By Lili St. Crow
She’s no angel . . . negative Dru Anderson. Her mom and dad are gone, her ally is a werewolf, and she’s simply discovered that the blood flowing via her veins isn’t solely human. (So what else is new?) Now Dru is caught at a mystery New England institution for different young people like her, and there’s an incredible challenge— she’s the single lady within the position. a college jam-packed with lovely boys wouldn’t be so undesirable, yet Dru’s killer intuition says that one in all them desires her lifeless. And with all eyes on her, learning a traitor in the Order may perhaps suggest much more than social suicide. . . Can Dru live to tell the tale lengthy adequate to determine who has betrayed her trust—and even perhaps her middle?
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Extra info for Betrayals: A Strange Angels Novel
Only Christophe. Who could I ask about that? I kept hold of Graves. “Please. ” And I haven’t been able to get you alone, you’re always hanging out with the hairy boys. I do want to tell you about Christophe. Go figure. “Graves. ” 36 He shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping. “I’m supposed to go to the armory. ” What, you won’t get involved unless I’m getting beat up? And since when are you worried about detention, for chrissake? A sour taste filled my mouth. ” But I didn’t let go of his coat.
I just… knew, the way you know how to breathe or to pull your hand back from a hot stove. The way I knew to avoid the creeping little fingers of vapor rising from the ground. The same way I knew to keep running. No matter how many times I fell. I scrambled and floundered on. The owl’s soft passionless who? who? slid through the woods, bouncing off the steel-hard bole of each frozen tree. There was a kind of halfass trail running along the leaf-strewn floor; I broke through the hard shell of a deep puddle and gasped as icy water grabbed at my ankles.
And while I’m dreaming, I’d really like a pony. My heart hammered, thudded, and basically tried to make me gasp again. I couldn’t even start moving my hand toward my pocket, if I could see movement at night, a wulfen damn sure could. If he couldn’t already smell me. Why was he hesitating? The tension stretched, unbearable second after unbearable second, and the taste of wax and dead oranges burst on my tongue, so hard I almost gagged. 41 I hate that. My eyes rolled as I tried not to swallow it, my mouth was full of spit, Jesus Christ, I was going to start drooling now.