Fallen Angel of Mine (Overworld Chronicles, Book 3) by John Corwin

By John Corwin

Justin has simply slightly stuck his breath after surviving an come upon with the main infamous murderer within the Overworld, hellhounds, and his father's demon spawn relations, whilst the universe throws him one other curve ball. An assault by means of grey males sends him to Thunder Rock, a dreaded position the place Elyssa's father, Thomas Borathen, and a bunch of Templars have been ambushed by means of demon spawn approximately 20 years in the past. due to this, Thomas despises spawn and hates Justin.

Despite a foreseeance predicting Justin could be the merely factor status among the area and a cataclysm, significant relatives concerns, and 2 angels who every one wish him to affix their aspect of the clash, Justin realizes he are able to achieve whatever much more vital than global peace: the approval of Elyssa's father. yet first, he'll need to locate the wrongdoer chargeable for the ambush and produce him to Templar justice.

Trying to flee Thunder Rock, Justin is hurtled via an Obsidian Arch and results in Colombia. Elyssa is captured by way of her father, who's decided to make her take the White, a Templar ritual so that it will erase all her stories of Justin. loss of life can't cease real love. yet a brain wipe most likely will.

Thousands of miles from domestic with future respiring down his neck, Justin has to resolve a secret older than he's, triumph over new enemies, and make a citizen's arrest at the loopy mofo in the back of the madness so he can shop Elyssa and achieve reputation from her family.

Because real love is completely worthy it.

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Additional resources for Fallen Angel of Mine (Overworld Chronicles, Book 3)

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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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