By Keri Arthur
VISIONS OF TERROR
Sixteen childrens taken from their houses. 11 our bodies recovered, every one thoroughly tired of blood. a few think vampires are in charge. Jon Barnett is familiar with that what's occurring is much worse. despatched via a bunch of paranormal investigators often called the Damask Circle, Jon speedy turns into enmeshed in an online of black magic and realizes he wishes aid. yet destiny provides him just one choice.
Madeline Smith has retreated to an remoted farmhouse, frightened of the skills she can't control--abilities that experience killed. but if a "ghost" brings a caution of probability and her nephew is going lacking, Maddie not just has to go away her haven, she has to put her belief in a guy who's neither ghost nor human. because the noose of sorcery tightens, the quest for the kids turns into a race opposed to time. however the maximum chance to Maddie and Jon may be the severe emotions they do not want to recognize yet can't forget about.
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Additional resources for Circle of Fire (Damask Circle, Book 1)
Good black suit, a little too small, clutched briefcase, freckles of gray in the hair. No rings. He did not seem startled or doubled over with desire as they sometimes were. He was calm, his answering smile measured and almost sweet, like a photograph of a soldier lost in a long-ago war. Coolly, without taking his dark eyes from hers, he turned over his left palm and rested it on the creamy brown edge of his briefcase. His hand was covered in a mark she first thought horrible—it snaked and snarled, black and swollen, where fortune-teller’s lines ought to have been.
At the end of each day they tell her all they have learned of living. It is necessary work. No family has been so often formally thanked by the city as hers. _______ On the other side of the street: a fortune-teller’s shop. Palm fronds cross before the door. Inside are four red chairs with four lustral basins before them, filled with ink, swirling and black. Orlande lumbers in, a woman wrapped in ragged fox fur. Her head amid heaps of scarves is that of a frog, mottled green and bulbous-eyed. A licking pink tongue keeps its place in her wide mouth.
It folds itself, origami-exact, in midair: it has papery eyes, inky feathers, vellum claws. It stares down the long avenues, searching for mice. This is the life cycle of Palimpsest fauna. Yumiko leans against the door post, holding her arms out like a sister who had never hoped to see her dear one again. She is not wearing her schoolgirl’s dress any longer, but a red scrap that clings to her waist like a spool of yarn pulled tighter than breathing. With a local girl’s surety she guides Sei inside—a little scalloped bell chimes, and Imogen looks up from her parchments with a stern face, her black hair soft around a neck just slightly too long for a woman to wear in company.