The Naemarians launch assaults against the weakened Jiserian Empire and overthrow the last vestiges of sanity. Though loathe to connect with the ancient beings, only Nikulo can stop them from conquering Naru. Help Centre. Track My Order. My Wishlist Sign In Join.
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- A sorozat következő kötete;
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Description Product Details Click on the cover image above to read some pages of this book! In Stock. Relic The Relic Trilogy. Gideon the Ninth Ninth House : Book 1. Dark Illusion Dark : Book Darkdawn Nevernight : Book 3. The Harp of Kings Warrior Bards. Batman : Damned Batman. The Unkindest Tide October Daye. Boundless Drizzt : Book 2. He runs a hand through his dark hair, letting a few strands fall over his forehead. Cristobal el Indio is standing nearby, toying with a cigarette, turning it around and around in his fingers.
There is a scent in the air tonight, the barest hint of something foul, and the boys are on edge. Emilio spits, clearing his mouth. He briefly wonders if he could not have given this job to someone else, someone younger or more eager. He nods once, quickly, to Cristobal, and the huge, burly teen pushes on an unmarked door, throwing it open. They enter.
Inside, a frail old man rises from his torn chair before a flickering black-and-white television, his eyes wide with fear and surprise. We are paid! Emilio walks past him, pressing on the makeshift wall at the far end of the room with his fingertips. He puts an ear to the thin plaster for a moment, closing his eyes.
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A bead of sweat rolls over his brow, and he blinks rapidly. Emilio nods, moving away from the wall.
Finding it, he hooks his fingers underneath. You try to hide something from us? That is like stealing, no? We always find out. The loose edges of the opening in the wall tremble faintly, and there is a muffled sound — a crack, as of lightning striking in the distance. The old man falls to his knees, clasping his hands over his head and babbling a hurried, desperate prayer in some Nahuatl dialect. Did you trap your stash, you crazy old chingado?
And then there is a voice in the black passage. Quiet and low, like the thunder that follows the light. The voice flows like black tar, like blood-thickened bile. And Emilio is running. There is no resistance, no hesitation. The sound of that terrible voice cuts his mind at the root, and he flees, left only with the animal, the desperate, terrified beast.
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- Blacklight Chronicles by John Forrester?
- Death Mage!
He is knocked into the wall by something strong and hard, something cold as ice, and an agonizing pain shoots through his arm as he bounces off the stone. His gun is forgotten, falling to the matted carpet. He does not stop running — the doorway looms before him, and he throws himself out, skidding across cobblestones slick with garbage. Something moves with him. He cannot see it, but he feels it close by, brushing him with the stink of rotten meat.
Something old and dry, like a great serpent. His heart pounds wildly, painfully, and for a moment he imagines he can hear hoarse laughter, and wonders deliriously if it is his own. Into the night he runs, as fast and long as he can. The peeling billboards and rusted shells of cars flash past as he races wildly, blindly, to the very limits of exhaustion.
When he can no longer run, he drops to his hands and knees, crawling through the ruined shacks and filth of the barrio, but still it is with him. When he can no longer crawl, he collapses, struggling to pull himself forward on shredded fingers, and still it is with him. And when he can no longer move even thus, he lies on the cold stone, twitching, his lips moving just slightly as he mouths some final phrase or prayer in reflex, in preparation for death. All he has left now is the final call of his gang. Thus is the strongest living member of La Justicia brought low, without a touch.
A man steps out from under the awnings then. Not a man — something older, more powerful, more threatening than a man could ever be. His long, jet black hair falls loose over broad shoulders. His features are sharp and deeply lined.
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The vampire listens carefully. Viva La Justicia.
He lifts Emilio up with one hand, propping him against the corrugated steel wall of a half-collapsed shack. After a moment, he slaps him once across the cheek, one palm flattened against his chest to keep him from sprawling to the ground. I will be avenged. He considers his options.
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Death would be too quick for this disrespect. A storm rolls over Tepito this night. The criminals and wanderers huddle beneath ragged awnings, shielding themselves from the driving rain. Nopal cacti are battered by the water, bending and shedding their needles. Clouds crash overhead as Emilio stands at the border of the vecindad, staring off into the darkness.
His eyes are sunken in dark, bruised circles. His body is thinner, whip-hard and covered in scars. He fingers a long, sharp blade, letting the cool rain wash it clean. The locals assume he is a tecato, addicted to heroin and willing to subject himself to any degradation for his next hit, serving the whims of his dealer.
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They are half-right. He can go no further. The vampire has seen to that. He cannot will himself to step across the border. If he is taken against his will, he collapses in agony. La Justicia is finished. This night, Emilio has murdered the last of his living brothers, slitting his throat and letting him drain into the gutter.
For more than a year, Emilio has flickered through the alleys and the junk piles, a half-man shadow dwelling in filth, destroying everything he has ever cared or lived for. The empire they were building is gone, lost to scavengers and rivals all over the neighborhood. Their homes are torn down, their cars ripped apart for scrap. Emilio is a ghoul, a soul lost utterly to shameless, perpetual slavery. He has endured every insult, every injury and indignity.
His body is beaten and broken, a mass of ugliness and pain. Here among the wracked souls of the decrepit market, he is the lowest living creature, mocked and spit on by passersby, cursed by all. Tonight, he will report his success to his master. The murderous task complete, he expects that Don Gerardo will finally finish him off, tearing the still-beating heart from his body as promised.