By Jeaniene Frost
You could run from the grave, yet you can't disguise . . .
Half-vampire Cat Crawfield is now distinctive Agent Cat Crawfield, operating for the govt to rid the realm of the rogue undead. She's nonetheless utilizing every little thing Bones, her attractive and hazardous ex, taught her, but if Cat is concentrated for assassination, the one guy who can assist her is the vampire she left behind.
Being round him awakens all her feelings, from the adrenaline kick of slaying vamps aspect through part to the reckless ardour that fed on them. yet a cost on her head—wanted: useless or half-alive—means her survival is determined by teaming up with Bones. And regardless of how tough she attempts to maintain issues expert among them, she'll locate that hope lasts perpetually . . . and that Bones won't allow her escape back.
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Extra info for One Foot in the Grave
Sample text
Next an older woman, said to be a fine cook, was auctioned off, and then a young mother with two children, all sold together. Sour Billy waited through several other sales. It was a quarter past noon and the French Exchange was jammed with bidders and spectators when the item he had chosen came up. Her name was Emily, the encanteur told them. “Look at her, sirs,” he babbled in French, “just look at her. Such perfection! ” Sour Billy was inclined to agree. Emily was sixteen or seventeen, he judged, but already very much a woman.
Marsh rounded to face York. “I hoped my Lady Liz would take the Eclipse some day, beat her time or race her head to head, but she never could of done it, I know that now. I was just foolin’ myself. I didn’t have the money it takes to build a boat that can take the Eclipse. “You give me that money, Mister York, and you’ve got yourself a partner. There’s your answer, sir. You want half of Fevre River Packets, and a partner who runs things quiet and don’t ask you no questions ’bout your business?
But at last he looked away. The man at the table pushed away his soup, gestured, and said, “Captain Marsh. I have been expecting you. ” His voice was mellow, educated, easy. “Yes,” Marsh said, too softly. He pulled out the chair across from York and eased himself into it. Marsh was a massive man, six foot tall and three hundred pounds heavy. He had a red face and a full black beard that he wore to cover up a flat, pushed-in nose and a faceful of warts, but even the whiskers didn’t help much; they called him the ugliest man on the river, and he knew it.