By Alex Archer, Michele Hauf
A neighborhood superstition or considered one of history's monsters come to existence?
Deep within the Bavarian wooded area, archaeologists unearth a medieval human cranium with a brick filled in its mouth. while Annja Creed catches wind of the unusual discovery, the television host and archaeologist rushes to affix the dig. however the superstitious locals are livid, fearing the excavation has angered one of many chewing dead—those who upward push from their graves to dinner party on human flesh and blood. and shortly she and her colleagues are dealing with down violent mobs and loss of life threats. so far as Annja is worried, although, the vampire fable is a load of bunk.
Then a toddler is going lacking.
Suddenly ensnared within the Czech Republic's black industry underworld, Annja has no hassle believing that somebody wishes blood. yet during this international, evil is available in human shape, and Annja has no selection: she needs to wield Joan of Arc's sword to guard the innocent….
At the ground of a lake lies an historic cache worthy killing for…
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Extra resources for Blood Cursed (Rogue Angel, Book 44)
The rifle had fired. The force of 41 the blast had sent Gus Bloom hurtling into the rear of his own boat where he collapsed. The bullet had shattered his left knee. Startled sober, Oskar Roos and Charlie Anderson quickly forgot about their conflict. Possibly unaware that Bloom was injured, they fired up the fishing boat and took off, leaving Bloom to writhe in agony. Gus’s boat, which was still running, was now steering itself. By sheer luck, the skiff swung around and headed back to the Bloom homestead instead of toward the open waters of the dark inlet.
One of the first routines I established at the cabin was to hop out of bed and run to the east-side cabin windows. From there, I could look directly downward into a perfect little tidal cove. Each morning the tide was always at a different and dramatic level, and there was always some new aquatic marvel to behold. Stepping out onto the deck and looking straight down, I could peer into the cove’s clear, shallow, emerald-green water and spy on an entire other world. Hundreds of translucent jellyfish the size of softballs floated just below the surface, engaged in a collective, slow-motion waltz.
They are captained by the romantics and the adventurers — lovers of the sea and lovers of boats. Well below the yachts and sailboats in the unnatural order of the ocean are the local flotsam and jetsam of the residential boats: our often-barely-floating ragtag fleet of Beachcombersstyle workboats, tugs, oyster skiffs, aluminum and fibreglass speedboats, all in various states of disrepair. Dinged propellers, oil-burning carburetors, leaky hulls, seats with the Styrofoam poking through, interiors littered with soggy garbage and empty beer cans—these boats are both the very scourge and pure character of the Sound.