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162 Publicações
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Male
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13/04/1993
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The Iron CycleThe Iron Cycle The hospital room had white walls and a window that looked out on a brick building three feet away. Jack Doyle lay in the bed and tried to remember how he had gotten there. The doctor said it was a stress reaction, his mind protecting itself from something it could not handle. Jack had worked at the steel mill for twenty-two years. He had woken up one morning and not remembered...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Last Honor of AlistairThe castle of Blackwood stood on a cliff overlooking the grey Atlantic, its stones worn smooth by centuries of salt and wind. It was a place of echoing halls and faded tapestries, a monument to a nobility that had long since lost its purpose. Count Alistair, the last of the line, spent his days in the library, reading the journals of ancestors who had once led armies and shaped kingdoms....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Starlight FleetThe jazz band had just finished a set when Nicholas Sterling first spoke the words that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He was sitting at a corner table in the Cotton Club, a glass of gin between his hands, listening to Louis Armstrong's trumpet weave through the smoke and the laughter and the clinking of glasses. The gin was cheap, but the music was priceless, and for a moment,...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The House of DustThe Blackwood estate did not just sit on the land of the American South; it seemed to be sinking into it. The columns were cracked, the ivy had strangled the balconies, and the air always tasted of damp earth and old secrets. Colonel Silas Blackwood, the last of his line, lived in the center of this decay, a man who clung to the ghost of a Southern aristocracy that had died a century ago. Beau,...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 12 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Shadow PierThe man who hired me sat across from me in my office on Decatur Street, a room that smelled of cheap furniture polish and cheaper cigarettes. He was fat and nervous and kept wiping his hands on his trousers like they were sweating. "I need you to find something," he said. I didn't look up from the glass on my desk. "Everyone needs me to find something. Usually it's their wife or their wife's...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 17 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Drifter of Lake ShoreThe Drifter of Lake ShoreThe milk bottles on Lake Shore Drive made a sound like teeth chattering when the wind came off the lake. Tommy Kowalski pushed his cart through the pre-dawn fog, glass clinking against glass, his breath white in the September air. He was twenty-nine, Polish, and the nose on his face was the kind of nose that made people smile before they realized they were not supposed...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 17 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Nothing Left to PushACT ONE: MORNING The alarm went off at six in the morning. Mike Kowalski turned it off without opening his eyes. He lay in bed for three minutes listening to the sounds of the apartment—the refrigerator humming, the radiator clanking, his son breathing in the next room. He got up. He showered. He put on the uniform. The shirt was stiff from too many washes. The belt was cracked at the buckle....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 13 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Man Who Sold NothingACT ONE: THE RECRUITMENT The rain in Chicago doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt wetter. I learned that in my first week on the force, standing on a street corner in the Third District watching a man get beaten by two cops and the rain turning the blood into thin red rivers that disappeared into the gutters. My name is Jack Donovan. I'm thirty years old and I came home from the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 12 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Cipher WarThe neon lights of Manhattan flickered like a dying pulse, casting jagged streaks of pink and cyan across the rain-slicked streets. Claire sat in a windowless room in the basement of a nondescript laundromat, her fingers dancing across a holographic keyboard. She was the best cryptographer in the city, but she wasn't working for a government or a corporation. She was working for her own...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 13 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Stellar ElegyStellar Elegy The party was exactly the sort of spectacle that only money can produce. Chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the Long Island ballroom ceiling. A jazz band played something fast and bright on the terrace, and the light from the string bulbs made the autumn air look like it was made of gold dust. Silas Vane stood in the corner holding a glass of champagne he had no...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Pale CovenantMorag put a piece of the snake molt between her teeth on the evening we were married, and I watched her do it with a fascination that I have never been able to explain to anyone else, because the explanation would require words for things that have no words. The molt was beautiful. It was a complete shed skin of an adder—translucent as glass, curved like a sleeping thing, the head still formed...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Last InheritanceThe heat in Mississippi does not simply sit upon you; it presses. It is a physical weight, the kind that makes the air itself feel solid, and on this particular July morning in 1953, the heat sat upon Oak Bluff Manor like a judgment. Mabel Dupree stood in the attic, which was not really an attic anymore since half of it had collapsed the previous winter. What remained was a chamber of dust and...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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