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Zusatztext " Hush! Hush has great atmosphere! and had me wondering where in the world -- or out of the world -- this story could go. If the guys had been this dangerous and delicious when I was in high school! I would never have wanted to graduate! I see more fallen angel stories coming from this talented writer." -- Sandra Brown! bestselling author of White Hot and Smoke Screen Informationen zum Autor Becca Fitzpatrick is the author of Black Ice , Dangerous Lies , and the Hush, Hush saga, including Hush, Hush ; Crescendo ; Silence ; and Finale —all four of which debuted as New York Times bestsellers. She graduated college with a degree in health, which she promptly abandoned for storytelling. When not writing, she’s most likely running, prowling sales racks for shoes, or watching crime dramas on TV. She lives in Colorado with her family. Find out more at BeccaFitzpatrick.com. Klappentext Partnered in biology with new student Patch, 16-year-old Nora Gray starts seeing things she cannot explain. At first she's both drawn and repelled by her lab partner, but when she sees V-shaped scars on his back, Nora learns Patch is fighting an ancient battle between the fallen and the immortal. Leseprobe PROLOGUE LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE NOVEMBER 1565 CHAUNCEY WAS WITH A FARMER’S DAUGHTER ON the grassy banks of the Loire River when the storm rolled in, and having let his gelding wander in the meadow, was left to his own two feet to carry him back to the château. He tore a silver buckle off his shoe, placed it in the girl’s palm, and watched her scurry away, mud slinging on her skirts. Then he tugged on his boots and started for home. Rain sheeted down on the darkening countryside surrounding the Château de Langeais. Chauncey stepped easily over the sunken graves and humus of the cemetery; even in the thickest fog he could find his way home from here and not fear getting lost. There was no fog tonight, but the darkness and onslaught of rain were deceiving enough. There was movement along the fringe of Chauncey’s vision, and he snapped his head to the left. At first glance what appeared to be a large angel topping a nearby monument rose to full height. Neither stone nor marble, the boy had arms and legs. His torso was naked, his feet were bare, and peasant trousers hung low on his waist. He hopped down from the monument, the ends of his black hair dripping rain. It slid down his face, which was dark as a Spaniard’s. Chauncey’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword. “Who goes there?” The boy’s mouth hinted at a smile. “Do not play games with the Duc de Langeais,” Chauncey warned. “I asked for your name. Give it.” “Duc?” The boy leaned against a twisted willow tree. “Or bastard?” Chauncey unsheathed his sword. “Take it back! My father was the Duc de Langeais. I’m the Duc de Langeais now,” he added clumsily, and cursed himself for it. The boy gave a lazy shake of his head. “Your father wasn’t the old duc.” Chauncey seethed at the outrageous insult. “And your father?” he demanded, extending the sword. He didn’t yet know all his vassals, but he was learning. He would brand the family name of this boy to memory. “I’ll ask once more,” he said in a low voice, wiping a hand down his face to clear away the rain. “Who are you?” The boy walked up and pushed the blade aside. He suddenly looked older than Chauncey had presumed, maybe even a year or two older than Chauncey. “One of the Devil’s brood,” he answered. Chauncey felt a clench of fear in his stomach. “You’re a raving lunatic,” he said through his teeth. “Get out of my way.” The ground beneath Chauncey tilted. Bursts of gold and red popped behind his eyes. Hunched with his fingernails grinding into his thighs, he looked up at the boy, blinking and gasping, tryin...
