The Wheel of Darkness (Agent Pendergast series)
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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A luxury ocean liner on its maiden voyage across the North Atlantic, awash in wealth and decadence...
An ancient Tibetan box, its contents unknown, sealed with a terrifying warning...
An FBI agent destined to confront what he fears most--himself...
Known as a Mors du Cheval, only it was far more complex. In Tibetan it was called dgongs, the “unraveling.” The knot had been given to her by Tsering on her departure from the Gsalrig Chongg monastery. It had been tied in the eighteenth century by a revered lama, to be used in a particular kind of meditative exercise to expunge attachment, to rid oneself of evil thoughts or influences, or to aid in the joining of two minds. In Constance’s case, the knot was to be used for cleansing herself of.
The door, it was backlit for a moment by a lamp in the entryway, and with a sense of growing unreality Constance saw a strange, roiling presence deep within the smoke, with two bloodshot eyes, a third one on its forehead—a demonic creature jerking and moving and heaving itself along as if crippled . . . or perhaps dancing . . . Marya screamed a third time and fell to the floor with a crash of breaking glass, her eyes rolling and jittering in her head, convulsing. The thing was now past her,.
Close our eyes and meditate,” said the monk. “Let us meditate, and offer prayers for its speedy and safe return.” She swallowed, tried to calm her mind. It was true, she was acting impulsively. Her behavior was no doubt shocking to the monks. But she had made a promise to Aloysius and she was going to keep it. The monk began chanting, and the others took it up. The strange, humming, repetitive sounds filled her mind, and her anger, her desperate desire to know more, seemed to flow from her like.
Her spill of brown hair, could almost have been mistaken for a monk herself. “I’m sorry to leave you early, Constance. I have to get on our man’s trail before it gets cold.” “They really have no idea what it is?” Pendergast shook his head. “Beyond its shape and its name, none.” “Darkness . . . ,” she murmured. She glanced at him, her eyes troubled. “How long will you be gone?” “The difficult part is already done. I know the thief’s name and what he looks like. It’s simply a matter of.
Lair. He glanced first one direction, then the other, peering intently down the plushly carpeted and wallpapered corridor. Then, with feline quickness, he darted forward, opened the front door of the Penshurst Triplex, ducked inside, and—shutting the door behind him—slid home the heavy-duty lock. For a moment he stood motionless in the muted entryway. Beyond, in the salon, the curtains were drawn against the dark and stormy morning, allowing only a faint light to filter into the hushed interior.