By John Birmingham
For enthusiasts of Jim Butcher and Kevin Hearne comes an exciting new city fable sequence that includes monster-slayerDave Hooper and his magical splitting maul.
Kids, there are not any monsters below the mattress. They’re within the entrance yard.
As a hardworking monster-slayer, Dave Hooper attempts to not carry his paintings domestic with him. yet these days it’s not easy to maintain them separate. e mail, cell phones, empath daemons, they by no means permit a man rest.
The Horde has been elevating hell and leveling towns from manhattan to l. a., holding Dave and his fellow monster-killer, Russian secret agent Karin Varatchevsky, very busy. but if the legions of hell invade the small beach city his boys name domestic, Dave has to make a choice. keep the realm? Or keep his family?
Not as effortless a decision as you’d imagine, given that Dave’s ex-wife expects to be stored too. And there’s no convincing her that the supersexy Russian secret agent isn’t his female friend. She’s simply his sidekick—and an murderer.
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Additional info for Ascendance (David Hooper, Book 3)
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.