Download A Perfect Blood (The Hollows, Book 10) by Kim Harrison PDF

By Kim Harrison

ISBN-10: 0062101021

ISBN-13: 9780062101020

Ritually murdered corpses are showing throughout Cincinnati, terrifying amalgams of human and other.

Pulled in via the FIB to aid examine, former witch-turned-day-walking demon Rachel Morgan quickly realizes a scary fact: others are looking to create their very own demons, and to take action they wish her blood.

She's confronted vampires, witches, werewolves, demons, and more--but this time Rachel's hardest problem should be humanity itself.

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A Perfect Blood (The Hollows, Book 10)

Ritually murdered corpses are showing throughout Cincinnati, terrifying amalgams of human and other.

Pulled in through the FIB to assist examine, former witch-turned-day-walking demon Rachel Morgan quickly realizes a scary fact: others are looking to create their very own demons, and to take action they wish her blood.

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Additional resources for A Perfect Blood (The Hollows, Book 10)

Sample text

Only Oleg had heard their cries for each other. Only Oleg knew their silent grief that they could not join. He remembered Novgorod only vaguely, where he was born, where he had been a boy, briefly. It did not seem to Oleg that he could have been a boy long. Surely he would remember more of it, if it had been an important time. He had only images, as though he had once gone on vacation there—snapshots, postcards, souvenirs. He was born, properly, when they left, wafting like tea-steam through Vienna, Naples, and into New York.

He would be watching the small of her back now, where her silver-black shirt fell away into a mess of carefully arranged silk ropes and tin chains. He would watch her angles under the strings, the crease of her legs beneath an immodest skirt, her lips moving against the glass. The little wet fog of her breath. She could almost tell what he looked like without turning her head: good black suit, a little too small, clutching his briefcase like a talisman, probably a little gray at the temples, no rings on his hands.

But how intricate and sweet were the figures she inscribed in the margins of his books! What sort of bookbinder could he have been without her, her infinite variation, her obsessive knowledge of ink? She did not hear the tiger-books, but she smelled the trees of India and the terror of cuttlefish in her finger bowls full of black and violet and brown, no less vivid than oil paint. Together, they rarely needed to speak as he cut the pages and wrapped the boards in coppery silk, as he set the type in their ancient printing press: a truculent old dragon in the corner of the kitchen where they had had the stove removed to make room for it.

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