A Taste of Crimson by Marjorie M. Liu

By Marjorie M. Liu

“Readers of early Laurell okay. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, and the easiest thrillers in the market should still test Liu now.”
Publishers Weekly

“Anyone who loves my paintings may still love [Lui’s].”
—Christina Feehan

Award-winning, New York Times bestselling writer Marjorie M. Liu’s outstanding Dirk and Steele novels are the greatest of paranormal romance fiction. Stepping in brief clear of her distinct detective company of shapeshifters, psychics, and awesome beings, Lui enters the harmful shadows of pink urban with A flavor of Crimson. Set in a dismal and twisted model of Los Angeles—a “City of Angels” from which the angels have lengthy due to the fact fled—A flavor of Crimson has a stunning creature of the evening teaming up with an enemy, a slayer, to get to the foundation of an coming near near disaster that threatens to shatter a tentative peace among people, vampires and werewolves. a panoramic combination of sensuous romance with greater city delusion within the bestselling vein of Jeaniene Frost and Nalini Singh, A style of Crimson is a delightful banquet for each paranormal fan. probably Booklist positioned it most sensible: “If you might have but so as to add Liu for your must-read checklist, you’re doing your self a disservice.”

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Brian smiled, turning on the charm. Keeli rolled her eyes. “Sweetheart. You know I’m a journalist. ” The officer folded her arms and said nothing. “See? That just confirms it. Someone got killed tonight, Sheila. ” “Mr. ” “—you have to leave. ” “I’m planning a story on police brutality, you know. Maybe you’d like to give me an interview? Over dinner? Breakfast? ” Sheila finally smiled. “Out. ” Brian lifted his hands in silent surrender. His grin was anything but quiet. Keeli could almost see his tail wag-ging.

He was marked, forever. Vendix. Punisher. Condemned to be alone. Michael drew back, drifting higher, following the envoys at a discreet distance. No more werewolves revealed themselves. He watched as the envoys were led to a wide sewer grate. The werewolf guide leapt over the rusty steel bars and in one fluid motion swept down to yank them open. The hinges were surprisingly quiet; Michael heard only a faint squeak. A voice rose up from the darkness of underground—hollow as a tunnel, brittle with well-worn age, feminine in a way that might have once been lovely but was now only wise.

Nor did she think they would stop at just attacking the vampires. The only surprise was that the werewolves hadn’t been targeted first. When it came to pure visceral reaction by humans, wolves usually got the boot up the ass before the fangs. We just aren’t sexy enough. Keeli glanced down at her striped stockings, her scuffed Doc Martens. Her torn black T-shirt barely covered her lean midriff, and her spiked hair had been dyed a fresh shade of pink just that morning. Yeah, she radiated sex appeal.

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