By Lili St. Crow
The electrical finale in New York Times bestselling writer Lili St. Crow's unusual Angels series!
Nobody anticipated Dru Anderson to outlive this lengthy. now not Graves. now not Christophe. now not even Dru. She's battled killer zombies, jealous djamphirs, and bloodthirsty suckers immediately out of her worst nightmares. yet now that Dru has bloomed right into a full-fledged svetocha - infrequent, appealing, and poisonous to all vampires - the worst is but to come.
Because getting out alive goes to price greater than she's ever imagined. And in spite of everything, is survival well worth the sacrifice?
DRU ANDERSON'S no longer frightened of THE DARK.
BUT SHE could be.
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Extra resources for Reckoning a Strange Angels Novel
The wood was well seasoned, but it was the aspect flickering through me that did most of the work. I was getting used to this new body. Hips a little bit wider, chest-works definitely a little bigger—the two sports bras I had were not going to cut it after a while; I had overflowing cleavage you could lose a quarter in. I’d managed to buy two pairs of jeans in a new size yesterday, T-shirts in medium instead of small, and every piece of clothing I’d ever owned before was so not going to fit me now.
Gran would’ve had my hide, but by this time I was yawning and working through mental mud. I locked the front door, told the boys to arrange the sleeping bags upstairs, and put together something easy—bacon, pancakes from mix, eggs. I could’ve made this in my sleep, and I pretty much did. When the boys tromped downstairs I was already coaxing the balky old electric stovetop and thanking God that I didn’t have to cook on the potbelly. I can do it, sure, but it’s no fun. ” Graves stretched, yawning hugely.
If we survived. I didn’t want to think about it. Here was Gran’s, and Gran’s was safe, and for the time being that was enough. I’d kept this place like a card in my back pocket; it was my last best draw. ” Graves sounded horrified. ” But there was no heat to it. Of course he’d be horrified by the sight of Gran’s high narrow shotgun house, weathered boards festooned with creepers and kudzu, the pump out front still wrapped securely. There was another pump in the kitchen, and there was the crick if the well was low.