Blue Star Priestess (Demon Lord Book 3)
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BECAUSE SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO FIGHT FIRE WITH HELLFIRE, THERE’S CAINE DEATHWALKER: RAISED AS A DEMON, ARMED LIKE A GUN MERCHANT, AND FUELED BY BOOZE. NICE IS A DIRTY WORD AND KILLING IS WHAT HE DOES BEST. MAKE A CONTRACT WITH HELL AND HE COULD BE ON YOUR SIDE, GOD HELP YOU.
BLUE STAR PRIESTESS
THE MILF FROM HELL: SHE’S HOT, LETHAL, AND NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ALIVE. CAINE’S FATHER KILLED OFF ALL THE ATLANTEAN DEMONS AGES AGO, LEAVING ONLY HIMSELF. BUT REAL OR NOT, THE BLUE STAR PRIESTESS AND HER DEMON SON ARE ON A MISSION OF VENGEANCE, ORCHESTRATING AN INVASION FROM THE SHADOWS. ALL OF L.A. IS THEIR TARGET. CAINE IS HIT FROM EVERY SIDE, ALL BUT JUMPING FLAMING HOOPS LIKE A CIRCUS POODLE.
BETRAYAL OF HIS CITY MAY BE THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE IT, AS LONG AS NOBODY FINDS OUT.
FOR MATURE AUDIENCES.
place. I sheathed my weapon and picked up an opened bag of fried pig skins. I nibbled delicately and used the crispy thing as a pointer. “Invaders to our smoggy shores have taken a sweet young child whose blood come from dragons.” The scuzball’s eyes lit up at sweet young child, fantasies all but glazing his eyes. “How young?” he asked. “You may have heard of her. She is what you like, right? New grass on the field, to employ a tender metaphor.” “Such information has value,” he said. “As it
I sent the sword back to my armory, its snarl of rage fading from my mind. “Fine, as long as you understand—next time, there will be no reprieve.” NINTEEN “Ice cream only buys twenty minutes of forgiveness from a hostile bitch—I’ve timed it.” —Caine Deathwalker I tried not to move my head too much. I had the mother of all headaches and single images were trying to divide into two. Feeling like century-old crap warmed up on a hot plate, I leaned against Zero-T’s Volvo and used a
its make-believe daggers sink into me and ghost away. I bore down on the real storm fey, my straight katana a mystic firebrand, howling with joy as I shoved toward her heart. I muscled the blade past her guard and watched her flinch back. Her body flipped over a rosebush that she should have known was there. She flailed midair, hit the ground, and rolled a short distance. With her concentration broken, the smoke-screen hiding her evaporated. I slashed; a low sweep that severed the base stems of
first,” I said. “Very well.” All passion left her face. Her eyes went flat. She rubbed the side of her face absently, then reached under her collar. Her hand tugged a silver chain into view. On the chain was a smoke-quartz crystal the size of her thumb. She wrapped her fingers around it. Her knuckles went white. A flash of shadow dimmed the air around her fist. Her body went smoky, translucent, the same vanishing trick she’d pulled before. I didn’t see how that would help her since her boots
his back, his thin legs clawing the sky. Half the room yelled in triumph. The other have moaned in despair. I was one of them. The referee called the fight. “And Sarpedon is the winner! Losers pay your debts.” “Wait a minute,” I yelled. That bug is a ringer. A cheat.” That got everybody’s attention. There’s nothing like calling out a cheat after heavy wagering to pour gasoline on a fire. The referee glared at me. “Don’t be a sore loser. Pay up, if you know what’s good for you.” He was trying