Vanished: A Greywalker Novel by Kat Richardson (English) Paperback Book

Description: Vanished by Kat Richardson 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 shes discovering that her new abilities are landing her in all sorts of strange cases. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description 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 fathers 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. Author Biography 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. Excerpt from Book When I was a kid, my life seemed to be run by other peoples 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. ButIll 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 arent quite one or the other roam. Its 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 theres 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 its more frequently a royal pain in the ass. Because when I can see themonsters, they can see me, and if they have problems, Im the go-to girl. Ive been aprofessional private investigator for ten years, and its a job Ive come to practice on bothsides of the veil because ghosts, vampires, and witches just dont take no for an answer.Since Id died, Id 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 dont shriek--I dont have the air--and thatshow I know somethings changed. Its not just a memory; its a nightmare.The mans 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 Ill get out. Thistime I wont 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 cant even remember it down to myhips like that. But in the dream its a lariat that loops around my neck and hauls my headback until Im looking into the mans face. But its 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 dont 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 narrowingtunnel. I see the elegant old elevator at the end of the tunnel, the gleaming metalgrillwork shuffling itself into shape, as if it is formed from the magical grid of the Grey. Theres a vague human figure inside, beyond the half-formed doors. There never wasanyone there before.... I stagger and fall to my knees at the elevator door. The ornate brass gates slideopen and I tumble into the lift, sprawling like a broken toy at someones feet.Hes much too tall from my position down on the floor: a giant blue denim treecrowned with silvery hair. My dream vision zooms up and in, and something tightens inmy chest until I can feel it strain to the breaking point. Will Novak, my ex-boyfriend, looks down at me with a cool glance. "Oh. Itsyou," he says. The too-tight thing in my chest pings and breaks. Pain lashes through me like theunwinding mainspring of a broken clock. ... I woke up with a scream in my mouth that twisted into shuddering tears. I huddledinto my bed and cried, feeling that something had been wrecked or wrenched apart in away I didnt understand. I wished I was cuddled up with Quinton in his safe little holeunder the streets and not alone with the lingering desolation of my nightmare.Im not much for emotional outbursts. Theyre counterproductive and ugly andthey tend to put someone at a disadvantage. Even alone in my condo I felt a littleashamed of weeping like a brat, and I was glad the ferret wasnt going to tell anyone. ButI still felt bad about it. The dream was a bad start to a bad day filled with unpaid bills, lying clients,dead-end investigations, and ghosts behaving badly. So with the past and my death on mymind, I guess it wasnt such a surprise that I got a phone call from a dead boyfriend. Thedead seem to have a thing about phones. I didnt recognize the number, but that never stops me. I answered the phone,"Harper Blaine," like usual. "Hiya, Slim." "I think you have the wrong number." "Ahhh...no. I had to whistle pretty hard, but I think I got it right." Whistle? What the--? "Hey," the voice continued, "you know how to whistle, dont ya?"v I couldnt stop myself from finishing the quote. "You just put your lipstogether...and blow." That was Slim Brownings line from To Have and Have Not . Lauren Bacall to Humphrey Bogart. My favorite film. It was someone elses favoritefilm, too.... He laughed. "I knew you wouldnt forget." A chill ran over me. "Who is this?" "Youre disappointing me, Slim. Its Cary." "Cary..." I echoed, feeling queasy. "Malloy. From LA." Cary Malloy had mentored me through my first two years as a professionalinvestigator. Wed broken the rules about interoffice romances. Then hed died in a caraccident on Mulholland Drive. Two fast cars racing on the twisty road with a distractingview across the nighttime basin of lights; a bad curve; Carys car parked on the shoulderas he observed a subjects house, pretending to admire the view; one car swinging a littletoo wide, sliding out the side of the curve...I hadnt been there, but I always felt as if Ihad, as if Id heard the sound of the cars colliding, scraping across the road in showers ofsparks and the screech of metal. The two cars had tumbled over the cliff, milling downthe canyon side as the third rushed away into the darkness. The subject had called it in. After all, it had happened right across the street, andthe small fire started in the dry chaparral by hot metal and spilling gas was a menace. Theentangled state of the burning cars made it plain both drivers were long dead by the timeLA County Fire arrived. The residents of the canyon had simply stood at the edge of theroad and watched. There was nothing else they could do. My silence gave my thoughts away, I suppose. Carys voice said, "Yeah...dyingreally bit." My own voice shook a little when I replied, "Thats what I hear. Umm...why didyou call?" "Its complicated." I could almost hear him shrug. "But, look, I have to tell you--" He choked and coughed, his voice straining now. "Have to say, its not what youthink." I could hear a noise, a crackling sound. "You dont know what you really are, Slim. You need to come here and look intothe past," he muttered, his voice fading as if he was moving away from the phone."Therere things...waiting for you...." "Cary? What things? Cary!" I shouted at the phone, feeling tears building andtrembling over my eyelids. But hed already faded away, and the flat, dull hum of the dial tone was the onlysound from the phone. I put the receiver down and pressed my hand over my mouth,squeezing my eyes shut against the burning of saltwater tears. Coming on the heels of thenightmare, this was too much. But I wasnt going to cry. Not over Cary Malloy. Notagain and after so much time. I wasnt twelve anymore, and blubbering wasnt going tohelp anything. I wasnt crying when Quinton came tapping at my office door a few minutes later,but I must have looked pretty horrible. He glanced at me and slid in, locking the doorbehind himself as he dropped his backpack on the floor. He crouched down beside mychair and tried to catch my eye. "Is the ferret OK?" I frowned in confusion. "What? Why are you asking that ?" "Because you look like your best friend just died. Whats wrong?" "I just got a phone call from a guy whos been dead for eight years." "Thats never bothered you before." "I used to date him. He died in a car wreck." Quinton straightened and leaned on the edge of my desk. "That is a little weirderthan normal. What did he want?" "Im not sure. He wasnt very clear. He wanted me to come...someplace and lookinto the past. He said things arent what I think--he said Im not what I think. And thenhe faded out." "Was he always a cryptic pain in the ass, or is that new since his death?"I had to snort a laugh--it was kind of funny imagining clean-cut, preppy Cary inthe role of oracular spirit. "No! He loved spy novels, but he himself was about as crypticas a bowl of cereal. He didnt hide information; he just kept his mouth shut if he didntwant things to get out." "But he called you. After eight years. Maybe I have some competition he Details ISBN0451462998 Author Kat Richardson Short Title VANISHED Series Greywalker Language English ISBN-10 0451462998 ISBN-13 9780451462992 Media Book DEWEY FIC Series Number 4 Audience Age 18-17 Year 2010 Subtitle A Greywalker Novel Publication Date 2010-08-03 Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2010-08-03 NZ Release Date 2010-08-03 US Release Date 2010-08-03 UK Release Date 2010-08-03 Pages 368 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Format Paperback Imprint Signet Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:26299442;

Price: 33.5 AUD

Location: Melbourne

End Time: 2025-01-28T03:40:29.000Z

Shipping Cost: 0 AUD