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Informationen zum Autor Kika Hatzopoulou is the bestselling author of Threads That Bind and its upcoming sequel, Hearts That Cut. She is a native Greek and current Londoner and holds an MFA in writing for children from the New School. In her free time, she enjoys urban quests and gastronomical adventures while narrating entire book and movie plots with her partner. Find Kika on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok @kikahatzopoulou and on her website kikahatzopoulou.com. Klappentext As their search continues for the god at the end of the golden thread, Io and Bianca travel to new lands, face powerful enemies, and uncover an appalling plot that traces back centuries. Leseprobe The thread shimmered like liquid flames on Io’s palm, a razor of silver-and-gold twine. It was woven twice around each finger of her left hand, forming a misshapen mesh of fear and purpose. At night,before she dropped into whatever sad excuse for a bed she and Bianca had procured, Io would bind her left fist with cloth, then secure it in a sling across her chest. It was a god’s thread, her only clue to the heart of the blasted conspiracy she had unearthed in Alante—she would rather cut off circulation to her hand than risk it slipping free. She flexed her tired fingers, watching the raindrops scuttle over her knuckles. The thunderstorm had tailed them from Alante like a stray dog: five weeks of a relentless cycle of dust-stained rain, thundering blizzards, and infuriating drizzle. Bianca had pinched two leopard-print waterproof boater hats from canal drivers back in Poleon, but despite that, they were constantly drenched to the bone, so much so that Io’s leather jacket currently smelled like a dead rat dipped in moldy cheese. Five weeks of sloshing through rain and mud from one Wastelands town to another, of haggling for food and shelter, of bickering with the mob queen, of jerking awake, drenched in cold sweat, fumbling to check the knotted thread on her left hand. Five whole weeks, and the thread had led them to this: the shack across the street and the figure inside it. “It’s been six hours,” Bianca Rossi said. The mob queen was crouching on the slanted tin roof next to Io, eyes hooded beneath her wide-brimmed leopard-print hat and locked on the block of shanty houses. “I think we’ve waited long enough, cutter.” Io was still cutter to Bianca: sharp, lethal, a threat. It didn’t matter that Io had broken her out of police headquarters, plotted the betrayal and punishment of Io’s sister with her, forsaken everything she knew so they could track down whoever had masterminded the mob queen’s fall. It didn’t matter that they had prowled through the Wastelands together, huddled close for warmth, fought back to back, cooked and ate over the same fire. In Bianca’s eyes, Io was and would always be a moira-born, the youngest of three sisters descended from the goddesses of Fate, able to see and cut the threads of life and love. Io would always be the girl who handed her over to the wolves who severed her life-thread and transformed her into an unwilling fury-born. A lifeless wraith and a heartless cutter, what a pair they made. “Six hours,” Bianca repeated, “and your stakeout has yielded nothing. Let’s just smash through the door and punch them until they spill all their secrets.” While that did sound alluring, it would also be disastrous. For five weeks, the god had been giving them the slip, always two steps ahead. If they rushed into action now, they might not get another chance like this. “The point of a stakeout,” Io replied sharply, pushing her long-distance spectacles up her nose, “is to watch . We can’t act until we know who or what they really are.” “They’re asleep, that’s what they are.” Bianca flicked a wrist at the shack across the rooftops, where the figure had indeed been stationed for the entirety of these six...
