By P. S. Power
Having arrange a profitable company, supporting beings movement from one position to a different straight away, Zach Hartley has yet one target left in existence. to discover the demon that killed his father, and smash him for all eternity. so one can do this, he needs to turn into another individual entirely.
When you hunt demons, you can't enable little such things as sanity cease you though.
Not if you're going to survive.
And surviving is something that he's first-class at, indeed.
* those books comprise intercourse, violence and grownup topics. no longer instructed for kids below 14 years previous, or individuals with soft sensibilities.
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Additional info for Between (Alternate Places, Book 2)
She writes nonsense-fortunes, whatever she is thinking about when she’s baking: The fog is too thick today! Jiangxi Province had proper mist. I am allergic to milk, that sort of thing. ” Xiaohui shrugged. “She’s my mother. ” November glanced down at the scrap of white paper in her hand. It read: Is not my daughter sweet? But she was not, November found, when she kissed her outside the restaurant, under the washed-out constellations. She tasted like flour, flour and salt. Their breasts pressed tight together between two fog-dewed overcoats, the ache of it half-painful and half-pleasant.
This is the first act of anyone entering Palimpsest: Orlande will take your coats, sit you down, and make you family. She will fold you four together like Quartos. She will draw you each a card—look, for you it is the Broken Ship reversed, which signifies Perversion, a Long Journey without Enlightenment, Gout—and tie your hands together with red yarn. Wherever you go in Palimpsest, you are bound to these strangers who happened onto Orlande’s salon just when you did, and you will go nowhere, eat no capon or dormouse, drink no oversweet port that they do not also taste, and they will visit no whore that you do not also feel beneath you, and until that ink washes from your feet—which, given that Orlande is a creature of the marsh and no stranger to mud, will be some time—you cannot breathe but that they breathe also.
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.