Celtic Fire September (Rogue Angel, Book 50)
Alex Archer, Steven Savile
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The theft of a whetstone from a Welsh museum and the murder of a curate during a grave robbery seem, at first, like random crimes. But the troubling deeds are linked by a precarious thread. An unusual collection of rare and scattered British antiquities has become a target—and the relics' value lies in something much more dangerous than money…
Annja Creed, archaeologist and host of television's Chasing History's Monsters, is in the U.K. when her mentor, Roux, interrupts her sojourn with news of the thefts. He's certain that the thirteen Treasures of Britain are wanted for their rumored power. Roux tasks Annja with locating and protecting the treasures before the wrong person finds them, meaning she must stand against a woman fueled by madness and the fires of her ancient Celt blood—and a sword as powerful and otherworldly as Annja's own.
cameras in the vicinity? Maybe the car was caught in better light?” “Already on it,” Garin answered. It was unusual for him to be content doing what amounted to menial work, but stick a challenge in front of him and he’d make sure he aced it. It was just part of his übercompetitive charm. And maybe he’d finally worked out there was more than one way to be the hero. “I’m assuming you mean you’ve delegated? Because as dearly as I’d love to be able to do this alone, two minds are better than one,”
was falling, the burning sword flailing in the air. The room filled with the crash of glass as Annja carried Awena into the window. And Awena kept falling through it. Annja stared in horror; she’d been trying to buy herself a second, time enough to reclaim her sword, to disarm the other...but the world slowed down and Awena kept falling. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The window wasn’t strong enough to keep her inside the house. Annja snatched out a hand, trying to catch Awena’s ankle even
it into the field, then pulled away. The streets were dead. She reached the end of the lane, putting on the blinkers to indicate she was turning right. She couldn’t see any policemen outside the museum, though she had half expected a guard to have been posted. Alongside the building where her Land Rover had parked she saw a white van. She pulled out into the road, driving slowly and straining to catch a glimpse of the writing on the side of the van: a twenty-four-hour locksmith. She smiled.
just going to forget about it?” “I already have,” Roux said. For the very first time since she’d taken the old man prisoner she wasn’t sure she could believe him. There was a bend up ahead as the road swept around to the right before leading to a junction. Beyond that there was a choice of several roads, meaning the opportunity to lose Annja Creed. She just wanted this over. It was never meant to be like this. This wasn’t the life she’d always dreamed for herself. But that life wasn’t gone
to get used to the landlord’s accent as he offered her his very proud spiel, but after a while she found her mind singing along with the rise and fall of his speech. “You from America, are you, then, me love?” he asked, pulling a bottle of water from one of the fridges behind the bar. She’d never heard anyone call her “me love” before; “my love” was more northern, but the “me” seemed slightly tortured. She smiled as he offered ice by holding a scoop over a plastic ice bucket but she declined.