By Anne Rice
It’s the current day. Toby O’Dare—aka fortunate the Fox—is a freelance killer of underground status on project to kill as soon as again. He’s a soulless soul, a useless guy walking. His nightmarish global of lone and deadly missions is disrupted whilst a mysterious stranger, a seraph, deals him an opportunity to avoid wasting instead of wreck lives. O’Dare, who some time past dreamt of being a clergyman, seizes his probability. Now he's carried again throughout the a while to thirteenth-century England, to darkish geographical regions the place accusations of formality homicide were made opposed to Jews, the place young ones all at once die or disappear. during this primitive atmosphere, O’Dare starts off his perilous quest for salvation, a trip of chance and flight, loyalty and betrayal, selflessness and love.
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Additional info for Angel Time: The Songs of the Seraphim, Book One
I do know you,” said the stranger. “I’ve known you all your life. ” At this he softly laughed. ” “For you to come with me out of here. For you to turn a deaf ear to the voice that’s plaguing you. ” I calculated. What could explain all this? Not merely the stress of being in my room at the Mission Inn, no, that wasn’t sufficient. It must have been the poison, that I’d absorbed some of it when preparing it, that in spite of the double gloves, I hadn’t done things exactly right. “You’re too clever for that,” said the stranger.
I had no family. I had no one. I was no one. I went to Mass for myself who was no one. In my files at Interpol and the FBI, they said so: he is no one. No one knows what he looks like, or where he came from, or where he will appear next. They didn’t even know if I worked for one man. As I said, I was a modus operandi to them, and they’d taken years to refine it, listing vaguely disguises poorly glimpsed by video surveillance, never yielding to precise words. Often they detailed the hits with considerable misunderstanding of what had actually taken place.
This was art. The art of faith forgotten, the art of faith denied. ” After Mass that last time, I took out the rosary I’d carried since boyhood, and I said it, but I didn’t meditate on the old mysteries that meant nothing to me. I merely lost myself in the mantric chant. Hail Mary, Full of Grace, as if I believe you exist. Now and at the Hour of our Death Amen Like Hell For Them are you ever there? Mind you, I was certainly not the only hit man on this planet who went to Mass. But I was one of a very small minority who paid attention, murmuring the responses and sometimes even singing the hymns.
Angel Time: The Songs of the Seraphim, Book One by Anne Rice