By David Dalglish
"We are those who personal the evening. we're the ones with blood on our arms. we're the reapers, the demons, the darkish shadows wielding metal. we won't be denied our vengeance."
Haern is the King's Watcher, protector opposed to thieves and nobles who may fill the evening with blood. but enormous quantities of miles away, an murderer often called the Wraith has began slaughtering these in energy, and leaving the emblem of the Watcher in mockery. whilst Haern travels south to confront his copycat killer, he unearths a urban governed by way of the corrupt, the grasping, and the harmful. Rioters fill the streets, and the specter of warfare with the mysterious elves hangs over all. to forestall it, Haern needs to confront the lethal Wraith, and the fellow he may become.
A DANCE OF dying via David Dalglish
Man or God; what occurs while the strains are blurred?
Read Online or Download A Dance of Death aka A Dance of Mirrors (Shadowdance, Book 3) PDF
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Extra resources for A Dance of Death aka A Dance of Mirrors (Shadowdance, Book 3)
She’s up on the eleventh,” he told me, nodding towards the apartments. Then he drove off, and I turned to face the imposing brick and limestone façade of the building the driver had called the Colosseum. I rarely find myself any farther north than the Upper West Side, so this was pretty much terra incognita for me. The doorman gave me directions, after giving both me and Fong’s box the hairy eyeball, and I quickly made my way to the elevators, hurrying through that ritzy marble sepulcher passing itself off as a lobby.
I returned the gun to its holster, then I started rifling through everything in sight – the great disarray of papers heaped upon the desk, Fong’s accounting ledgers, sales invoices, catalogs, letters and postcards written in English, Mandarin, Wu, Cantonese, French, Spanish, and Arabic. I still had my gloves on, so it’s not like I had to worry over fingerprints. A few of the desk drawers were unlocked, and I’d just started in on those, when the phone perched atop the filing cabinet rang. I froze, whatever I was looking at clutched forgotten in my hands, and stared at the phone.
But somewhere along the way, I lost my nerve, failed at my slow suicide, and bought a ticket back to the States. And the manuscript in question was one of the many strange and unsavory things I brought back with me. I’d always had a nose for the macabre, and had dabbled – on and off – in the black arts since college. At Radcliffe, I’d fallen in with a circle of lesbyterians who fancied themselves witches. Mostly, I was in it for the sex…but I’m digressing. A friend of a friend heard I was busted, down and out and peddling a bunch of old books, schlepping them about Manhattan in search of a buyer.