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Urban Fantasy

The Belial Stone (The Belial Series, Book 1) by R. D. Brady

By R. D. Brady

An blameless discovery on a Montana ranch years in the past, units off a sequence of occasions which may rather well switch the area . . . if it doesn't finish it first. Professor Delaney McPhearson's existence is became the other way up whilst her ally, archaeologist Drew Masters, is located lifeless. earlier than she will take care of the heartbreaking loss, she is viciously attacked in her domestic via a guy with inhuman battling skills. Former military SEAL and head of safeguard for a world imagine tank, Jake Rogan drops every little thing whilst he hears his foster brother Tom Jeffries has long gone lacking. There appear to be no clues, no information regarding his whereabouts. He has simply vanished. yet Jake won't leisure until eventually he unearths him. Laney and Jake sign up for forces after they study that the fates in their household are intertwined. And someway all of the hazard that canine their steps, revolves round an eccentric archaeologist's debatable paintings on Gobekli Tepe, and the quest for an historical resource of energy. Their own quest quickly turns into a race to guard humanity's very lifestyles. yet how can they defeat a foe who has been making plans his strikes for millennia? to avoid wasting mankind, Laney and Jake understand they have to prevail. yet to be triumphant, they need to stay lengthy sufficient to struggle.

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Golden oblongs of sunshine lay heavy on a black and white tiled floor. The floor and kitchen were old, but the appliances were new. One of those deluxe refrigerators with an ice maker and water dispenser took up a hunk of the back wall. All the appliances were done in a pale yellow: Harvest Gold, Autumn Bronze. Sitting at the kitchen table was a woman in her early sixties. Her thin brown face was seamed with a lot of smile lines. Pure white hair was done in a bun at the nape of her neck. She sat very straight in her chair, thin-boned hands folded on the tabletop.

Sometimes it’s goat blood, but more often chicken. I had compromised on the outfit, caught between showing respect and not melting in the heat. It would have been easy if I hadn’t planned 32 LAURELL K. HAMILTON to carry a gun with me. Call me paranoid, but I don’t leave home without it. The acid washed jeans, jogging socks, and Nikes were easy. An Uncle Mike’s inter-pants holster complete with a Firestar 9mm completed the outfit. The Firestar was my backup piece to the Browning Hi-Power. The Browning was far too bulky to put down an inter-pants holster, but the Firestar fit nicely.

A lot of hate in old Tony. It never occurred to him to pat me down for weapons. Tsk-tsk. A second man came to the screen door. He was in his late forties, maybe. He was wearing a white undershirt with a plaid shirt unbuttoned over it. The sleeves were folded back as far as they’d go. Sweat stood out on his forehead. I was betting there was a gun at the small of his back. His black hair had a pure white streak just over the forehead. ” His voice was thick and held an accent. ” The older man nodded.

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