MERRY GENTRY PDF
Hamilton Laurell - Meredith Gentry 09 - Dreszcz swiatla - dokument [*.pdf] ABOUT THE BOOK I am Princess Meredith NicEssus. Legal name Meredith Gentry. Laurell K. Hamilton - Meredith Gentry 05 - Mistrals Kiss - dokument [*.pdf] Mistral's Kiss By Laurell K. Hamilton CHAPTER 1 I DREAMT OF WARM FLESH AND. Merry Gentry has 21 entries in the series. Merry Gentry (Series). Book 1. Laurell K. Hamilton Author (). cover image of A Kiss of Shadows.
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Hamilton, Laurell K - Meredith Gentry 01 - A Kiss of Shadows · Read more Hamilton, Laurell K - Meredith Gentry 02 - A Caress of Twilight · Read more. Author: Merry Gentry Series - Laurell K Hamilton Hamilton, Laurell K - Meredith Gentry 01 - A Kiss of Shadows · Read more. A Caress of Twilight (Meredith Gentry, Book 2). Home · A Caress of Twilight Hamilton, Laurell K - Meredith Gentry 02 - A Caress of Twilight · Read more.
Automatyczne logowanie. Why not cake, or meat? The we were me, Princess Meredith—the only faerie royal ever born on American soil—and my royal guards, more than a dozen of them. They moved around me with skin the color of darkest night, whitest snow, the pale of newborn leaves, the brown of leaves that have gone down to die on the forest floor, a rainbow of men moving nude around the kitchen. The men moved around me graceful and perfectly nude. They moved with skin the color of summer sunshine, the transparent white of crystals, colors I had no name for, for the colors did not exist outside of faerie.
It looked positively pettable, that pelt. It raised that strangely long-snouted face toward me, and I saw tusks curving from its mouth, small tusks. The moment I saw them, gleaming ivory in the snow light, another whisper of unease washed through me. I should leave this place,I thought. I turned to walk out through that ring of trees. A ring of trees that now looked entirely too even, too well planned, to be accidental. I formed my lips to say, Who?
She held out a hand that was wrinkled and colored with age, but it was a small, slender hand, still lovely, still full of a quiet strength. Not full of the remnants of youthful strength, but full of the strength that comes only with age. Here was someone who held the knowledge of a lifetime—no, several lifetimes. The crone, the hag, has been vilified as ugly and weak. But that is not what the true crone aspect of the Goddess is, and it was not what I saw.
She smiled at me, and that smile held all the warmth you would ever need. It was a smile that held a thousand fireside chats, a hundred dozen questions asked and answered, endless lifetimes of knowledge collected and remembered.
There was nothing she would not know, if only I could think of the questions to ask. It was wrinkled, but smooth is not always best, and there is beauty in age that youth knows not. She smiled at me, the rest of her face lost in the shadow of her hood. It was as if she spoke but did not breathe, or as if herbreath were as cold as the winter night.
I tried to remember if her hand had been warm or cold, but could not. All I remembered was the sense of peace and rightness. Its shoulder stood as tall as the top of my head. It must have been more than nine feet long.
Its shoulders were a huge broad spread of muscle humped behind its lowered head. The headraised , revealing a snout framed by long, pointed tusks. This was no bull, but a huge boar—the thing that had begun as a little pig. Tusks like ivory blades gleamed as it looked at me. I glanced back, but knew the crone was gone. I was alone in the winter night. Well, not as alone as I wanted to be. I looked back and found the monstrous boar still standing there, still staring at me.
The snow was cold under my bare feet now. I recognized the thick white hair on the boar now. It still looked so soft. But its tail stuck straight out from its body, and it raised that long snout skyward. Its breath smoked in the air as it sniffed. That was bad. That meant it was real—or real enough to hurt me, anyway.
I stood as still as I could.
Snow plumed underneath its hooves as it came for me. Too big to be real, too huge to be possible. I had no weapon. I turned and ran. I heard the boar behind me. Its hooves sliced the frozen ground. It let out a sound that was almost a scream. The gown tangled under my feet, and I went down. I rolled in the snow, fighting to come to my feet, but the gown tangled around my legs. The boar was almost on top of me.
Its breath steamed in clouds. Snow spilled around its legs, bits of frozen black earth sliced up in all that white. I had one of those interminable moments where you have all the time in the world to watch death come for you.
White boar, white snow, white tusks, all aglow in the moonlight, except for the rich black earth that marred the whiteness with dark scars. The boar gave that horrible screaming squeal again. Its thick winter coat looked so soft. It was going to look soft while it gored me to death and trampled me into the snow. I reached behind me, feeling for a tree branch, anything to pull myself up out of the snow.
Something brushed my hand, and I grabbed it. Thorns cut into my hand. Thorn-covered vines filled the space between the trees. I used the vines to drag myself to my feet. The thorns were biting into my hands, my arms, but they were all I could grasp. The boar was soclose, I could smell its scent, sharp and acrid on the cold air.
I would not die lying in the snow. The thorns bled me, spattered the white gown with blood, the snow covered in minute crimson drops. The vines moved under my hands like something more alive than a plant. The world seemed to spin, and when I could see again, be sure of where I was again, I was standing on the other side of the thorns. The white boar hit the vines hard and fast, as if it expected to tear its way through.
For a moment I thought it would do just that; then it was in the thorns, slowing. It stopped rushing forward and started slashing at the vines with its great snout and tusks. It would tear them out, trample them underfoot, but its white coat was bedecked with tiny bloody scratches. It would break through, but the thorns bled it. But I had magic now. I wielded the hand of blood. I put my bleeding hand out toward the boar and thought, Bleed.
I made all those small scratches pour blood. But still the beast fought through the thorns. The vines ripped from the earth. I thought, More. I made a fist of my hand, and when I opened it wide, the scratches slashed wide. Hundreds of red mouths, gaping on that white hide. Blood poured down its sides, and now its squeal was not a scream of anger, or challenge.
It was a squeal of pain. The vines tightened around it of their own accord. It was no longer a white boar, but a red one. Red with blood. There was a knife in my hand. It was a shining white blade that glowed like a star. I knew what I needed to do. I walked across the blood-spattered snow. The boar rolled its eyes at me, but I knew that if it could, even now, it would kill me. I plunged the knife into its throat, and when the blade came out, blood gushed into the snow, over my gown, onto my skin.
The blood was hot. A crimson fountain of heat and life. The blood melted the snow down to rich black earth. From thatearth came a tiny piglet, not white this time, but tawny and striped with gold.
It was colored more like a fawn. I picked it up, and it curled up in my arms like a puppy. It was so warm, so alive. I wrapped the hooded cloak I now wore around us both.
Merry Gentry(Series) · OverDrive (Rakuten OverDrive): eBooks, audiobooks and videos for libraries
My gown was black now, not black with blood, but simply black. The piglet settled into the soft warm cloth. I had boots that were lined with fur, soft and warm. The white knife was still in my hand, but it was clean, as if the blood had burned away. I smelled roses. The thorny vines were covered in green leaves and flowers. The flowers were white and pink, from palest blush to dark salmon. It was almost as wide as my palm, and blood was welling out of it.
Something that held a lot of blood had been punctured. The cutest little boy stabbed me, because I hesitated. I prayed for guidance.
Laurell K. Hamilton - Meredith Gentry 1 - A Kiss Of Shadows
She shook her head. I killed him. Jesus, Meredith, how could I kill a kid? She cried harder, and that made the wound hurt more and gush hot around my hands. She slipped lower in the doorway. She was going to bleed to death in front of me. To me she was a cloaked figure, because Goddess comes to us all in different ways, or all ways. I saw you graduate from college. I need you to go back home and help your mama and Jeffrey and all the rest, do you hear me, Angela? You heal and go home to our family.
The blood slowed and then stopped pouring out. She gripped my hand tight. She smiled, and this time it was bright and real. I woke in my bed in Los Angeles with the fathers of my babies on either side of me. I was still pregnant and it had not been a trouble-free pregnancy. So why follow? Because to do any less is to betray your own abilities and gifts, and the faith that Deity has in you. Who would do that willingly?
We were having triplets. Heelis, my main obstetrician, assured us. We were all sitting in the conference room at the hospital now, because Dr. Heelis had been joined by Dr. Lee, Dr. Kelly, and Dr. They each had their specialties in gynecology and delivering babies, or something else needed as a precaution.
Kelly was the new face, but then what was a new doctor compared to a whole new baby? I was the only faerie princess to be born on American soil, but not for much longer. One of the babies was a girl. My daughter would be Princess Gwenwyfar. All six of them sat on either side of the long oval conference table, strung out like strong, handsome beads on the string of my love. Doyle, Darkness, sat on my left. He was everything his name promised: In the dimmer light of the conference room his skin was just unrelieved blackness, as if the darkest night had been carved into flesh and made real.
His ankle-length hair was back in its usual braid so that his pointed ears with their edging of silver earrings showed. No one lived that Doyle was sent to kill. That was some good guarding. Frost, the Killing Frost, sat on my right.
A Caress of Twilight (Meredith Gentry, Book 2)
His skin was as white as mine, as though the luster of pearls had been made flesh, but whereas I was five feet even, Frost was six feet of muscle, broad shoulders, long legs, and just one of the most beautiful men in all of faerie.
He wore only the upper part of his hair back, leaving the rest of it to fall around his body like a silver veil through which you could glimpse his gray suit, black shirt, and silver tie with black fleur-de-lis done small on the silver.
The barrette that held the thickest of his hair back so that if there was a fight it would be out of his eyes was carved bone.
It was very old, and he would never tell me what kind of animal it had been carved from. There was always the implication that it had been something that I would have considered a person.
As I sat there with my hands folded over the round tightness of my belly, I was scared. Scared in the way that women had been for centuries. Would the babies be all right? Would I be all right? I prayed to the Goddess for safety, wisdom, and just a calm center from which to listen to the doctors and the plan. I hoped it was a good sign. I knew th Automatyczne logowanie Zarejestruj. Zaloguj Anuluj.
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