Vanished

Informationen zum Autor Kat Richardson lives on a sailboat in Seattle with her husband, a crotchety old cat, and two ferrets. She rides a motorcycle, shoots target pistol, and does not own a TV. Klappentext Harper Blaine had been an average small-time P.I. until she died--for two minutes. Now Harper is a Greywalker--walking the line between the living world and the paranormal realm. And she's discovering that her new abilities are landing her in all sorts of strange cases. When I was a kid, my life seemed to be run by other people's designs and not bymine. Once the time was ripe, I escaped from the life other people pushed me into andmade my own. Or so I thought. Now it appears I was wrong aboutwell, everything. ButI'll get to that later. Two years ago, I died for a couple of minutes. When I woke up, things hadchanged: I could see ghosts and magic and things that go bump in the night. You see,there is a thin space between the normal and the paranormalthe Greywhere thingsthat aren't quite one or the other roam. It's not a place most people can visit; evenwitches and psychics only reach into the surging tide of power and the uncanny and haulout what they need. But once in a while there's someone like me: a Greywalker, with afoot on each side of the line and fully immersed in the weird. Sounds cool? Not so much. Some of my friends in the know are fascinated by it,but to me it's more frequently a royal pain in the ass. Because when I can see themonsters, they can see me, and if they have problems, I'm the go-to girl. I've been aprofessional private investigator for ten years, and it's a job I've come to practice on bothsides of the veil because ghosts, vampires, and witches just don't take no for an answer.Since I'd died, I'd made my accommodation with the Grey and I thought I had it prettywell figured, even if some things were still a mystery to me, like, why me and howdoes this stuff work? It just did, and I did my best to get along. Until May of this year,when things got rather personal, starting with strange dreams and a phone call from thedead. It started just like it had in real life: The man belts me in the temple and it feelslike my head is caving in. I tumble out of the chair, onto the hardwood floor. In the dreamI can see its pattern of dark and light wood making a ribbon around the edge of the room,like a magic circle to contain the terror. I grope for my purse, for the gun, for anything that will stop him from beating meto death this time. I am still too slow. He rounds the edge of the desk and comes after me.I roll up onto my knees and try to hit him below the belt. He dodges, swings, and connects with the back of my head. Then he kicks me inthe ribs as I collapse again. This time I don't shriekI don't have the airand that'show I know something's changed. It's not just a memory; it's a nightmare.The man's foot swings for my face and I push it up, over my head, tipping himbackward. As he falls, I scramble for the door into the hall. This time I'll get out. Thistime I won't die. But he catches up and grabs onto my ponytailan impossible rope of hair a yard,a mile long and easy to grip. Was it really so long? I can't even remember it down to myhips like that. But in the dream it's a lariat that loops around my neck and hauls my headback until I'm looking into the man's face. But it's my father, not the man who beat my head in. Not the square-jawed,furious face of a killer, but the bland, doe-eyed face that winked like the moon when Iwas tucked into my childhood bed. He read me Babar books and kissed my cheek when Iwas young. Now he calls me little girl, and slams my skull into the doorpost.I don't fight back this time. I just wrench loose, leaving my long hair in his hand.He lets me go and I stumble toward the ancient brass elevator, my legs wobbling and mypace ragged. I feel tears flooding down my cheeks, and the world spins into a...

Texte du rabat

Harper Blaine had been an average small-time P.I. until she died--for two minutes. Now Harper is a Greywalker--walking the line between the living world and the paranormal realm. And she's discovering that her new abilities are landing her in all sorts of strange cases.

Résumé
The toughest case yet for Greywalker Harper Blaine...

Why did Seattle investigator Harper Blaine-as opposed to others with near-death experiences-become a Greywalker? When Harper digs into her own past, she unearths some unpleasant truths about her father's early death as well as a mysterious puzzle. Forced by some very demanding vampires to take on an investigation in London, she soon discovers her present trouble sin England are entangled with her dark past back in Seattle-and her ultimate destiny as a Greywalker.

Échantillon de lecture
When I was a kid, my life seemed to be run by other people's designs and not bymine. Once the time was ripe, I escaped from the life other people pushed me into andmade my own. Or so I thought. Now it appears I was wrong about…well, everything. ButI’ll get to that later. Two years ago, I died for a couple of minutes. When I woke up, things hadchanged: I could see ghosts and magic and things that go bump in the night. You see,there is a thin space between the normal and the paranormal—the Grey—where thingsthat aren’t quite one or the other roam. It’s not a place most people can visit; evenwitches and psychics only reach into the surging tide of power and the uncanny and haulout what they need. But once in a while there’s someone like me: a Greywalker, with afoot on each side of the line and fully immersed in the weird.

Sounds cool? Not so much. Some of my friends in the know are fascinated by it,but to me it’s more frequently a royal pain in the ass. Because when I can see themonsters, they can see me, and if they have problems, I’m the go-to girl. I’ve been aprofessional private investigator for ten years, and it’s a job I’ve come to practice on bothsides of the veil because ghosts, vampires, and witches just don’t take no for an answer.Since I’d died, I’d made my accommodation with the Grey and I thought I had it prettywell figured, even if some things were still a mystery to me, like, “why me” and “howdoes this stuff work?” It just did, and I did my best to get along. Until May of this year,when things got rather personal, starting with strange dreams and a phone call from thedead.

It started just like it had in real life: The man belts me in the temple and it feelslike my head is caving in. I tumble out of the chair, onto the hardwood floor. In the dreamI can see its pattern of dark and light wood making a ribbon around the edge of the room,like a magic circle to contain the terror.

I grope for my purse, for the gun, for anything that will stop him from beating meto death this time. I am still too slow. He rounds the edge of the desk and comes after me.I roll up onto my knees and try to hit him below the belt.

He dodges, swings, and connects with the back of my head. Then he kicks me inthe ribs as I collapse again. This time I don’t shriek—I don’t have the air—and that’show I know something’s changed. It’s not just a memory; it’s a nightmare.The man’s foot swings for my face and I push it up, over my head, tipping himbackward. As he falls, I scramble for the door into the hall. This time I’ll get out. Thistime I won’t die.…

But he catches up and grabs onto my ponytail—an impossible rope of hair a yard,a mile long and easy to grip. Was it really so long? I can’t even remember it down to myhips like that. But in the dream it’s a lariat that loops around my neck and hauls my headback until I’m looking into the man’s face.

But it’s my father, not the man who beat my head in. Not the square-jawed,f…