By Kristen Painter
Gothic delusion meets vampire fiction during this debut novel from
Kristen Painter - choked with politics, intrigue, and blood.
Born right into a lifetime of secrets and techniques and repair, Chrysabelle's physique bears the telltale marks of a comarré -- a different race of people bred to feed vampire the Aristocracy. whilst her shopper is murdered, she turns into the top suspect, which sends her operating into the mortal world...and into the fingers of Malkolm, an outcast vampire cursed to kill each being from whom he drinks.
Now, Chrysabelle and Malkolm needs to interact to prevent a plot to merge the mortal and supernatural worlds. in the event that they fail, a chaos in contrast to something a person has ever visible will threaten to reign.
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Without her patron? ’ He reached awkwardly to put his arm around her, the first attempt at comfort he’d made in years. Quicker than a human eye could track, her arm snapped from under the coat, something dark and slim clutched in her hand. The side of her fist slammed into his chest. Whatever she held pierced him, missing his heart by inches. The voices shrieked, deafening him. Corrosive pain erupted where she made contact. He froze, immobilized by hellfire scorching his insides. He fell to his knees and collapsed against the damp pavement.
Owned by no one. She forced a weak smile as the club’s heavy electronic beat ricocheted through her bones. Lights flickered and strobed, casting shadows and angles that paid no compliments to the faces around her. She cringed as a few bodies collided with her in the surrounding crush. Nothing in her years of training had prepared her for immersion in a crowd of mortals. She recognized the warm, earthy smell of them from the human servants her patron and the other nobles had kept, but acclimating to their noise and their boisterous behavior was going to take time.
Energized and sweaty, she showered, dressed in her usual white tunic and pants, and went out to start some coffee. The rich aroma greeted her as she walked into the kitchen. Her aunt had beaten her to it for the first time in three days. Velimai’s diminutive form flitted about the kitchen preparing breakfast. Maris set her e-reader down. ‘You’re up early. ’ ‘I am. Mostly. I didn’t sleep well. Again. Finally decided to stop fighting it and get up. How about you? ’ ‘A late night turned to an early morning.