Where there is evil…

Michaela Herald is half human/half angel and she sealed her fate when she signed a contract with Satan in exchange for saving her life. She doesn’t mind being his assassin because ridding the world of evil serves mankind. What she doesn’t understand is why Satan needs her to do it. Her next assignment is to kill a doctor experimenting on children. This time, she’s going to find out what Satan’s hiding.

There is deception…

Widower and fishing guide Brock Dalgaard has lost most of his family and now leukemia is endangering his young daughter. When a group of guys hire him for a weekend fishing trip, Brock discovers they’re not who they say they are. They’ve come to find an angel. She’s the same person he hired to help handle tackle for the weekend. An angel who is hellbent on killing his daughter’s doctor.

And time is running out…

Brock insists on helping Michaela investigate the doctor. They’ll need to rely on strangers in order to put the pieces together quickly. But will it be in time to save his little girl’s life?

Warning: This book is intended for mature audiences only; sexually explicit sex scenes



Barnes & Noble




Portland, Oregon

October 3


“Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

The ancient, dark confessional creaked as Michaela Herald knelt and waited for the priest to relay her next assignment. As an assassin, she found confessionals proved to be an effective way to pass information.

Acrid sulfur stung her nostrils, making her gag. The rotten-egg stench could only mean one thing: Satan himself had arrived.

Beelzebub typically delegated message delivery to a lower demon disguised as a priest.

Today must be special.

“You disappointed me.” Satan’s deep vibrato rumbled through the oak wall and through her chest. “Again.”

Selling her soul to the Devil had been less than a stellar idea, but at the time it was a lifeline.

“Hey, ’Bub. How ya doin’?” She smiled. He hated the nickname.

He exhaled, sending a puff of hot, foul smoke through the fleur-de-lis patterned panel where secrets were whispered and lies were told. “Your orders were clear.”

She shrugged. “What are you going to do? Kill me?” Had he finally grown tired of her teasing, failures, and sarcasm? Would he end her life? Would it be painful? She swallowed the fear tightening her throat.

The protective confessional privacy wall disintegrated to ash, like fire devouring paper, revealing Satan in his full glory. His smoke-blackened, red flesh held an odor all its own. Death. Boiled blood. Burnt oil. Michaela held her breath, biting back bile, glad she hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Satan uncurled his massive frame. His horns scraped the confessional box’s ceiling, forcing him to hunch his head. He loomed over her, intimidating her with his obsidian eyes. His junk hung in front of her face. Uncircumcised. As thick and smelly as the rest of him. Her eyes lowered to his goat-shaped hind quarters that ended in black-hooved feet with ash caked between cloven toes.

Michaela stood. At five-eleven, taller in her Doc Martens, she came to his chest and wasn’t as intimidated as if she’d continued to kneel.

Satan curled his tail around his shoulder, and the spear-tipped end came within an inch of her left eye.

She focused her attention on his brass nipple rings. It was easier to look there than into his bottomless, black eyes.

His muscular arms ended with meaty hands tipped in clawed fingers. The scroll she’d signed with her blood seven years ago uncoiled. The yellowed parchment dangled in front of her face. Satan pointed a thick claw at a red glowing phrase. “You agreed to kill the subjects of my choosing.”

Her mind jumbled, making it impossible for her to make sense of the fancy curved lines twisting into unrecognizable symbols. The scribbles on the page mocked her dyslexia.

Seeing that contract again only reminded her of how weak she’d been. “I’d be happy to live up to my end of the bargain if you’d give me a copy of my contract to read. Then I could understand what was expected of me.”

He huffed, spitting diesel fumes in her face. She coughed. His claw slid down the length of the page where the letters diminished into a size two font. “Clause forty-five. The party of the third part.” He dug his pointy nail into her collarbone. “That’s you. Shall not demand a copy.” Poke. “Of said.” Poke. “Contract.”

How convenient. She lifted her head to stare him in the face and wished she hadn’t. His deep underbite gave him a menacing look. Thick black fangs protruded from his bottom jaw, curling at the sides of his wide nostrils. Horns wrapped around his head on each side of his ears. They were pointy and sharp, honed white at the tips.

“Without a copy, I’m unable to understand exactly what you need from me. I’ve told you before. I can’t read when you’re standing over me demanding I obey.”

He gripped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. She swore fire burned in their depths. “Do as you’re told” —the corner of his lips curled— “and you get to live another day. Simple as that.” He let go of her chin and snapped his fingers, chomping his teeth in rapid succession—a habit that annoyed her.

Michaela tried to grab the parchment from his hand. Her fingers swooshed through the air as though it were a dream. She tried again, yielding the same result. The paper reshaped in front of her face.

Satan’s laughter echoed around the small chamber. Spittle dribbled from his bottom fangs. He stopped as suddenly as he began. “You failed, Michaela. Because of that, you now owe me four more deaths.”

Her heart dropped to her toes. Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t show weakness. Weakness gave him power. She’d be damned if she’d give him more than he’d already taken. She blinked back her tears, taking in a steadying breath.

He flicked his wrist, coiling and closing the scroll. It disappeared.

“You brought this on yourself. Your contract extends every time you disobey.” He paused, leaning closer to her face. “The second you didn’t kill Charles Grimly, when you chose to disobey, you knew you’d owe me more.” He exhaled so hard she closed her eyes. “I believe you rather enjoy working for me.”

Michaela waved her hand in front of her face. “Dude. You need a mint.” She hid her pain behind insults.

“Why didn’t you kill Grimly?”

“If I’d done that, where would the justice be for his victims? I thought of a win-win sol—”

He hissed, growled, and red saliva dribbled as he stomped his hoof.

“You want him dead? Kill him yourself.” She smirked and folded her arms. “You have resources in prison. Have one of your cronies shank him.”

Satan lowered his voice. “That wasn’t our bargain.”

He never wanted her to kill the good people—only those that society wanted dead too. Serial killers, pedophiles, and the occasional abusive husband that tortured his wife and children. That perplexed her to no end and made it hard to refuse taking assignments. Why would he want them dead? It made no sense. It was like hell was in desperate need of demented souls.

Michaela had lost her blood lust somewhere between Dallas and Phoenix on an assignment where little boys had been kidnapped and left mutilated. It was the first time she’d wanted justice. It was the first case where she’d handed over solid evidence to local authorities. A jury decided their fate. Not her. It was the right thing to do for those who had suffered. In essence, she’d grown a conscience and begged God to have mercy on her soul.

“Be warned. Do not fail me again.”

“How many Hail Marys do I have to say? A couple Our Fathers?” She loved goading him. After all, what did she have to lose? She had nothing. Literally nothing. A backpack held a set of clean clothes, a few toiletries, flint to build a fire, and a tarp she’d make into a tent when needed. Her prized possessions were an artist’s sketchpad and a few charcoal pencils. She had clothes on her back, shoes on her feet, a coat from the lost-and-found, and a beanie she’d scavenged from the side of the road. No computer. No cell phone. Enough money she’d earned from selling her drawings and odd jobs to get the essentials in life, and her trusty switchblades tucked in her pockets. She existed so far off the grid that she was a ghost.

She lived off the land, knowing God would provide for her every need. Perhaps that’s what pissed Satan off most. She still believed in God. And she didn’t fear the Devil. Much.

The oak wall returned in front of her face. Satan returned to his seat. She knelt and waited for her orders.

“Seems you have a weakness for children.”

Boy, did she ever.

“There’s a doctor not far from here that’s been experimenting on children, and so far, his actions have killed six. You are to kill the doctor.”

“What about—”

I said, kill the doctor.” Satan smacked his hand against the wall. “No questions asked.” His teeth chattered. “You are not to contact local law enforcement. You are not to save anyone’s life. That’s an order,” he growled. “Kill the doctor. That is your sole objective. Do you understand?”

“Got it, ’Bub.”

“Good. If you deviate from my plan, I will kill all the children in White River. Remember that when you’re thinking of justice.”




Michaela didn’t want to think about how many ways a doctor could hurt a child. There was more to the story—always was when it came to Satan.

She stepped from the confessional into the quiet sanctuary. Fresh, cool air filled her lungs as she took a deep breath. She might as well start walking and watch for the signs that would lead her in the direction Satan wanted her to go. There were always signs. Arrows where they shouldn’t be. Ghosts stepped from shadows, pointing the way. On occasion, she’d been chased by wildlife to skedaddle her along if she wasn’t moving fast enough.

Satan had his ways, and he was always watching.

A flash out of the corner of Michaela’s eye made her glance into an alcove. St. Michael’s statue knelt on one knee, head bowed, leaning on a polished stainless-steel sword. The morning sun poured through the high windows. She dropped her backpack by the entrance inside the alcove, dug in her pocket for change, and slipped it into the offering box. She lifted a wooden reed and lit the end from a burning candle. Another’s prayers and burdens, just like her own. Lighting a new candle, she gathered her thoughts.

The flame cast an amber shadow on the marble statue. She glanced at St. Michael’s eyes. From this angle, it didn’t look like his head was bowed. Instead, it appeared he directly met her gaze.

That wasn’t creepy at all. She swallowed.

She dropped to the kneeler and folded her hands in prayer. Closing her eyes, she crossed herself. It’d been a long time since she’d prayed to anyone besides God. “St. Michael, defender in battle.” She couldn’t remember the words to his dedicated prayer. “I need your help.”

Satan’s stench filled the alcove. “What are you doing?”

Michaela could see his reflection in St. Michael’s sword.

“He cannot come in here,” the statue whispered. “This alcove is hallowed ground.”

Michaela snapped her head in the voice’s direction and fell back. She put her hands behind her to brace her fall, then scrambled backward. Her heart lodged in her throat. What the hell? Statues don’t talk.

The marble statue came to life, standing to his full length. The marble didn’t crumble or make a sound. It was as if the stone was St. Michael’s flesh and bones. He pointed the sword at Satan as he jumped from the pedestal. He held out his free hand to her.

Satan gnashed his teeth, pacing in front of the alcove’s entrance. “Michaela, I’m warning you.”

What had she done? She’d lit a candle. The outreached hand couldn’t be real. This had to be a hallucination. She started to reach out but couldn’t believe what she’d witnessed and yanked her hand back.

The living statue smiled. “He can’t hurt you in here.” St. Michael leaned over, wrapping his warm, lustrous hand around her fingers, and they felt human. Power surged through her palm up her arm, thrumming into her whole being. Visions filled her mind.

Battles fought. Battles won. Battles lost. Blood. Carnage. Hatred. Heathen. Fire. Hell. Damnation—angels being cast from Heaven.

The visions somehow intertwined with her destiny, like she’d lived another lifetime. Except, she didn’t believe in reincarnation. That was poppycock, as Sister Agatha used to say.

Deep sadness overwhelmed her while regret ached within her soul.

She stared at the angel pulling her to her feet. Kindness, maybe a bit of love, shown in his expression. “Help me.” Didn’t he have a reputation for sitting near God’s throne? Could he intercede on her behalf? Would God make an exception for her? “Please.”

Satan growled. “You are not to sit in the counsel of those from heaven.”

Was that another one of those phrases in the fine print she’d missed? Satan dangled her contract from his clawed fingers, pointing to her latest transgression.

The angel struck out with his sword, piercing the parchment, ripping it from Satan’s clutches, and flinging it across the alcove’s floor. The metal scroll holders, black and ornate, bounced, clanging against the marble floor.

Could she finally read it? Not when her pulse thumped in her veins and anxiety ruled her heart.

“Michael,” Satan’s tone softened. His fingers twitched. “Give the scroll back to me…please, old friend.”

St. Michael sheathed his sword. “Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer.” Pity dripped from every word. “When will you learn?” He lifted the scroll, pulled it to its length, and read to himself.

Several minutes ticked by. Michaela stared at the lava dripping from the corners of Satan’s mouth. It pooled in a tar-like substance onto the church’s pristine floor. His hands gripped the wrought-iron bars to the alcove’s entrance, burning red-hot under his hands.

She’d have hell to pay when this was over. “Maybe you should give it back to him.”

St. Michael lifted his head and glared at Satan. Disdain curled his lip as he narrowed an eye.

Michaela swallowed. Sweat beaded across her brow and gathered in her armpits. She wiped her clammy hands against her jeans.

When St. Michael finished reading, he stood in front of her. She tried to drop her gaze, but he put his hand under her chin and raised her face to look him in the eye. “My namesake, Michaela, you honored your contract years ago.”

What the…? She snapped her gaze to ’Bub.

St. Michael’s brow furrowed at his enemy. “How dare you keep her prisoner, asking her to kill for you.” He turned back to her. A slight smile eased the tension from his face. “You knew, Michaela. Deep down, you knew. He could never own your soul.”

She shook her head. “I signed the contract.”

“You’re not like other humans, Michaela. You’re special. Lucifer hoped he could own you, but he can only manipulate you.” The angel looked her up and down. “You are a Nephilim.”

“What’s that?” She didn’t recall hearing that term before, let alone been able to spell it.

“Part angel. Part human.” He lowered his voice. “Since making a deal with Satan, part demon as well.”

Is that why she struggled with making decisions? Could she be both good and evil? Could she kill and save humanity at the same time? If so, where did that leave her? If she wasn’t destined for hell, and she couldn’t get to heaven, was she forced to dwell only on Earth?

“Your human side has free will. Your angel side is the one that avenges the victims of your world. The demon side kills those you deem unworthy of life.” He ran a finger down the side of her face. “The choice is always yours. A treacherous pinnacle you stand on every moment of every day.” He nodded toward Satan. “He knew that. That’s why he can’t kill you.” His gaze drifted to her wrist. “It’s why you can’t kill yourself.”

She pulled her coat’s cuffs over her scars.

“Only God can end your life. All creatures exist at God’s will.”

Creature? “Then why do I exist?”

“You’re definitely not what we want roaming the Earth.” He paused and poised the scroll over the candle she’d lit earlier, singeing the edge. “Not since the Great Flood.” He tilted the scroll as flames licked along the edge. “Sometimes angels fall in love with those they guard.”

Satan thrashed against the wrought iron gate. He roared so loud that she covered her ears. Fire ate the dried parchment like wildfire consuming dry grass, leaving smoldering ash in its wake.

“However, God finds your heart to be an advocate for His best interests. Not Lucifer’s. Even under his direction, you defied him. This encourages the heavens to believe there is hope for mankind.” He bit his lips together. “Hope for your kind.”

“There are others like me?”

St. Michael wouldn’t look at her but concentrated on the burning parchment. The scroll’s last bit of red-tinged ashes floated to the white marble floor.

He smiled as he put the scroll’s metal endcaps on the marble pedestal. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say if there are more like you. What I can tell you is that you are free, Michaela. Free of his antics. Free of his lies.”

“You are not free of me. You will never be free of me.” Satan rattled the iron bars. “There is no place you can hide that I cannot find you. You are mine. Mine!” He thrust his fist inside the alcove. An invisible force seared his flesh. He yanked it back, covering his wounded hand with the other. “I may not be able to kill you, but I can make you suffer. You will complete your mission, or I will kill every child you’ve ever met.”

She looked at St. Michael. “Would God allow him to do that?”

Sorrow tilted his sad eyes. “I cannot say, but it won’t stop him from trying.”

As the putrid stench of hell faded, she stared at her defender. “Thank you.” She stood dumbstruck and lost. What would she do now? Where would she go? She’d spent the last seven years doing what Satan wanted, before that whatever the military wanted, and before that whatever the nuns wanted. She’d never imagined she’d have another chance to have goals of her own. Decide her own fate. Create her own future.

Her knees gave out, and she fell to the marble floor. She clutched her chest, wanting to rewind her life and pull the Deceiver’s lies from her tired aching muscles. Her account had been reconciled. She owned Satan nothing. This moment would impact all her tomorrows. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

She was free. 

When she opened her eyes, she was back at the kneeler, hands poised in prayer. Had she fallen asleep? Was that a dream? Would God be so cruel as to let her have that moment of freedom, only to rip it from her again?

She looked at the statue of St. Michael bowed in front of her, back on his pedestal, holding his sword. Did she want to be free so badly that she dreamed her contract had been disintegrated?

As disillusionment set in, she spied the metal handles that held the scroll at the statue’s base—where St. Michael had placed them.

She grabbed them. They were heavier than expected. Could she risk taking them? What if Satan got hold of them again? She could sell them to a pawn shop. She’d make bank if they were made of a rare metal. Could she risk taking them from hallowed ground?

If she hid them, she could always retrieve them later. A cabinet sat behind the statue’s base. She made her way over to it and opened the small door. It held extra candles and votive holders. She slipped the metal handles into the back under boxes of candles. No one would notice them for a while, if ever.

As she left, she glanced back at the statue. “Thank you.”

She lifted her backpack, pulling her arms through the straps. How could the alcove be hallowed ground, but the church wasn’t? There were a lot of things in life she’d never understand.

Apprehension snaked along her spine as she stepped into the sanctuary. She glanced to the right, then left. Was Satan waiting in the shadows?

Where would she go?

A doctor was torturing children in White River. She couldn’t ignore that fact. After all, she had nothing else to do with her life other than finding killers and avenging their victims.

God would provide the rest.



White River, Washington


Brock Dalgaard opened the back door of his SUV and turned so his six-year-old daughter, Lilly, could climb onto his back. “Do you want a chocolate or vanilla milkshake today?”

Her appetite had slightly returned after her last round of chemotherapy three days ago. Watching Lilly ebb away, one treatment at a time, was killing him. What would he do without his little girl’s smile? His gut told him she was losing the fight, but his heart refused to give into his fears. He denied the possibility she could die.

“Chocolate, I guess.” She wrapped her hands around his neck, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold on.

Brock held onto her legs and galloped to the glass door of Edna’s Café. That didn’t make her laugh anymore. He missed her laughter. A chime announced their entrance as he opened the door. 

“There’s my girl.” Edna Cunningham broke away from the table she was cleaning and ran to grab Lilly from his back.

She was an attractive middle-aged woman with loads of blonde curly hair, beautiful blue eyes like Lilly’s, and she was the best cook this side of the Columbia River. She was also his late wife’s mother. She helped take care of Lilly when he worked at Dalgaard Bait & Tackle, a hunting and fishing specialty shop passed down through generations.

Edna smothered Lilly in kisses and hugs until she giggled. “I’m so glad you’re here. There’s been a woman sitting in your booth all day. She promised she’d leave when you got here.”

Brock’s gaze moved to their usual table. All he could see from the high-backed booth was a beige stocking cap.

Edna slid Lilly to the floor.

“Grandma, can I please have a chocolate milkshake?”

Edna leaned over and kissed Lilly’s cheek. “You bet you can. Would you like some fries with that?”

Lilly grimaced. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Well, I’ll bring you some anyway. You don’t have to eat them.” Edna straightened her back to look Brock in the eye. “You want your usual?”

Brock nodded. “Sure. We’ll share the fries.”

Lilly skipped to their booth, sliding onto the bench opposite the stranger. “Hi. I’m Lilly.”

“Hello, Lilly.” The stranger had a pleasant voice. “I’m Michaela.”

“You ready for tomorrow?” Edna asked.

He nodded. Her urging brought up the unspoken topic of what he’d do with his life if Lilly died. He’d decided to start a fishing and hunting guide business. It seemed a natural transition, one that fed his addiction for the outdoors. The Bait & Tackle was great for selling goods, but he missed being outside in the action. He’d received funds from his parents and late wife’s life insurance which had provided the seed money to build a guest cabin on his land and buy a new boat. One outfitted with all the latest gadgets for fishing on the Columbia River. If he could make money doing what he loved, he couldn’t go wrong. “I have Lilly’s things in the car. I’ll bring them in later. You’ll call me if she runs a fever or—”

“You know I will.” She rested her hand on his arm. “You have no idea, after losing Allison, how much I love being a part of Lilly’s life. If Allison’s accident showed me anything, it’s that life’s too short.” She pulled back her hand. “I made a basket for you and your guests for breakfast and lunch tomorrow. When are they arriving?”

He smiled. Edna spoiled him rotten, always putting him and Lilly first. “They should be in town any minute now. I asked them to meet me here, then I’ll have them follow me to the cabin.” Tomorrow he’d be taking his first customers fishing. “Thank you. You’re the best.” He kissed her cheek.

Lilly’s voice drew his attention. “What are you drawing?”

Brock came to the table, sliding along the booth’s brown leather seat next to Lilly. A vase of fresh red roses sat on the table, taking in the sun’s fading rays. He stared at the woman’s tawny eyes sitting across from them. The beige beanie made her look weak and frail like Lilly. Perhaps she was undergoing chemotherapy too. Not a bit of her hair showed from underneath the cap. Her light-brown eyebrows were the only indication of her hair’s color.

“Hi, I’m Brock Dalgaard.” He extended his hand.


He liked her firm handshake. “This is my daughter.”

Michaela said, “I’m drawing a picture of you, Lilly-bear.”

His stomach plummeted. His late wife, Allison, was the only one who called their daughter “Lilly-bear” because of her big hugs. Michaela didn’t look at him but kept her focus on his daughter. “Did you know that your mother loved you very much?”

Lilly glanced at him with caution in her eyes, then looked back at Michaela. “Dad doesn’t like to talk about Mom. He says it hurts his heart, but my grandma tells me about her.”

Michaela’s gaze saddened. “It’s not easy losing a wife, nor for little girl to lose her mother.”

How did she know his late wife? Did they meet in nursing school? Maybe they worked together at White River Hospital.

When Michaela looked at him, overwhelming compassion eased over his senses. Who was she? She wore Army fatigues with her sleeves rolled back to mid-arm. Dog tags hung around her neck. He could make out part of a tattoo at the top of her cleavage, above her V-neck shirt. A black circle with a Gemini sign in the middle with a gray chain-link necklace that disappeared under her collar.

When she turned her drawing pad around so Lilly could see the picture, he saw an old thick scar across her wrist and another just above it running lengthwise up her arm. Had she tried to kill herself? More than once? His heart broke a little. The suicide statics for returning veterans was too high. Brock had known a few and it still left an emptiness in his soul thinking if he could have done more. What inner demons she must fight in order to keep living.

“Look, Dad. It’s a picture of you, me, and Mom.”

Brock slid his gaze to the image. The drawing depicted every detail of the last time they were together as a family in that very booth. The day before Allison died. He remembered the pattern of Allison’s sweater because he couldn’t bring himself to wash it. He kept it in the cedar chest at the end of his bed and pulled it out to smell her perfume when he was lonely, or when he doubted his decisions as a single dad. The next day she’d slid on black ice, cascaded over an embankment, and slammed head-on into a tree. Dead on impact were words he’d never forget.

“It’s your mom’s favorite memory of you,” Michaela explained.

What the hell was she saying? He narrowed his eyes. “Did you know Allison?”

She shook her head. “I met her today.” The stranger chewed her bottom lip. “I have a gift. Loved ones show me their favorite memories in my mind.” She pointed to her temple. “Images that meant something to them when they were alive. Then I draw the images, so you know they’re always with you—and they think of you. Your mother watches over you, Lilly.”

“She does? Dad said she’s in heaven.”

“She is.” She nodded to Brock. “She comes down to look in on you, kind of like when a neighbor drops in for a visit.”

Lilly giggled. “We don’t have any neighbors.”

“Not any close by,” Brock added. “There are small towns, and then there’s White River—a population of five hundred tops on a busy day.”

Lilly turned the page in Michaela’s sketchbook. Her little hand went to her lips. She whispered, “That’s my mom when she was younger.” The picture was of Allison back in high school dressed in her cheerleader uniform, pom-poms high above her head.

“That’s your grandma’s favorite memory of your mom.” Michaela eyed Edna’s approach.

Edna poured glasses of water for Brock and Lilly. “I see you’ve met my family. Could I interest you in sitting at the counter or another table?”

Michaela pulled the sketchpad closer.

Carl, Edna’s cook, came up and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tammy’s called in sick.”

Edna rolled her eyes.

“I can help you,” Michaela offered. “I can cook, wait tables, or serve. Whatever you need.”

Edna tilted her head. “I could use someone tonight.”

“I would be happy to work for you, Edna. You’re fair and kind.” Michaela dipped her head, folding her hands.

Edna sighed. “Do you have a food handler’s license?”

“I do.” Michaela reached under the table for her backpack. She rifled through the front pouch and provided Edna with the identification.

When Michaela pulled out a switchblade, Brock shielded Lilly with his body.

“Da-ad.” Lilly clucked her tongue.

Michaela lifted her hand and leveled a glare. “I’m not going to hurt anyone, Brock.” She ran the blade the length of the page. “I’d like each of you to have these pictures.”

Edna glanced down at the portrait of Allison. Her mouth twisted. “That’s my baby girl.”

Michaela stood, removing her jacket. Feather tattoos spread across her collarbone, shoulders, and down her arms to her elbows. When she leaned over to grab her backpack, he could swear the feathers opened and moved with her. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or was there more to Michaela than she let on?


5 out of 5 stars

This third book in her series (of which I’ve read the first two and thoroughly loved!) contains a wealth of emotions wonderfully interwoven with an intense plot. With so many nuances to Aedyn’s writing, I’m certain this series will become a re-read for me. Eagerly looking forward to more from her.