PDF A Rush of Wings: Book One of The Makers Song

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A Rush of Wings: Book One of The Maker's Song [Adrian Phoenix] on Amazon. com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. HIS NAME IS DANTE. Dark. Talented.
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Item Information Condition:. Sign in to check out Check out as guest. The item you've selected was not added to your cart. Add to Watchlist Unwatch. Watch list is full. Longtime member. May not ship to Germany - Read item description or contact seller for shipping options. See details. Item location:. Gloucester, United Kingdom. Ships to:.

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Seller assumes all responsibility for this listing. Item specifics Condition: Brand New: A new, unread, unused book in perfect condition with no missing or damaged pages. See all condition definitions - opens in a new window or tab Read more about the condition. About this product. Star of the rock band Inferno. Rumored owner of the hot New Orleans nightspot Club Hell. Born of the Blood, then broken by an evil beyond imagination. But the dangerously attractive musician not only resists her investigation, he claims to be "nightkind": in other words, a vampire.

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Digging into his past for answers reveals little. A juvenile record a mile long. No social security number. No known birth date.

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In and out of foster homes for most of his life before being taken in by a man named Lucien DeNoir, who appears to guard mysteries of his own. What Heather does know about Dante is that something links him to the killer -- and she's pretty sure that link makes him the CCK's next target. Heather must unravel the truth about this sensual, complicated, vulnerable young man -- who, she begins to believe, may indeed be a vampire -- in order to finally bring a killer to justice. But Dante's past holds a shocking, dangerous secret, and once it is revealed not even Heather will be able to protect him from his destiny Business seller information.

Contact details. Through narrow cracks in the splintered fence I watch his innocence with envy, searching for the right meaning of his movements. A longing in my mouth to speak, to weep, and gather this child into my arms and encipher his nature into mine. Through the exchange of eyes glances, purloined and routed into blindness, our language annulled. I can only grope towards him with antenna thoughts that dance in praise of his youthful beauty.

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I am waiting for stones to bloom. For venomous skies to wander into oblivion. For tracks to emerge like dust in a beam of light. The cracks are mended — the vision expunged. And the nameless boy dissolves, for there was no earth inside him. My Son My son is two. I watch him walk like a drunken prince. With his body bare I can see his soul better.


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His shoulder blades gesture like vestiges of wings. His features stenciled upon pale flesh by hands that have been before me. He so wants to be like me. His every movement like a dusty mirror or awkward shadow of a bird in flight. Every sound an echo heard. Every cell pregnant with my urges.

Beneath the Skin

But my urge is to be like him. If I return to this place I hope my eyes will look again upon his face even until his blades are wings once more. Until I have circled his creaturehood and know every hidden cleft where I have left my print indelible unable to be consumed. Until all that he is is in me and our hands are clasped, forged, entwined, in voiceless celebration. Until we are alone like two leaves shimmering high above a treeless landscape never to land.

Empyrean He walked a higher ground like a soul untethered to human flesh. Darkness implored demanded his searching stop and match the drifting gait of others. But his pathway unwound like a ball of string sent upward only to fall in a sentence of light. Collisions with fate would unrail him and send him the wishes of obscurity. The lightning of desire. The curse of empty dreams. The witness to unspeakable horrors.

He would laugh at the absurdity, yet aware of the dark ripples that touched him. Humanity was a creaseless sheet of blank paper waiting to be colored and crumpled into pieces of prey for the beast-hunter. Why did they wait? The palette was for their taking. The shallow grave of the deep heart killed their faith. He knew, yet could not form the words.

Nor draw the map. The ancient casts of the empyrean withstood definition. Paradise lost to the soundless blanket of the clearest thought, of the loneliest mind. Separate Being Waking this morning, I remember you.

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