A Taste of Crimson by Marjorie M. Liu

By Marjorie M. Liu

“Readers of early Laurell ok. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, and the easiest thrillers in the market may still test Liu now.”
Publishers Weekly

“Anyone who loves my paintings should still love [Lui’s].”
—Christina Feehan

Award-winning, New York Times bestselling writer Marjorie M. Liu’s significant Dirk and Steele novels are the premiere of paranormal romance fiction. Stepping in short clear of her specific detective supplier of shapeshifters, psychics, and outstanding beings, Lui enters the damaging shadows of pink urban with A flavor of Crimson. Set in a dismal and twisted model of Los Angeles—a “City of Angels” from which the angels have lengthy for the reason that fled—A flavor of Crimson has a gorgeous creature of the evening teaming up with an enemy, a slayer, to get to the basis of an forthcoming disaster that threatens to shatter a tentative peace among people, vampires and werewolves. a panoramic mixture of sensuous romance with more suitable city fable within the bestselling vein of Jeaniene Frost and Nalini Singh, A style of Crimson is a lovely dinner party for each paranormal fan. maybe Booklist placed it top: “If you've but so as to add Liu on your must-read record, you’re doing your self a disservice.”

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Jenkins wasn’t buying, but he nodded. A faint smile eased the hard lines of his face. “What’s with the robes? ” “Formal occasion,” he replied. “Thank you again, Jenkins. For that other thing. ” Jenkins muttered something under his breath, too quiet for even Michael to make out. He raised his hand in farewell. As Michael flew from the alley, he glanced down. Keeli was in handcuffs, being led to the police van. The rapist was also in handcuffs,“but still on the ground. Michael hovered, studying Keeli.

No,” he said. He did not know what else to say. He remembered the horror on Keeli’s face, and could not bring himself to betray her struggle and shame with cheap words. The Grand Dame studied his face. Michael wondered what she saw, the story he had left untold. Her gaze was strong, sharp. He felt her take in the golden tattoo on his cheek. “Thank you,” she said. ” “They know me,” he said. “Turncoat,” someone whispered. The Grand Dame glanced sharply in the direction of that voice. A hush descended.

He floated, toes pointing downward, arms ioose at his sides. Black hair fell over his eyes; he pushed it aside, brushing metal. The gold filaments laced into his thin braids felt cooler than his skin. He flew above and ahead of the envoys, scanning the shadows. Nothing at first, just the stillness of deep night. A rare quiet for the heart of the city, without the crush of traffic and quick-paced bodies. Perfect and lovely. This was the city Michael loved best, full of peaceful solitude. It was the kind of city to get lost in, without eyes to judge or pry.

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