Cold Feet (Brazen Bites Book 2)

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  1. Marco Bellocchio: The Cinematic I in the Political Sphere;
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    The Cold Eye

    Some magical lost place. But her mother wanted fresh air, hoping it would settle her stomach, and Charlotte refused to sit around being boring— God, perish the thought of Charlotte Althouse ever being accused of such a thing. So Marion sat without complaint and watched Sawkill Rock approach on a sheet of gray waves.

    The island really did look like a thing. Black and solid, craggy.

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    A little bit fearsome, a little bit lonely. She would have lived on a barren dusty rock with no horses or people or yachts tied up at the docks, if she could have. Just her and Charlotte and their mother, a little clean white cottage, a pebbled path down to the water for sunbathing. To be left to themselves for a while. No constant doorbells and phone calls. No more sympathy cards.

    The salt-specked wind surged past them.

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    Marion glanced at her and took stock: Pamela Althouse. Eyes fairly bright, observing the deck, the passengers, the water. Shoulders not so stooped as they could be. A small smile tugging at her lips as she watched Charlotte snap selfies at the railing. Smiling was a good thing. Their mother, for now, was not in danger. Not of sneaking off, fog-brained, to unearth a knife. Marion could relax. What a joke. Marion had never been good at relaxing, and now, after , she was even worse at it. My little rock , her mother would say.

    My grave little mountain. A change of scenery. New faces, new roads.

    A familiar litany. Marion nodded. They breed award-winning Morgans. I told you that, right? Real down-to-earth types.

    Guide Cold Feet (Brazen Bites Book 2)

    Men that come and go, and never stay in the picture? A matriarchal dynasty. Girl power and all that? Marion rolled her eyes. That being said, the surname thing is kind of cool. Althouse, her voice muffled in her scarf. Val, their daughter. Did I tell you that? At the mention of Val Mortimer, Marion looked away, down the ferry deck, to the rows of parked cars. Their faded blue station wagon, rust lining the wheel wells, was a plucky little weed in a garden of Range Rovers. Last year Val had lost a friend—a girl their age whose death had gone unsolved, her body never found. So Val and Charlotte had both suffered losses.

    Both had, presumably, endured the endless cloying condolences of friends and neighbors. Both were carelessly, shockingly beautiful— long limbs and perfect noses and poreless pale skin. Lips that curved just right. Their online lives a parade of endless friend lists and beaming, perfectly filtered photographs snapped at parties, bonfires, dances, football games.

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    Charlotte was hard enough to keep track of on her own, without someone like Val in the picture. Before Marion could protest, Charlotte had pulled them all close and touched her phone. Althouse could see. The Althouse girls. Marion leaned in to take a look. Yes, that was them all right:. Pink-cheeked, windblown hair falling in wisps around jewel-blue eyes. Worn parka framing her face in faded red nylon. Dark, graying hair. My head spun, vertigo setting in. I gritted my teeth. If I couldn't slip from its grasp any other way.

    A loud screech cut across the chamber, and a gust of wind slammed into the ammit. The monster let go, more out of surprise than injury, and I rolled back. As I sprang to my feet, another burst of air brushed past me. Hepthys, last to cross, walked toward us with hands raised, muttering another incantation. The ammit roared in defiance. The aven spread his wings and leapt into the air, barely evading the ammit as it ran past.