Despite dating one vampire and living with another, Rachel Morgan has always managed to stay just ahead of trouble . . . until now.
A fiendish serial killer stalks the Hollows, and no one living in or around Cincinnati—human, inhuman, or undead—is safe.
An ancient artifact may be the key to stopping the murderer—a mysterious relic that is now in the hands of Rachel Morgan, fearless independent bounty hunter and reckless witch. But revealing it could ignite a battle to the death among the vast and varied local supernatural races.
Rachel's been lucky so far. But even she can't hide from catastrophe forever.
In bestseller Harrison's fifth demon-kicking extravaganza to feature Rachel Morgan, the first in hardcover (after 2006's A Fistful of Charms), the Cincinnati-based bounty hunter and spell caster still possesses "the focus," a 5,000-year-old demon-crafted Were artifact. With the help of her pixie partner Jenks and Detective Glenn, Rachel must deal with demons, the elf Trent Kalamack and master vampire Piscary, who along with angry Weres, struggle for possession of the artifact. Meanwhile, a serial killer is on the loose and Rachel's alpha werewolf pal, David Hue, becomes the prime suspect of the FIB (aka the human-run Federal Inderland Bureau). Action-packed and full of Rachel's persistent erotic ruminations, this titillating tale includes a shocking finale that will leave fans panting for the next installment in the Hollows series. Copyright (c) Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
-- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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November 30, 2007
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Excerpt from For a Few Demons More by Kim Harrison
Hammering my fist against the back of my closet wasn't one of my more pleasant dreams. Actually, it hurt. The pain broke through my comfortable sleepy haze, and I felt the primitive part of me that never slept coolly measuring my slow gathering of will as I tried to wake up. With an eerie feeling of disconnection, I watched it happen, even as in my dream I tore the clothes off the rod and threw them to my rumpled bed.
Something, though, wasn't right. I wasn't waking up. The dream wasn't passively shredding into hard-to-remember bits. And with a jolt I realized I was conscious but not awake.
What in hell? Something was really, really wrong, and instinct sent a pulse of adrenaline thorough me, demanding I wake. But I didn't.
My breath was quick and ragged, and after I emptied the closet, I dropped to the floor and tapped my knuckles on the boards for a secret compartment I knew wasn't there. Frightened, I grasped my will and forced myself awake.
Pain reverberated through my forehead. I sprawled, all my muscles going flaccid. I managed to turn my head, and my ear stung instead of my nose breaking. Hard wood pressed against me, cold through my pajama shorts and top. My cry came out as a gurgle. I couldn't breathe! Something . . . something was in here with me. In my head. Trying to possess me!
Terror smothered me like a blanket. I couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, could hardly sense it. But my body had become a battlefield--one where I didn't know how to win. Possession was a black art, and I hadn't taken the right classes. Damn it, my life isn't supposed to be like this!
Utter panic gave me strength. I tried to mobilize my legs and arms under me and push. I managed to rise to my hands and knees, then fell into my bedside table. It crashed to the floor and rolled to the empty closet.
My pulse hammering, the fear of suffocating overtook me. I managed to stagger into the hallway, looking for help. My unknown assailant and I found common ground and, working together, we took a breath that escaped in a choked cry. Where the devil was Ivy? Was she deaf? Maybe she hadn't yet come in from her run with Jenks. She'd said they'd be late.
As if bothered by the cooperation, my attacker gripped harder, and I collapsed to the floor. My eyes were open, and the red sheet of my hair stood between me and the end of the dusky hallway. It had won. Whatever it was, it had won, and I panicked as I found myself sitting up with an eerie slowness. The thick scent of burnt amber hung in my nose, rising from my skin.
No! I cried in my thoughts--but I couldn't even speak. I wanted to scream, but my possessor made me take a slow, sedate breath instead. "Malum," I heard myself curse, my voice carrying an odd accent and a sophisticated lilt that had never been mine.
That was the last penny in the jar. Fear shifted to anger. I didn't know who was in here with me, but whoever it was, was going to get out. Right now. Making me speak in tongues was just rude.
Falling into my thoughts, I felt the barest brush of someone else's confusion. Fine. I could build on that. Before the intruder could figure out what I was doing, I tapped the ley line out back in the graveyard. Stark, foreign surprise filled me, and while my assailant struggled to break me from the line, I formed a protection circle in my thoughts.
Practice makes perfect, I thought smugly, then braced myself. This was going to hurt like hell.