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By Lee Carroll

What secrets and techniques are hidden in her previous . . . ?Jewelry clothier Garet James continues to be coming to phrases with the astounding revelation in BLACK SWAN emerging that she is the final in a protracted line of girls sworn to guard the realm from evil.  Now she has got an indication from Will Hughes, the 400-year-old vampire who as soon as helped her defeat the evil threatening to wreck big apple urban.  Hughes, tortured via his personal violent background that is vividly reenacted here, has requested her to affix him on a quest to rid himself of his curse of vampirism.  While looking for Will in Paris, Garet encounters a few mysterious figures-an ancient botanist metamorphosed into the oldest tree in Paris, a gnome who lives lower than the Labyrinth on the Jardin des Plantes, a librarian at the Institut Oceanographique, and a dryad within the Luxembourg Gardens.Each stumble upon leads Garet towards discovering Will Hughes, yet she realizes that she’s now not the one one who’s searching for how you can the paranormal global known as the summer season kingdom. As Garet struggles to appreciate her family members legacy, each one solution she unearths purely results in extra questions—and to extra danger.…

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Sample text

For Viviani, it was the oldest tree in Paris, a Robinia pseucacia fabacées planted in 1602 by the botanist Jean Robin, now leaning so perilously toward the walls of Saint-Julien that I found myself worrying that one of these mornings, on which I would no doubt still be sitting here waiting for my sign, the oldest tree in Paris would fall onto the oldest church in Paris and collapse with it, like the two old drunks curled up like nesting spoons on the next bench. To keep such an event from happening, the city of Paris has propped the twenty-or-so-foot-tall tree up with a cement girder ingeniously sculpted to look like a tree itself, and the actual tree has been fortified against some blight with an unsightly patch of gray cement, one large enough that I could probably have squeezed into the hole it filled.

The poet quickly picked up the sword. He backed away to the window, then ripped the curtain down with one motion. Will had to cover his eyes against the dazzle of sunlight flooding the room. The poet’s gesture had revealed a stained-glass scene of a beautiful youth playing his lyre to a black swan that glided over a blue pond. The poet pointed wildly at the window. “See here the swan, symbol of your family, harkens to Orpheus, god of poetry and music. This is the heritage Will should be loyal to.

I wasn’t going to get a message. If Will had really sent the painting of the church—and even that certitude was fading fast in the limpid evening light—perhaps he had only sent it as a farewell. An apology for betraying my trust and stealing the box. A reminder that he’d needed it to embark on his own quest for mortality. Perhaps it served no more purpose than a postcard sent from a foreign land with the message Wish you were here. It hadn’t been an invitation at all. With another pang I recalled another moment by a river.

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