By Steve McHugh
Book 1 within the Hellequin Chronicles.
How do you retain the folk you care approximately secure from enemies you can't remember?
Ten years in the past, Nate Garrett aroused from sleep on a chilly warehouse ground without reminiscence of his past-a gun, a sword, and a section of paper along with his identify on it the single clues to his identification. given that then, he's found he's a robust sorcerer and has used his magical skills to develop into a winning thief for lease.
But those that stole his thoughts aren't performed with him but: once they reason a role to move undesirable and threaten a sixteen-year-old lady, Nate swears to guard her. along with his enemies ultimate in and everybody he cares approximately now a goal for his or her wrath, he needs to make a choice from the comfy existence he's equipped for himself and his elusive earlier.
As the barrier retaining his stories captive starts off to disintegrate, Nate strikes among modern day London and fifteenth-century France, compelled to confront his forgotten lifestyles within the desire of forestalling an enemy he can't remember.
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Extra info for Crimes Against Magic (Hellequin Chronicles, 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.