By Lili St. Crow
She’s no angel . . . terrible Dru Anderson. Her mom and dad are gone, her ally is a werewolf, and she’s simply realized that the blood flowing via her veins isn’t fullyyt human. (So what else is new?) Now Dru is caught at a mystery New England university for different kids like her, and there’s an important challenge— she’s the one lady within the position. a faculty choked with adorable boys wouldn’t be so undesirable, yet Dru’s killer intuition says that one among them desires her useless. And with all eyes on her, researching a traitor in the Order might suggest much more than social suicide. . . Can Dru live to tell the tale lengthy adequate to determine who has betrayed her trust—and perhaps even her middle?
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Extra info for Betrayals: A Strange Angels Novel
You can’t ever stop thinking something quick enough. Something that hurts always gets the knife in too fast for you to slam a lid on it and shove it away. We’re going to play the game, Dru. She’d hidden me in a closet and gone out to fight Sergej. Dad had left me at the house and gone to face Sergej alone. Gran had tried to stay with me, but old age had taken her. Her body had failed right out from under her, and I could tell she’d hated leaving me. She’d held on all through summer, but the first cold wind coming up the valley had been too much for her, and the hospital… There it was again, a hurtful thought.
His head turned, and the mad gleam of his eyes seemed to pierce the darkness and burn into my skin. Did he see me? God, oh God. Did he? My hand twitched, wanting to get at the knife. But if I did, I’d have to roll over and make noise. And good luck getting it out of my jeans in time to do anything about the werwulf. God, how I wished for a gun. 22. A nine-millimeter would be better. 45 or an assault rifle would be the best. And someone to work it who had a bead on this thing would be awful nice too.
They rolled over and over, hitting and splintering trees, bones and teeth snapping. Move move move! Dad’s bark in my head, as if I was on the heavy bag again, popping punches and sweating, wanting to make him proud. Or as if we were dealing with those roach spirits again, me passing ammo through the window with shaking hands and— I scrambled to my feet, thorns raking every exposed edge and pulling at my sweater like they were trying to tell me to stay down, and bolted. Leapt over the fingers of vapor crawling over the ground like I was doing football tryouts or something, skipping too fast to really keep my balance.