The Mortality Principle (Rogue Angel, Book 56)
Alex Archer, Steven Savile
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
When legend becomes deadly reality…
In Prague researching the legend of the Golem, a fantastical "living" creature made of clay, archaeologist Annja Creed is faced with an even bigger mystery on her hands when someone begins murdering the homeless. And every day there's a fresh corpse.
As the suspicion that Golem is behind the deaths circulates quietly on the streets of the city, Annja cannot resist unraveling the thread that binds science to superstition. According to Czech history, these aren't new attacks. They're part of a greater pattern of murders that have gone unacknowledged over centuries. And now Annja is the next target. Unless she can find the real monster behind the myth…before it finds her.
Courtesy. We wanted you to understand the orders weren’t coming from Mr. Morrell. He’s fought your corner passionately, but some things are bigger than a mere producer. They come down from on high. In this case, all the way from the top. From the owners themselves. As I said, I’m a huge admirer of yours, Miss Creed. For your sake, I can only hope you’ve got a truly gripping segment lined up.” That had been a week ago. Now she was in Prague, unable to sleep, trying to work out how on earth she.
But how at last the roof had betrayed her and she’d lost her footing. “Thirty feet is a long way down,” Roux observed. “Hey, at least she found something nice and soft to break her fall,” Garin said. “If I’d have had a choice, I wouldn’t have fallen at all,” Annja said. She spotted the doctor coming up behind Garin. She had a clear plastic bag in her hand. “Your meds,” the doctor said as Garin moved aside. And to Garin, “My number.” She handed him her card. Garin pocketed it with a grin.
Behind when the monks moved out. Abbots liked to keep a record of comings and goings. It was a compulsion with them.” “It would be good to get a look at them.” “It would. But it would also be very unlikely. He had been doing some research on Kepler’s time there himself some years ago. It took a lot of negotiating before he was even allowed to look at them, but—and this was the interesting part—the abbot made several references to the astronomer’s strange traveling companion whose features—and I.
No soul. She couldn’t recall where she’d come across it, but she liked it. Annja pondered the notion of going out to Sedlec, in the Kutná Hora suburb, to check out the ossuary. There was a building with a story to tell—a church dating back eight hundred years, with upward of seventy thousand corpses exhumed, their bones used to decorate the chapels. Chandeliers of bones, garlands of skulls, an altar consisting of every single bone from the human body, monstrances fashioned from childlike.
Around them. “Sarcasm. That’s more like it. If you kept being nice to me it’d only go to my head.” Somehow, impossibly, the painted man reared up in front of her. He’d been dead, she was absolutely sure of it, but even as she slashed out instinctively with her sword and took his head clean from his shoulders, she knew that there was absolutely nothing behind his eyes. The painted man’s head hit the grass and rolled toward the flames. “Wouldn’t want you losing your head or anything,” Annja.