Magic Bites (1) - Ilona gongturoqate.gq KB. Magic Burns (2) - Ilona Andrews. epub. KB. Magic Strikes (3) - Ilona gongturoqate.gq KB. Magic Mourns. Magic Mourns: A Novella in the World of Kate Daniels (Kate Daniels series) by Ilona Andrews. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. Magic Mourns by Ilona Andrews. I sat in a small, drab office, one of many in the Atlanta chapter of the Order of Knights of Merciful Aid, and pretended to be Kate.
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Magic Slays (Kate Daniels, Book 5). Home · Magic Slays (Kate Daniels, Book 5) the button below! Report copyright / DMCA form · DOWNLOAD EPUB. Title details for Magic Mourns by Ilona Andrews - Available. Magic Mourns. A Companion Novella to Magic Strikes: A Penguin eSpecial from Berkley. MP3 Audiobook 4 · OverDrive Listen 4 · cover image of Gunmetal Magic cover image of Magic Mourns. Magic Mourns. Kate Daniels (Series). Ilona Andrews.
If you receive an error message, please contact your library for help. Error loading page. Try refreshing the page. If that doesn't work, there may be a network issue, and you can use our self test page to see what's preventing the page from loading. Learn more about possible network issues or contact support for more help. OK Virtual Library. Search Search Search Browse menu. Sign in. Recent updates. Magic Mourns. Andrea Nash of the Order of Knights of Merciful Aid—with an assist from her partner, Kate Daniels—tries to figure out why the giant three-headed dog who guards the gates of Hades is sniffing around Atlanta in this tale by the author of the "edgy series" full of "complex world-building and skilled characterizations" Library Journal.
Languages English. Atlanta is going to the dogs in this "sexy" Publishers Weekly story from the 1 New York Times bestselling author of the Kate Daniels series. Details Publisher: Ilona Andrews - Author. Why is availability limited? The Kindle Book format for this title is not supported on: Sign in Cancel. Add a card. Add a card Contact support Cancel. I sat in a small, drab office, one of many in the Atlanta chapter of the Order of Knights of Merciful Aid, and pretended to be Kate Daniels.
Unfortunately, when it did ring, like right now, the person on the other end was rarely interested in a facsimile. They wanted the real thing. At least my guns still liked me. The real Kate Daniels, my best friend and partner in butt-kicking, was on medical leave. And I intended to do my best to let her stay on medical leave, at least until her wounds stopped bleeding.
The magic wave fell. On the wall, the charged air inside twisted glass tubes of a feylantern turned dark, while the ugly warts of electric lights in the hallway ceiling ignited with soft light. Inside my skin, the secret me stretched, yawned, and curled up for a nap, with her claws securely tucked away. We lived in an uncertain world: Nobody could predict when it came and went. One always had to be prepared.
The Order would send a knight, someone like me, who would help you with your magic problems.
Very few people could have expertise in both tech and magic. Kate chose magic. I chose tech. Give me a firearm and silver bullets over swords and sorcery any day.
She knows me. Right below me. Teddy Jo mulled it over. A one-story. Maybe a bit bigger. Not as big as one of them colonials, you understand. A regular-person house. I had no telepathic abilities whatsoever, but she was strong enough to pick up a thought if I concentrated hard enough. I picked up my favorite pair of Ps and ducked into the armory, where I kept my assortment of guns. As big as a house, huh? I took my Weatherby Mark V rifle off the rack, petting the hand-laminated fiberglass-and-Kevlar stock.
A classic. When you absolutely have to have a job done correctly, use the best tool for it. There was only one weapon with more stopping power in the armory.
Referred to as Big Unit by male knights, and Boom Baby by me, it sat in a glass case all by itself. Boom Baby ate Silver Hawks:. That was fine with me. The Weatherby would more than do the job. I grabbed. In our age, a woman could have a gasoline car, which worked only during tech, or a vehicle that ran on charged water, which worked only during magic. My Jeep was Order issue and equipped with an electric engine and a magic one, so it functioned during both tech and magic.
The engine started on the fourth try. I hopped in and steered out of the parking lot, joining a steady stream of riders and carts heading west.
Mine was the only hoof-free transport on the street. The rest consisted of horses, mules, donkeys, and oxen. The city lay in ruins. Atlanta grew around them. New apartment buildings, built by hand rather than machine, sprouted atop the carcasses of the old ones. Stone and wood bridges spanned the gaping drops of crumbled overpasses. Small stalls and open markets replaced Wal-Mart and Kroger.
The old Atlanta might have fallen like the trunk of a great tree struck by lightning, but its roots were too strong to die. I liked the city. I had walked its streets, sampled its scents, and listened to it breathe. When magic was up, it flooded deep in this part of the city.
Tall trees flanked the road, huge pines and dogwoods, still green despite the impending October. A twisted metal sign slid by: Pale wind chimes, made of turkey vulture skulls and string, hung from the tree limbs overshadowing the road. A cheerful welcome. Not quite sure what they were trying to tell me.
My goodness, could it be some sort of a warning? My Jeep slid onto an old bridge over the Chattahoochee River. The old maps claimed that heading north would bring me into Smyrna and turning southwest would deliver me to Mableton, but neither any longer existed.
I crossed the bridge and pulled over to the side of the road. A vast network of ravines lay before me. Narrow, twisted, some a hundred yards deep, although most were shallow, they tangled together and veered apart, like tunnels of a giant dirt-eating termite. Here and there remnants of the old buildings perched, halfway down the slopes, flanked by sickly brush.
A highway cut through the ravines, running atop the cliff tops, interrupted with wooden patches of bridges.
Above it all, black-winged vultures glided on the aerial currents. The locals called it the Scratches, because from above the place looked like a giant buzzard had scratched in the dirt. The Scratches came into being after the very first flare, when the magic returned to the world in a three-day wave of disasters and death. With every magic wave, the ravines grew a little deeper. Far to the south, the Scratches united into a gorge that eventually became Honeycomb Gap, another hellish magic spot.
The highway itself served as the favorite drag-racing spot for idiot juvenile delinquents. Somewhere in this mess of soil and air was my green five, the shapeshifter in distress. Hopefully still alive and nursing a singed tail.
Atlanta housed one of the largest shapeshifter societies in the country. The Pack, as it was known, counted over fifteen hundred members, subdivided into seven clans according to their animal forms. An alpha couple ruled each clan.
Curran wielded unbelievable power and ultimate authority. He was the Alpha. To understand the Pack, one had to understand the shapeshifters. Caught on the crossroads between animal and human, they could give in to either one.
Those who surrendered to the animal side began the catastrophic descent into delirium. They reveled in perversion and cruelty and gorged themselves on human flesh, raping and murdering until people like me put them down like rabid dogs. They were called loups, and they were killed as soon as they were discovered. To remain human, a shapeshifter had to live his life according to a very strict mental regimen detailed in the Code, a book of rules, which praised discipline, loyalty, obedience, and restraint.
A shapeshifter knew no higher calling than to serve the Pack, and Curran and his Council took the idea of service a step further.
All shapeshifters underwent martial arts training, both as individuals and in squads. All learned to channel their aggression, to handle being shot with silver bullets, to use weapons and firearms. Coupled with their numbers, their strict discipline, and their high degree of organization, having the Pack in the city was like living next to a thousand and a half highly skilled professional killers with enhanced senses, preternatural strength, and power of regeneration.
So far Kate was the only agent of the Order who had managed to earn their trust, and they preferred to deal exclusively through her. Getting a shapeshifter out of a bind would go a long way toward improving my standing with both organizations.
At least on paper. I put the parking brake on and walked upwind from the Jeep. Hard to smell anything with the exhaust fumes searing the inside of my nose. It veered and split into smaller roads, half of which led nowhere; the other half ended up rejoining Buzzard. I crouched on the edge of the ravine and let the air currents tell me a story. A touch of sickeningly sweet rot of decomposing flesh and the odd, slightly oily stink of vultures eating it.
A harsh bitterness of a distant skunk. The scent of burning matches. I paused. Sulfur dioxide. Quite a bit of it, too. I returned to the Jeep and followed the matches north. There were times when my secret self came in handy. The stench of burning sulfur grew stronger. A low growl rolled through the ravine below, dissolving into heavy wet panting, followed by a frustrated layered yelp, as if several dogs had whined in unison.
I guided the Jeep along the edge of the ravine and peered down.
No giant dogs, just a shallow twenty-five-foot gap with a bit of scarce shrubs and trash at the bottom. A broken rusted fridge. The remains of a couch. Multicolored dirt-stained rags. A house had apparently thrown up down the slope and now perched in a ruined heap on the edge, where the ravine veered left. An excited snarl rumbled through the Scratches, the deep primeval sound of an enormous beast giving chase.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I stood on the brakes, swiped the Weatherby from the seat, and jumped out, taking position on the edge.
A shaggy shape exploded from around the bend of the ravine. Saffron-colored with a sprinkling of dark spots on its sloped back, the animal flew over the refuse, the muscles of its powerful forequarters pumping hard. A bouda. The bouda veered toward me, changing in midleap. Its body snapped, twisting like a broken doll. Bones thrust out of the flesh, muscles sliding up the new powerful limbs, a carved chest, and a humanoid torso.
A bouda in a warrior form, a monster halfway between hyena and man. For a shapeshifter, to assume this form was a victory, to make it proportional was an achievement, and to speak in one was an art. A bloodcurdling scream ripped from him. Fortunately, the Weatherby delivered respect in a Magnum cartridge. It would stop a rhino at full gallop. It sure as hell would handle an oversized dog.
The ground shook as if from blows of a giant hammer. Blood-red and massive, it slid on the trash and crashed into the curve.
The impact shook the slope. A twenty-foot-tall three-headed dog. The dog shook, flinging rubble from his fur. Thick, deep-chested, built like an Italian mastiff, it gripped the ground with four massive paws and charged after Raphael.
The mouths of its three heads hung open, displaying gleaming fangs longer than my forearm. Three forked serpentine tongues hung out as it thundered to us, flinging foam from between the horrid teeth. The drops of drool, each big enough to fill a bucket, ignited in midair. I just had to delay it long enough for the knucklehead to reach me. I sighted the muzzle of the center head.
The nose shot would deliver maximum pain. I sighted and fired again. The middle head drooped. The beast yowled and spun in pain. The Weatherby wins again. In a desperate leap, Raphael launched himself up the slope toward me. I caught his arm and hauled him up. We dashed to the Jeep. A howl of pure frustration shook the highway.
In the rearview mirror the dog sailed out of the ravine as if it had wings and landed on the road behind us. We hurtled down the highway at a breakneck speed. The dog gave chase with a triumphant howl that shook the ground beneath the car wheels.
It closed the space between us in three great bounds and bent down over the car, its mouths opened wide. The foul, corrosive breath washed over me. Raphael jumped up and snarled back, his hackles up.
Burning drool hit the backseat, singeing the upholstery in an acrid stench of melted synthetics. I swerved, taking a sudden turn onto a wooden bridge and almost sending the Jeep off the edge into a gap. Monstrous teeth snapped a foot from the backseat. The dog snarled. In the rearview mirror I saw its muscles bunch as it gathered itself for a leap. Nowhere to go. Inside me, an animal raked at my flesh, trying to spill out of my skin.
I clenched my teeth and stayed human. The dog jumped. Its huge body flew toward us and then jerked back, as if an invisible leash had snapped, reaching its full length. The giant canine fell, its paws waving clumsily in the air. In the rearview mirror I saw it rise. Its bark rang through the Scratches. The dog barked again, whined, and jumped back into the ravine.
I slowed to a speed that would let me make a turn without sending us to a fiery death in the gap below. In the seat next to me Raphael shuddered.