutto pur di sterminare gli odiati vampiri dalla faccia della terra. Ma non ha fatto i conti con un affascinante vampiro ultracentenario dai modi galanti, Lance Galahad, che farà di tutto consistent with domare il suo spirito ribelle.
Tra i due inizierà un gioco fatto di incontri/scontri che li porterà inevitabilmente advert avvicinarsi.
E mentre cercheranno di convivere con il legame che inizia a unirli, Sophia dovrà combattere in line with l. a. sua vita e in line with vendicare los angeles morte dell'amato padre. Riuscirà a scoprire l'identità del suo assassino?
E Lance sarà in grado di superare le oscurità del suo passato?
Un romanzo ricco di ironia, passione, sensualità, azione e una punta di malizia, che con il suo combine esplosivo, vi terrà incollati fino all'ultima pagina.
Il secondo capitolo di “The Shadows Saga”, che dopo Black Shadow, non si farà dimenticare.

"Lance è los angeles mia malattia e los angeles cura stessa. Non ho scampo."

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Additional info for Crimson Shadow (The Shadows Saga, Book 2)

Sample text

She was on the side of Young and Heavyset because . . well, because the other fellow had been afraid. Weren’t you worried, though? he asked her. He had still been so stunned by what he’d seen that it hadn’t crossed his mind—yet—to think he should be a little ashamed; after all, it was his girlfriend who’d stepped in instead of him, and that wasn’t the Gospel According to Hollywood. WELCOME TO COULEE COUNTRY ■ 45 Weren’t you afraid that in the heat of the moment the guy with the tire iron would take a swing at you?

In the darkness under the trees down there, one area seems murkier than the rest. Even as it shrinks back into the gloom, this area possesses an unnatural solidity that distinguishes it from the surrounding trees. Aha oho, we say to ourselves in an echo of Burny’s gibberish, what have we here, a wall of some kind? It seems that featureless. When we reach the midpoint in the curve of the lane, a triangular section of darkness all but obscured by the treetops abruptly defines itself as a peaked roof.

Mild sunlight filtering in through gaps in the eastern wall and the battered roof paints luminous streaks across the gritty floor. Feathers, dust, eddy and stir over animal tracks and the dim impressions left by many long-gone shoes. Threadbare army-surplus blankets speckled with mold lie crumpled against the wall to our left; a few feet away, discarded beer cans and flattened cigarette ends surround a keroseneburning hurricane lamp with a cracked glass housing. The sunlight lays warm stripes over crisp footprints advancing in a wide curve around the remains of Ed’s appalling counter and into the vacancy formerly occupied by the stove, a sink, and a rank of storage shelves.

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