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Echoes of Angels

Keepers of Eternity: Book 1

Author(s): Devyn Quinn

Julienne Blackthorne grew up in the school of hard knocks.

Dragged around the country by an unstable mother, she grew up on the fringes of poverty, unloved and unwanted. With the face of an angel and a body made for sin, her dream to reinvent herself in Hollywood goes crushingly awry. Though marriage to her manager leads to minor success as a model and D-list celebrity, her husband’s violent temper and her own crack-cocaine habit can only lead to one thing: disaster. A near brush with death leaves her broke, alone and scarred for life. By the time she emerges from rehab, her life is in ruins, and her soul little more than ashes.

But old bodies will not stay buried, and Julienne is about to learn the truth behind her own lost past. The chance to begin her life over lures her back to the family home her mother abandoned over twenty-one years ago — and straight into the unwelcome embrace of the man Cassandra Blackthorne feared most.

Morgan Saint-Evanston.

Dark. Brooding. Sexy as hell. He’s everything a woman desires, yet his own frightening secrets have tainted his heart and blackened his soul. He is a man Julienne will dare to take as her lover even as he plunges her into an occult realm, where human souls are open barter and swords and sorcery still rule…


Julienne felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. That can’t be him, she thought. Not Morgan Saint-Evanston. It can’t be.
Morgan Saint-Evanston was the reason her mother had left town. Julienne had always suspected he might be her father. But that’s impossible, she thought upon seeing him for the first time. He’s too young…by about twenty years.
His complexion was cream-colored, his eyes almost black. His black, collar-length hair was layered and unruly, threaded with silver at his temples and bangs. At a glance, he appeared to be about thirty. A closer look revealed crows-feet etched at the outer corners of his eyes. Around his mouth were a few deeper character lines and small scars. He was admirably muscled, his posture regal, as if he was always in command despite what fate might otherwise dictate.
He cut an impressive figure, elegantly dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, coat tailored, trousers sharply creased, silk vest worn over a crisp white shirt open at the neck, no tie. A gold watch chain bridged the pockets of his vest. All-in-all, his finery was immaculately tailored and smartly worn.
As he approached, Julienne felt as if someone had led her to the top of a cliff and then, without warning, pushed her off. Somehow, she’d managed to catch the edge, but she was still left to dangle helplessly high above the ground. A hurried working of mental math told her that, judging by his appearance, he’d have been sixteen, maybe a bit younger, when she had been born. It was not entirely impossible, from a biological point of view, for a teenage boy to impregnate a young woman. Cassandra had been only eighteen when she’d given birth.
Her mother hadn’t just hated Saint-Evanston. She’d feared him and she’d run away from him until the effort had killed her.
Julienne drew in a fortifying breath, digging into pockets of memory she’d almost forgotten existed. It was difficult, having the perspective of a grown woman and the agonies of a child conflict within one’s mind. She could not help but notice that people were falling back to make room for him. A current of apprehension rippled through the masses as he advanced, as if some silent command demanded none should cross his path. Even his companion followed a courteous distance behind.
He stopped within a few feet of her. He gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement. “Ce’as mile fa’ilte, leanabh.”
Julienne blinked, uncomprehending, puzzled. The odd words jarred, seeming to carry the whisper of familiarity, much like the strains of a long-forgotten tune. One could hum a few notes but never entirely capture the haunting melody. “What did you say?”
“A hundred thousand welcomes,” he repeated, this time in English.
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t understand.” Her brow wrinkled in question. “You expected me to?”
“When you were small, I used to speak Gaelic, the Irish language, to you.” His earnest gaze raked over her, measuring every inch of her body. In heels, she towered almost half a head over him. “But you are not so little now.”
His words were tinged with an Irish brogue, precisely spoken as if to avoid mangling the English language. His voice had a pleasing timbre, even in cadence and tone, in intimacy and confidence. She surmised he could undoubtedly manipulate it with ease to make anyone believe he was sincere, even when he was not.

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ISBN (Print):
ISBN (Electronic): 978-1-60180-130-2
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Date Published: 05/28/2013
Publisher: Mojocastle Press

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