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No campfires or fire pits. Originally from Michigan, Richelle now lives in Seattle, Washington where she works on her three series full-time: Richelle Mead is an international bestselling author of fantasy books for both adults and teens. Dallas had continued to work with the Targon off the books, and his admiration had only grown. Would a little calm have been amiss? Kirkland Reporter.
The bitch created sex-zombies. Three cheers! But now, here she was, back in his life. Three boos and a hiss. How had she found him? And why the hell was she here, anyway? To seduce him, infect him, and place him under her command? As her gaze met his, she stretched a trembling arm in his direction. A sizzle of lust burned through him, disgusted him, and he stumbled backward, increasing the distance between them. A special weapon created exclusively for her and her victims.
A single shot might or might not kill her; it was designed to trap the disease inside her, providing time to figure out what to do next. His coworkers. And pay hard. How delightful! Atoned for your sins? Resolve and relief swirled in the depths of her ocean blues, even as tears spilled down her cheeks. His brows knitted together. Why relief? Did it really matter? Today he stopped her. Is it contained? How accurate.
It is. A heavy sigh. Sorry, my friend, but hold your position without firing. Expect arrival in four minutes, thirty-eight seconds. He knew the cell had been tracked the moment it had activated.
While he sheathed the pyre-gun, he kept the other one, the SS, trained on his target. Which do you want to hear first? Did I fail to mention that the good and bad were meant for me? Well, well. Hello, beautiful loophole. Screw permission. This woman had already triggered one epidemic, with hundreds of lives lost. Why give her a chance to cause an actual pandemic, with thousands, maybe even millions, of casualties?
A soft whoosh sounded as a beam of liquefied fire blazed between them. Her entire body seized before going lax, smoke wafting from the new hole in her torso, the edges already cauterized.
The light in her eyes dulled as she cried out in pain.
Especially one that posed a threat to innocents. Harried, panicked, his date rushed around the corner. She trembled as she tied the belt of her robe. You shot my couch. You shot my freaking couch! The once supposed ideal standard of beauty: Basically a replica of Trinity, before the disease had ravaged her appearance.
But come on. Would a little calm have been amiss? And who were you talking to? And I am the police, honey. The fibers were hot but dry. Had the beam gone through a physical body before hitting the furniture, the fibers would have been ice-cold. A safety measure meant to prevent wildfires. Trinity had been a hallucination. And not his first this week. Not even his first this month! Cursing again, he straightened. What in all the worlds was wrong with him? She scrubbed a hand down her face.
From now on? Personality came first. When he reached the sidewalk outside, he fired up his cell phone. First he canceled the AIR unit. Mia had questions, and threats, but he faked static and hung up on her.
Then he phoned his closest friend, Devyn. An alien. An outlaw alien. A royal outlaw alien.
The man was king of the Targons, a race with the power to control other races, including humans. He could move faster than any eye could track, heal from nearly any injury in a matter of minutes, and dream visions of the future. A thought occurred to him. What if the hallucinations were a new type of waking vision?
The first one had featured a strange woman reclining in his favorite chair—naked—while sipping a glass of his favorite single malt.
Her face had been alien, arresting with its sharp angles, but also exquisite. Absolutely unforgettable. Emerald tattoos had surrounded her catlike eyes, making it appear as if she wore a mask of butterfly wings. Those same twirling tattoos had decorated her forehead, but not like wings. Like vines of ivy. Tiny diamonds had outlined some of the ivy and formed patterns on her temples, but larger diamonds—at least a carat each—formed her eyebrows. Her cheekbones had been blade-sharp, and her lips had been a lighter shade of green than her tattoos.
Her hair had been divided into what seemed to be a thousand braids, each long enough to reach her waist. Her skin had undergone the same transformation. Black, gold, blue, gold again, black again. The same colors found in the blanket draped over the chair.
No matter her coloring, her markings remained the same.
Every inch of her had been flawless, even the parts covered in those sweeping, scrolling emerald tattoos, with diamonds embedded here and there. The sides of her arms, her wrists.
Or, considering the diamonds, diamond powder. Her breasts had been plump, her waist small, and her hips heart-shaped. A perfect hourglass—and a perfect comparison.
But it had. Now she haunted him, waking and sleeping. No other woman compared to her. You like to pretend, yes? You are a man, and I am a woman, no problems between us. How had she gotten past his security? The barrel had whisked through her, hitting the back of the chair.
A second later, her image had vanished. A myriad of people had opted to walk to work, congesting every direction. Gazes were glued to smartphones or hidden behind smart lenses, lives lived online rather than in person. Dark Swan. Vampire Academy. Bloodlines book series.
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