The Book of Blood and Shadow

The Book of Blood and Shadow

Robin Wasserman

Language: English

Pages: 464

ISBN: 0375872779

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


One night. One body, broken in a pool of blood.
One killer, lost in the shadows.
One girl, left behind.
Left alone, to face the consequences.
To find the truth.
To avenge the dead.

One night is all it takes to change Nora Kane's life forever. Her best friend is dead; her boyfriend has vanished. And the trail of blood leads straight back to her: The person who might be responsible. The person who might be next.  

Desperate to save the people she loves and determined to find justice for the ones she's lost, Nora unearths a dark web of secret societies and shadowy conspirators, all driven by a mad desire to possess something that might not even exist. Something to which Nora herself might hold the key. It turns out her night of blood is just one piece in a puzzle that spans continents and centuries—and solving it may be the only way she can save her own life.

In the Shadow of Gotham (Simon Ziele, Book 1)

The Thief-Taker: Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner

Turtle in Paradise

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

In a Gilded Cage (Molly Murphy, Book 8)

Brotherhood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

meaning, hidden beneath all the mistakes and wrong turns. One puzzle, one solution. Latin was a question that supplied its own answer. “Why are you even bothering?” Adriane asked, flopped on the bed, eyes closed against a rising sun. “Because it could help.” She sighed. “They wanted it; we have it. That’s got to matter.” “No, Nora. It doesn’t.” I ignored her and turned back to the page Eli had given me, the end of Elizabeth’s story, its jagged edge a perfect fit with the torn page we’d

me. The one on the left towered over a strange contraption of wood and gold, with gears like clockwork, circled by golden orbs like planetary epicycles. Around them wound tubes of spiraling waterwheels, awaiting the fluid that would give them life. It was larger than I’d imagined, with space for a man to slip his head between the orbs and carefully align his gaze with the transparent central sphere, which held a pocket of sacred earth. So this was it, the Lumen Dei, paid for in Chris’s blood. And

the pages had been unceremoniously stuffed into the back of desk drawers or files layered in dust an inch thick—not even to him. He did ask how he was supposed to find anything if I didn’t tell him what we were looking for, which I admitted was a good question, then went back to the Hoff’s scribbles without offering an answer, because I didn’t have one. He was the one who found it. Just a yellow sticky note, stuck in between a first edition of The Leviathan and an old issue of Renaissance

no one who fit the description, and no one in the horde of tourists who seemed to care about our existence one way or another. They were too busy snapping photos of the glass pyramid and the majesty that surrounded us—to one side, manicured gardens with sculpted hedges watching over drizzling fountains, and to the other, the Louvre itself, once home to centuries of French kings, its baroque pediments now topped by statues of all the dead white men who had tamed civilization on behalf of the

things in a language that wasn’t your own, something that eased hard words out of your mouth. Because in a way, they didn’t seem as real. They didn’t count. And meanwhile, my mother thought I’d done something unforgivable she needed to forgive. I hung up. 17 In the dark. In his arms. The drip of the sink. The patter of the rain. The smell of him, fresh and earthy. The heat of his skin, the whisper of his breathing, the thump of his heart. His arm thrown over my chest, our fingers

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