By Christopher Farnsworth
'There are worse issues during this international than al-Qaeda and North Korea, Zach. and they're simply watching for their probability at us.' Sharp and bold, Zach Barrows is on his manner up. but if he will get a choice from the White condo, it's now not particularly the advertising he anticipated. Zach is to be the hot political liaison officer to America's most sensible saved mystery: Nathaniel Cade. The President's vampire. And Cade is the world's merely wish opposed to a frightening new terrorist possibility advancing from the center East. The struggle is deadlier than ever, and time is operating out ...
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Camden, North London. A tangled, mangled junction of educate traces, roads and waterways. the place minor celebrities hang around with minor criminals and the place travelers and moody young children mingle. within the center of Camden, the place rail meets highway meets leyline, you could locate the Arcana Emporium, run by way of one Alex Verus.
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Extra resources for Blood Oath (Nathaniel Cade, Book 1)
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.