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Some wounds take time to heal . . . and some scars never fade. Rachel Morgan, kick-ass witch and bounty hunter, has taken her fair share of hits, and has broken lines she swore she would never cross. But when her lover was murdered, it left a deeper wound than Rachel ever imagined, and now she won't rest until his death is solved . . . and avenged. Whatever the cost. Yet the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and when a new predator moves to the apex of the Inderlander food chain, Rachel's past comes back to haunt her. Literally.
Confusion reigns for characters and readers in the complicated seventh urban fantasy outing (after 2008's The Outlaw Demon Wails) for witch detective Rachel Morgan. Rachel's reputation is in tatters-to save humanity, she used powers that are considered evil-and she's still devastated by the mysterious death of her boyfriend six months earlier. Her attempts to solve his murder bleed into a case involving an emotion-sucking banshee, and soon Rachel has to bring in her PI partners-Ivy, a bisexual vampire, and Jenks, a pixie in existential crisis-along with empathic psychiatrist Ford and the banshee victim's father, Federal Inderland Bureau captain Edden. Harrison's unique vampire mythology unduly complicates world-building, and newcomers will be desperate for a glossary, but the nearly nonstop action nicely plays off the poignancy of Rachel's difficult life. (Mar.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. More Reviews and RecommendationsBest known for her paranormal fantasy series starring sexy witch/bounty hunter Rachel Morgan, New York Times-bestselling author Kim Harrison is one of the leading lights in a burgeoning hybrid genre that combines fantasy, mystery, horror, and romance.
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November 03, 2009: The 7th installment in the Hollows series is definitely the most fun. The characters are more defined. I love Al- he is one funny demon! I also could not stop laughing with Rachel on a wheelchair, still dizzy from the attack, and Ivy racing her along the hospital corridor, forgetting the earlier's condition until Jenks had to remind her. This latest installment solves Kisten's death, reintroduces us to a ghost and meet a new supernatural. And the bottom line reminder? No matter what happens, your true friends will always be beside you.
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October 27, 2009: I just finished The Outlaw Demoun Walls and absoulutly love the series. Kisten was my fave person for Rachel and what happened to me tore me apart and i cried! im so thrilled to no wat happens and as soon as i get a bookcard im getting this book to go along with the other ones in the series! These books are one of the best i have every read :)
Name:
Kim Harrison
Current Home:
Rock Hill, South Carolina
Education:
B.A. in the sciences, 1989
Awards:
Romantic Times Award for Best Fantasy Novel for Dead Witch Walking, 2004; P.E.A.R.L. (Paranormal Excellence Award for Romantic Literature) Award for Best Science Fiction Novel for The Good, the Bad, and the Undead, 2005
Bestselling paranormal fantasy author Kim Harrison went all the way through school with nary a thought of becoming a writer. A biology major in college, she took only the required English courses needed to graduate. So when the writing bug hit her later in life, she found herself at a real disadvantage with grammar, spelling, and other basic weapons in the scribbler's arsenal. However, her love of books was her saving grace. Always a voracious reader, Harrison instinctively recognized the role of plot, pacing, and character development in good storytelling. She set about writing with great enthusiasm and plugged away for the better part of decade, until she was able to bring her skills up to par.
Harrison's debut novel grew out of frustration with a growing pile of rejection notices. In an attempt to get publishers' attention, she set out to craft something deliberately weird and edgy. She conceived a motley cast of vampires, werewolves, pixies, and witches, including a sexy bounty hunter named Rachel Morgan, and threw them together in a short story. Then, her agent introduced her to editor Diana Gill, and together they refined and expanded Harrison's idea into a full length novel.
Published in 2004, Dead Witch Walking became a bestseller, launched a blockbuster series, and catapulted Harrison into a pantheon of paranormal superstars that includes Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, Christine Feehan, and Sherrilyn Kenyon. As if to validate her inclusion in these ranks, Harrison's stories have also been included in several bestselling paranormal collections.
What was the book that most influenced your life or your career as a writer?
I look back on my reading as I was growing up, and I can see a good handful of authors and series that have impacted my writing, but if I had to pick one title that did the most "damage," I'd have to say that it was Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. I believe I was about ten when I read it first, not understanding as much as I do now, but I knew there was something there, a greater truth of the human condition, if I could only find it. So I kept looking, unknowingly studying Bradbury's pacing, suspense, use of language, and my favorite, how to describe a character in a single paragraph so that the reader instantly knows who that character is on the inside.
It was here that I first saw the power a writer can command when he or she mixes fantasy with the stark honesty of the human condition. The monsters in Bradbury's Dandelion Wine were the monsters inside us, as were the heroes, but that didn't make them any less real -- it made them more so. I fell in love with the fluidity he uses the language with, that the greater truth that can be found in the simplest things. A way of seeing, I suppose. Dandelion Wine became one of the few books that I returned to time and again, and while not anywhere near the story crafter as Mr. Bradbury, I hope I managed to absorb by osmosis some of his techniques.
What are your ten favorite books, and what makes them special to you?
My ten favorite books are going to look like a history lesson of young adult reading rather than a leather-bound collection of great literature. They are good, solid reads that satisfied my like of adventure and the chance to learn something along the way. Apart from the few children's books in there, most are from the SF/fantasy authors popular in the ‘70s and early ‘80s when I was doing most of my reading. I didn't know it at the time, but I think I was studying them, picking the authors' work apart and seeing what worked and what didn't. Some might even be out of print, but they will always remain new-penny bright to me.
What are some of your favorite films, and what makes them unforgettable to you?
As the reader has probably guessed, I'm a big fan of Clint Eastwood's movies. I've not seen them all by any means, but my favorite is probably Pale Rider or Heartbreak Ridge. I've often seen my protagonist like some of the characters that Clint played in his spaghetti westerns, the loaner who comes into town with the ability to wipe out the corruption, but not always eager to do it, and when pressured into it, doesn't always take care of business lawfully but with justice.
Some of my other favorite films are:
What types of music do you like? Is there any particular kind you like to listen to when you're writing?
Music oftentimes inspires my writing, or at least my characters and the direction they take. I've found that when I'm having trouble solidifying a character or a scene, that music will often free my subconscious just that last little bit to allow me to move forward, and often it's in a direction that I didn't expect, but is 100 percent true to the character. Alternate rock seems to be my favorite for the themes in the lyrics and the sound, rich in variety, though slow jazz will slip in on a rainy day, and electronic dance will get me through an action scene before I realize the day has slipped away.
I don't always listen while I work, but when I do, I tend to focus on certain bands that reflect the Hollows or the characters. NIN is good for working with Ivy or Rachel for the frustrated, in-your-face attitude. Rachel is pure Garbage with a little Evanescence thrown in for the themes focusing on the tragedy of the individual arising from our own choices. Evanescence is Ivy as well, with the attention given to manipulation, great for vampires. When I'm stuck on a scene with my two leading ladies, it's Amy Lee all day. A Perfect Circle is another group that really brings vampires to my mind.
When I brought to the readers the connections that I made between the characters and certain songs, they responded with such a plethora of ideas that I had to devote a portion of my web site, www.kimharrison.net, to cataloging them. Their ideas have expanded my music tastes dramatically, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that lots of people can see the characters in music as I do.
What are your favorite kinds of books to give -- and get -- as gifts?
If I give a book as a gift, it is invariably a children's book with beautiful artwork and a simple text. I adore the feel of them, the care taken in the artwork, and the high visual stimulation that sets off the simple but often powerful message the text conveys. You can't read a book like that fast, the experience slowed down as you study the artwork as the sentence or two sinks in. I'm lucky that my mother loves books like these as much as I do, and it's probably from her that my appreciation comes from.
Do you have any special writing rituals? For example, what do you have on your desk when you're writing?
I recently moved my office space from a three-by-five area against my kitchen wall to a real office with windows and a door, and I am enjoying it so much it's almost not fair. I have made a point to not develop a ritual so I could sit down at any point in my day and begin -- preventing a 30-minute warm-up -- but alas, a ritual has found me, involving spending the first hour of my day responding to my readers, loosening up my fingers, and slamming down my first cup of chai tea. That never-ending mug of chai tea is a must, and it is with me from the moment I sit down to when I push back at the end of the day and wobble out of my office. I have a salt lamp that I light to ionize the air when I know it's going to be an intense day, and I've got my iPod that I will sometimes program and loop to keep the mood flowing and the passing of hours unnoticed. Oh, and I have a four-legged office assistant that keeps my feet warm and gets me outside three times a day.
Many writers are hardly "overnight success" stories. How long did it take for you to get where you are today? Any rejection-slip horror stories or inspirational anecdotes?
Someone told me that it takes ten years' hard work to become an overnight success, and I fully believe it. I've been writing for at least that long, stashing manuscripts under my bed and a filling a file with short stories that will never see the light of day. I collected my share of rejection slips along the way, and actually, I threw all but two out while moving my office. It felt really, really good to throw the others away. I mean, really good, like I had finally made it and I was never going back. I have since framed and hung the two I kept as a constant reminder of where I started and how fragile the journey was to get where I am now.
I kept my first rejection letter as a reminder of how crushed I felt when I received it, and the surge of blind determination that followed that this one person was not going to tell me what I could and couldn't do. The other letter I kept is a query as to the availability of Dead Witch Walking (which was in production at the time in another house). I put this one on my wall as a reminder to take everyone seriously, because you'll never know what you'll pass up if you don't.
I never considered I might make a career out of writing as I was going to school, so when I did turn my attentions that way, I was very ill prepared, having only what I read as a guide, and no formal training whatsoever. I credit that very ignorance with a great deal of my success. My voice was my own from day one, my ideas on how to get from point A to point B were my own -- they were pathetically rough, but they were my own. I had to work extremely hard to catch up with grammar and spelling, but I fell in love with the process and kept at it until my skills started to equal my enthusiasm. Most importantly, I never considered that I wouldn't make it. Ignorance is bliss sometimes. If I had known how hard it would be, I might have given up.
What tips or advice do you have for writers still looking to be discovered?
I have two pieces of advice that I give out to writers looking for publication. The first is to write like you have the contract. Which by, I mean, intently and with purpose. If you want to be a writer, BE A WRITER. Sit down and write, don't make a game out of it, but treat it as a part-time job. You will never be a writer if you don't first start acting like it. You don't need an office. You don't need a fancy printer or huge chunks of time. Don't fall into the trap of having to have everything perfect to write or wait until the mood strikes you. If you want it as a job, treat it like a job, and just as you don't go to work only when you feel like it, you have to condition yourself to sit and write even when the ideas don't flow. Ah, having said that, don't quit your day job. I was lucky to have someone to support me and supplement my part-time day job while I was building my skills, but a page a day will get you a completed manuscript in a year's time.
My second suggestion would be to get into a face-to-face, functioning critique group. The reasons are twofold. First, publication is a hard path to follow, and friends who can relate will make it easier. Secondly, there's bound to be a published author there, and they can start to open doors for you. I credit my old writers' critique group with me finding publication so "fast." They helped me learn what is good advice, and what is bad. I learned confidence in my ideas and my skills, I polished my voice, and my style. And when I was ready, someone shoved my little introverted butt in front of the man who eventually became my agent. And yes, she literally dragged me over there.
Which brings me to the shy people. Don't worry about it. If you truly love your work, you can do anything. Trust me on this. Your enthusiasm will pour out, and you will be heard.
Purebred witch/detective Rachel Morgan presides over Kim Harrison's urban fantasy series The Hollows. In this convincing alternate history, a virulent virus has attached itself to genetically manipulated tomatoes, unleashing a plague on all humankind. In its aftermath, numerous supernatural races have revealed themselves to the world: witches, pixies, fairies, elves, trolls, and demons of all sorts. Rachel, who also serves as a first-person narrator, must cope with this inchoate menace as best she can. In White Witch, Black Curse, an Inderlander predator and a dire presence from the past come to haunt her.
Some wounds take time to heal . . . and some scars never fade.
Rachel Morgan, kick-ass witch and bounty hunter, has taken her fair share of hits, and has broken lines she swore she would never cross. But when her lover was murdered, it left a deeper wound than Rachel ever imagined, and now she won't rest until his death is solved . . . and avenged. Whatever the cost.
Yet the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and when a new predator moves to the apex of the Inderlander food chain, Rachel's past comes back to haunt her.
Literally.
Confusion reigns for characters and readers in the complicated seventh urban fantasy outing (after 2008's The Outlaw Demon Wails) for witch detective Rachel Morgan. Rachel's reputation is in tatters-to save humanity, she used powers that are considered evil-and she's still devastated by the mysterious death of her boyfriend six months earlier. Her attempts to solve his murder bleed into a case involving an emotion-sucking banshee, and soon Rachel has to bring in her PI partners-Ivy, a bisexual vampire, and Jenks, a pixie in existential crisis-along with empathic psychiatrist Ford and the banshee victim's father, Federal Inderland Bureau captain Edden. Harrison's unique vampire mythology unduly complicates world-building, and newcomers will be desperate for a glossary, but the nearly nonstop action nicely plays off the poignancy of Rachel's difficult life. (Mar.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.There's a banshee out for witch and bounty hunter Rachel Morgan's aura, and she isn't any closer to cracking her memories of Kisten's killer. Harrison's (www.kimharrison.net) seventh entry in her "Hollows" series—following The Outlaw Demon Wails (2008)—ties up loose ends while setting the stage for new adventures as Rachel's growing powers put her on every supernatural's radar. Series narrator Marguerite Gavin brilliantly channels all the characters. Harrison's following grows with every book, and this one highlights why; fans of urban fantasy fiction will definitely enjoy. [Audio clip available through www.blackstoneaudio.com; the Eos: HarperCollins hc, a New York Times best seller, was "highly recommended," LJ 12/08.—Ed.]—Jodi L. Israel, MLS, Salt Lake City
In book seven of a near-future urban fantasy series (The Outlaw Demon Wails, 2008, etc.), it's business as usual for Cincinnati witch and bounty hunter Rachel Morgan: Her personal problems are equally as difficult and dangerous as her caseload. Rachel's sea of troubles include the recovery of disturbing memories about the circumstances of her vampire boyfriend Kisten's murder; a visit by her bossy older brother; confusion about the progression of her relationship with Marshal, the new man in her life; continual aggravation from her demonic instructor in magic; and fears that she might be part demon herself. To top it all off, a murderous banshee family has surfaced, and in the chaos of tracking them down, Rachel gets shunned by the witch community, who (not entirely incorrectly) believes her to be trafficking in black magic. There are certainly pleasures and the occasional giggle to be found here, but Harrison seems to revel in making the life of her protagonist ever more difficult in each successive volume of this series. Implausibly, Rachel keeps bouncing back with a smile. Some readers will continue to enjoy the series, but if Harrison keeps piling on the agony in future installments, others may eventually find the byzantine predicaments tedious. Agent: Richard Curtis/Richard Curtis Associates
Loading...White Witch, Black Curse
Chapter One
The bloody handprint was gone, wiped from Kisten's window but not from my memory, and it ticked me off that someone had cleaned it, as if they were trying to steal what little recollection I retained about the night he'd died. The anger was misplaced fear if I was honest with myself. But I wasn't. Most days it was better that way.
Stifling a shiver from the December chill that had taken the abandoned cruiser, now in dry dock rather than floating on the river, I stood in the tiny kitchen and stared at the milky plastic as if willing the smeared mark back into existence. In the near distance came the overindulgent, powerful huff of a diesel train crossing the Ohio River. The scrape of Ford's shoes on the metallic boarding ladder was harsh, and worry pinched my brow.
The Federal Inderland Bureau had officially closed the investigation into Kisten's murder—Inderland Security hadn't even opened one—but the FIB wouldn't let me into their impound yard without an official presence. That meant intelligent, awkward Ford, since Edden thought I needed more psychiatric evaluation and I wouldn't come in anymore. Not since I fell asleep on the couch and everyone in the FIB's Cincinnati office had heard me snoring. I didn't need evaluation. What I needed was something—anything—to rebuild my memory. If it was a bloody handprint, then so be it.
"Rachel? Wait for me," the FIB's psychiatrist called, shifting my worry to annoyance. Like I can't handle this? I'm a big girl. Besides, there wasn't anything left to see; the FIB had cleaned everything up. Ford had obviously been out hereearlier—given the ladder and the unlocked door—making sure everything was sufficiently tidy before our appointment.
The clatter of dress shoes on teak pushed me forward, and I untangled my arms from themselves and reached for the tiny galley table for balance as I headed to the living room. The floor was still, which felt weird. Beyond the short curtains framing the now-clean window were the dirty gray and brilliant blue tarps of boats at dry dock, the ground a good six feet below us.
"Will you hold up?" Ford asked again, the light eclipsing as he entered. "I can't help if you're a room away."
"I'm waiting," I grumbled, coming to a halt and tugging my shoulder bag up. Though he'd tried to hide it, Ford had some difficulty getting his butt up the ladder. I thought the idea of a psychiatrist afraid of heights was hilarious, until the amulet he wore around his neck turned a bright pink when I mentioned it and Ford went red with embarrassment. He was a good man with his own demons to circle. He didn't deserve my razzing.
Ford's breathing slowed in the chill silence. Wan but determined, he gripped the table, his face whiter than usual, which made his short black hair stand out and his brown eyes soulful. Listening in on my feelings was draining, and I appreciated his wading through my emotional crap to help me piece together what had happened.
I gave him a thin smile, and Ford undid the top few buttons of his coat to reveal a professional cotton shirt and the amulet he wore while working. The metallic ley line charm was a visual display of the emotions he was picking up. He felt the emotions whether he was wearing the charm or not, but those around him had at least the illusion of privacy when he took it off. Ivy, my roommate and business partner, thought it stupid to try to break witch magic with human psychology in order to recover my memory, but I was desperate. Her efforts to find out who had killed Kisten were getting nowhere.
Ford's relief at being surrounded by walls was almost palpable, and seeing him release his death grip on the table, I headed for the narrow door to the living room and the rest of the boat. The faint scent of vampire and pasta brushed against me—imagination stoked by a memory. It had been five months.
My jaw clenched, and I kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the broken door frame. There were smudges of dirt on the low-mat carpet that hadn't been there before, marks left by careless people who didn't know Kisten, had never known his smile, the way he laughed, or the way his eyes crinkled up when he surprised me. Technically an Inderland death without human involvement was out of the FIB's jurisdiction, but since the I.S. didn't care that my boyfriend had been turned into a blood gift, the FIB had made an effort just for me.
Murder was never taken off the books, but the investigation had been officially shelved. This was the first chance I'd had to come out here to try to rekindle my memory. Someone had nicked the inside of my lip trying to bind me to them. Someone had murdered my boyfriend twice. Someone was going to be in a world of hurt when I found out who they were.
Stomach fluttering, I looked past Ford to the window where the bloody handprint had been, left like a signpost to mock my pain without giving any prints to follow. Coward.
The amulet around Ford's neck flashed to an angry black. His eyes met mine as his eyebrows rose, and I forced my emotions to slow. I couldn't remember crap. Jenks, my backup and other business partner, had dosed me into forgetting so I wouldn't go after Kisten's murderer. I couldn't blame him. The pixy was only four inches tall, and it had been his only option to keep me from killing myself on a suicide run. I was a witch with an unclaimed vampire bite, and that couldn't stand up to an undead vampire no matter how you sliced it.
"You sure you're up to this?" Ford asked, and I forced my hand down from my upper arm. Again. It throbbed with a pain long since gone as a memory tried to surface. Fear stirred in me. The recollection of being on the other side of the door and trying to break it down was an old one. It was nearly the only memory I had of that night.
White Witch, Black Curse. Copyright © by Kim Harrison. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.Chapter One
The bloody handprint was gone, wiped from Kisten's window but not from my memory, and it ticked me off that someone had cleaned it, as if they were trying to steal what little recollection I retained about the night he'd died. The anger was misplaced fear if I was honest with myself. But I wasn't. Most days it was better that way.
Stifling a shiver from the December chill that had taken the abandoned cruiser, now in dry dock rather than floating on the river, I stood in the tiny kitchen and stared at the milky plastic as if willing the smeared mark back into existence. In the near distance came the overindulgent, powerful huff of a diesel train crossing the Ohio River. The scrape of Ford's shoes on the metallic boarding ladder was harsh, and worry pinched my brow.
The Federal Inderland Bureau had officially closed the investigation into Kisten's murder—Inderland Security hadn't even opened one—but the FIB wouldn't let me into their impound yard without an official presence. That meant intelligent, awkward Ford, since Edden thought I needed more psychiatric evaluation and I wouldn't come in anymore. Not since I fell asleep on the couch and everyone in the FIB's Cincinnati office had heard me snoring. I didn't need evaluation. What I needed was something—anything—to rebuild my memory.If it was a bloody handprint, then so be it.
"Rachel? Wait for me," the FIB's psychiatrist called, shifting my worry to annoyance. Like I can't handle this? I'm a big girl. Besides, there wasn't anything left to see; the FIB had cleaned everything up. Ford had obviously been out here earlier—given the ladder and the unlocked door—making sure everything was sufficiently tidy before our appointment.
The clatter of dress shoes on teak pushed me forward, and I untangled my arms from themselves and reached for the tiny galley table for balance as I headed to the living room. The floor was still, which felt weird. Beyond the short curtains framing the now-clean window were the dirty gray and brilliant blue tarps of boats at dry dock, the ground a good six feet below us.
"Will you hold up?" Ford asked again, the light eclipsing as he entered. "I can't help if you're a room away."
"I'm waiting," I grumbled, coming to a halt and tugging my shoulder bag up. Though he'd tried to hide it, Ford had some difficulty getting his butt up the ladder. I thought the idea of a psychiatrist afraid of heights was hilarious, until the amulet he wore around his neck turned a bright pink when I mentioned it and Ford went red with embarrassment. He was a good man with his own demons to circle. He didn't deserve my razzing.
Ford's breathing slowed in the chill silence. Wan but determined, he gripped the table, his face whiter than usual, which made his short black hair stand out and his brown eyes soulful. Listening in on my feelings was draining, and I appreciated his wading through my emotional crap to help me piece together what had happened.
I gave him a thin smile, and Ford undid the top few buttons of his coat to reveal a professional cotton shirt and the amulet he wore while working. The metallic ley line charm was a visual display of the emotions he was picking up. He felt the emotions whether he was wearing the charm or not, but those around him had at least the illusion of privacy when he took it off. Ivy, my roommate and business partner, thought it stupid to try to break witch magic with human psychology in order to recover my memory, but I was desperate. Her efforts to find out who had killed Kisten were getting nowhere.
Ford's relief at being surrounded by walls was almost palpable, and seeing him release his death grip on the table, I headed for the narrow door to the living room and the rest of the boat. The faint scent of vampire and pasta brushed against me—imagination stoked by a memory. It had been five months.
My jaw clenched, and I kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the broken door frame. There were smudges of dirt on the low-mat carpet that hadn't been there before, marks left by careless people who didn't know Kisten, had never known his smile, the way he laughed, or the way his eyes crinkled up when he surprised me. Technically an Inderland death without human involvement was out of the FIB's jurisdiction, but since the I.S. didn't care that my boyfriend had been turned into a blood gift, the FIB had made an effort just for me.
Murder was never taken off the books, but the investigation had been officially shelved. This was the first chance I'd had to come out here to try to rekindle my memory. Someone had nicked the inside of my lip trying to bind me to them. Someone had murdered my boyfriend twice. Someone was going to be in a world of hurt when I found out who they were.
Stomach fluttering, I looked past Ford to the window where the bloody handprint had been, left like a signpost to mock my pain without giving any prints to follow. Coward.
The amulet around Ford's neck flashed to an angry black. His eyes met mine as his eyebrows rose, and I forced my emotions to slow. I couldn't remember crap. Jenks, my backup and other business partner, had dosed me into forgetting so I wouldn't go after Kisten's murderer. I couldn't blame him. The pixy was only four inches tall, and it had been his only option to keep me from killing myself on a suicide run. I was a witch with an unclaimed vampire bite, and that couldn't stand up to an undead vampire no matter how you sliced it.
"You sure you're up to this?" Ford asked, and I forced my hand down from my upper arm. Again. It throbbed with a pain long since gone as a memory tried to surface. Fear stirred in me. The recollection of being on the other side of the door and trying to break it down was an old one. It was nearly the only memory I had of that night.
Excerpted from White Witch, Black Curse by Kim Harrison Copyright © 2009 by Kim Harrison. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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