By Anne Rice
It’s the current day. Toby O’Dare—aka fortunate the Fox—is a freelance killer of underground reputation on task to kill as soon as again. He’s a soulless soul, a lifeless guy walking. His nightmarish international of lone and deadly missions is disrupted while a mysterious stranger, a seraph, bargains him an opportunity to save lots of instead of break lives. O’Dare, who some time past dreamt of being a clergyman, seizes his probability. Now he's carried again in the course of the a while to thirteenth-century England, to darkish nation-states the place accusations of formality homicide were made opposed to Jews, the place young ones abruptly die or disappear. during this primitive environment, O’Dare starts off his perilous quest for salvation, a trip of threat and flight, loyalty and betrayal, selflessness and love.
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Extra info for Angel Time: The Songs of the Seraphim, Book One
Never have I seen so many kinds of flowers in one place. There were modern roses, exquisitely shaped, and older ones, open like camellias, there were trumpet flower vines, and morning glory, lantana, and the biggest bushes of blue plumbago that I’d ever seen in my life. There were sunflowers and orange trees, and daisies, and you could walk right through the heart of this on any of the many broad and comfortable newly paved paths. I’d taken my time in the enclosing cloisters, loving the ancient and uneven stone floors.
I’d asked. “No, and I’ll never let you down either,” he’d replied. “Just wish I could see you more often. ” “I’m not,” I’d answered. “You know that. The checkpoints are too hot. I’m in the States as I’ve been since Nine-Eleven. I’m closer than you think, and I’ll come see you one of these days, just not right now, and maybe I’ll take you to dinner. We’ll sit in a restaurant like human beings. But these days, I’m not up to the meeting. ” There had been no assignment on that anniversary, so I was able to stay in the Mission Inn, and I’d driven over to San Juan Capistrano the following morning.
Years ago, I’d thought I’d be singing all my life. It was music that had taken me away from wanting to be a Dominican priest—that and growing up, I suppose, and wanting to be with “girls” and wanting to be a man of the world. But mostly it was the music that had ravaged my twelve-year-old soul, and the total charm of the lute. I think I felt superior to the garage band kids when I played that beautiful lute. All that was over, and had been over for ten years—the lute was a relic now—and the anniversary had come around and I wasn’t telling The Right Man my address.