Darkness Becomes Her (Gods & Monsters, Book 1) by Kelly Keaton

By Kelly Keaton

A darkish and plush paranormal romance set in a richly reimagined New Orleans

Ari can’t support feeling misplaced and by myself. With teal eyes and freakish silver hair that can’t be replaced or destroyed, Ari has consistently stood out. And after growing to be up in foster care, she longs for a few knowing of the place she got here from and who she is.

Her look for solutions uncovers a message from her lengthy useless mom: Run. Ari can feel that somebody, or anything, is getting nearer than they need to. yet it’s very unlikely to guard herself whilst she doesn’t recognize what she’s working from or why she is being pursued.

She is aware just one factor: she needs to go back to her birthplace of latest 2, the luxurious rebuilt urban of latest Orleans. Upon arriving, she discovers that New 2 is very...different. right here, Ari is outwardly general. yet each creature she encounters, regardless of how lethal or frightening, is petrified of her.

Ari won’t cease till she is familiar with why. yet a few truths are too haunting, too terrifying, to ever be printed.

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Additional info for Darkness Becomes Her (Gods & Monsters, Book 1)

Sample text

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.

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