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The Fallen (Nine Lives of Chloe King, Book 1) by Celia Thomson

By Celia Thomson

Chloe King used to be a regular sixteen-year-old girl.
She did her homework and obtained sturdy grades, yet she wasn't afraid to ditch type occasionally to hang around together with her most sensible acquaintances. She slept at domestic, yet another way refrained from all human touch along with her mother. the standard stuff.
Then she fell from San Francisco's maximum tower, and her existence replaced. For starters, she died. after which, she awakened.
Now Chloe's lifestyles is whatever yet common: without warning men are prowling round her, she's growing to be claws, and someone's attempting to kill her.
fortunately for Chloe, she nonetheless has 8 lives to go.

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The Fallen (Nine Lives of Chloe King, Book 1)

Chloe King used to be an ordinary sixteen-year-old lady.
She did her homework and acquired stable grades, yet she wasn't afraid to ditch classification occasionally to hang around together with her most sensible acquaintances. She slept at domestic, yet in a different way kept away from all human touch together with her mother. the standard stuff.
Then she fell from San Francisco's maximum tower, and her lifestyles replaced. For starters, she died. after which, she awakened.
Now Chloe's existence is whatever yet common: all at once men are prowling round her, she's transforming into claws, and someone's attempting to kill her.
fortunately for Chloe, she nonetheless has 8 lives to move.

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Additional resources for The Fallen (Nine Lives of Chloe King, Book 1)

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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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