"Suspenseful, romantic, and magical----in addition, the work is original!"
Reviewed by Vicky Gilpin
Posted October 14, 2011
Romance Paranormal
This is an excellent book! Ginger intercedes to rescue
Wren, a half-breed archangel, from poachers who want to
harvest his beautiful feathers. In doing so, she must call
on family ties to try and encourage him to allow himself to
be rescued; in addition, she puts herself in danger. Wren
has to decide whether or not to accept the help of a world
from which he isolated himself upon the murders of his
parents, or at least what he thought were the murders of
both of his parents. Because of a sharp betrayal in his
childhood, Wren doesn't know whom to trust, but he believes
in Ginger, so he tries to have faith in her intentions.
Meanwhile, the danger grows ever closer. Filled with
archangels, demon-protectors, familial bonds, and a really
interesting mythos, hopefully OUT IN BLUE is the first of
many Return to Sanctuary novels.
SUMMARY
In a violent world where fallen archangels are hunted for
their valuable plumage, Wren knows one thing for certain:
the human woman who saved him from a poacher attack will die
if she stays with him. The demon responsible for his
parents’ gruesome deaths two decades ago pines for the
chance to rip apart any woman who stands under Wren’s wing.
Wren doesn’t expect Ginger to stay by his side once she
discovers his ability to drain life with a mere touch, yet
she lingers. When an unusual talent of her own reveals the
location of Wren’s father, Wren’s isolated world implodes.
With the help of the demon protectors he’s sworn never to
trust again, Wren risks everything to rescue his father,
confront the demon who stalks his and Ginger’s every step,
and claim his eternity with the most courageous woman he’s
ever known.
ExcerptChapter OneThe tattoo of a bloody knife and scattered feathers caught
Ginger Magellan's attention. Her stomach curdled at the
sight of the archangel poachers' insignia. The bearer of
the gruesome illustration ordered an espresso from the
petite girl behind the bar.
"There isn't a fallen archangel around here, is there?"
The barista's voice rose.
"Not for much longer, there won't be." He turned away
and pulled out his cell phone.
From where she sat in the café, Ginger wrapped her hands
around her coffee and stared into the dark brew,
eavesdropping on the poacher's conversation.
"The house has been abandoned for years, but it's the
right place. I saw him fly in the fog this morning. Devil
has a balcony entrance on the third floor."
Devil. Ginger hid a snort of disgust under a fake cough.
The poacher continued after a moment. "Yeah, white
wings, black markings. It's Wren, for certain. And not a
Guardian in sight. He's all ours."
Ginger tensed. No Guardians? Why would an archangel be
without his demon bodyguards?
"Meet you there in thirty? He'll be back before the fog
clears." The poacher accepted his espresso from the barista
with a charming grin. She refused his payment and wished
him luck. He blew her a kiss and left the café.
Clenching her teeth, Ginger tucked a twenty under her
untouched coffee and rushed for the exit without waiting
for change. She stepped into the foggy autumn morning,
shivered, and buried her hands in her pockets. Two police
officers chatted next to their cruiser, but she turned and
hurried in the other direction. Archangel poaching, though
technically illegal, was applauded and encouraged by most
of the human population. She couldn't trust the police.
She'd warn this "Wren" herself.
Ginger couldn't let the poachers hunt and kill Wren like
an animal. Neither the demons nor the fallen archangels
were the Lucifer-like monsters most humans feared them to
be—even though she'd never seen an archangel, they were so
rare after centuries of poaching. A demon had raised her as
his own and remained her best friend as much as
her "father," twenty-eight years later. She needed to call
him; he'd know what to do.
Ginger jumped into her little Chevy, shut the door, and
pulled out her cell phone. Why would an archangel be living
around here? And without Guardians? Even Vermont was too
populated for a being with a twenty-foot wingspan to hide.
Was this archangel out of his damned mind?
Her father answered on the second ring, despite the
predawn hour in Alaska.
"Hi, honey," he said, his voice alert.
"Devin, I just ran into a poacher in town."
He growled, a sound that reminded Ginger of a
cougar. "Just stay away from him, Ginny. Like all the other
tourists, he'll move on soon."
"No, Dev, he and at least one other are hunting an
archangel in the area."
A beat of silence passed. "They're going to be
disappointed, because there are no archangels in Vermont."
As a Guardian, he would know; that's why she'd called
him. But her instincts churned in protest.
"Are you sure? They've seen him. White wings with black
markings. His name is Wren. They said he has no Guardians."
The silence stretched out so long Ginger checked her
signal. "Dev?"
"Raphael's son." Devin's voice sounded thin.
Raphael. Recognition and surprise forced the air from
her lungs. The last of the original fallen archangels had
been killed when Ginger was a child, along with his human
mate. Most of humanity had hailed the death as a step
forward in cleansing the earth of the demon and fallen
archangel menace. Ginger cringed at the memory.
"Wren has refused our protection since his parents'
deaths," Devin said. "A Guardian betrayed and murdered his
family. It's been years since we've had any news of Wren."
Heartache burned Ginger's chest. "I'm going to warn him."
"Ginny." Devin's voice deepened. "Out of the question.
The poachers—"
"I wouldn't be your daughter if I sat by and did
nothing, Dev."
A pause. "I know. I'm sending Guardians from Sanctuary.
Wait for them."
She chewed her lip. Sanctuary, Vermont's demon colony,
was three hours away. Wren didn't have three hours.
"Tell them to hurry. Love you." She disconnected the
call.
Ginger pulled the car into traffic and headed south out
of town toward the only abandoned house in the area. After
miles of dirt roads and thick forest, she drove by the
crumbling remains of a Victorian. She continued past the
forlorn structure and hid her car in thick vegetation, then
ran back down the road and up the overgrown driveway on
foot.
Ginger scanned the sky, patches of velvety morning blue
visible through the fog. No archangel in sight. She stepped
onto the rotting porch, happy to find the wood sturdier
than it appeared, and tried the front door. The old
mahogany opened an inch before it hit what appeared to be a
heavy piece of furniture. Wren must have barricaded the
entrance.
She pried a moss-covered plank away from a broken window
and stuck her head inside. "Hello? Wren?"
Silence.
Wary of the broken glass, she wiggled through the small
opening and fell into the kitchen. Her butt went through a
rotten floorboard. She cursed and got to her feet.
The air inside the house felt colder than the brisk
morning outside. Stray beams of sunlight penetrated the
boarded windows, but darkness obscured most of her
surroundings. The smell of mold made Ginger cough. She
stepped to the base of the stairs.
"Wren?"
No answer. No surprise.
"If you're hiding in here, you need to leave. Poachers
will be here any minute!"
She climbed the stairs to the third level, testing each
step before shifting her weight. At the top, she opened the
first door on her right. No furniture occupied the large
room, but blankets and a tattered pillow lay on the floor.
Apples he must have snatched from the orchard and a pile of
paperbacks sat nearby. A white down feather longer than her
hand lay on the floorboards.
Curiosity took over, and she picked up the feather. She
ran her fingers along the edge, the texture sublime enough
to put silk to shame. Acid rose in her throat and she let
the feather drift to the floor. The money people paid for
archangel plumage kept the poachers in business. Religious
hysteria gave the murderers a convenient smoke screen.
"Greed knows no boundaries," she said to herself.
Ginger checked the other rooms, found nothing, and left
the house. She hurried around to the back of the property
and found a spot to sit where she could see the balcony,
which had been stripped of railings. Cold dew on the grass
soaked her jeans. Her heart pounded as she strained to see
the sky through the lingering fog. What would he look like?
If archangels were as breathtaking in person as they were
in photos…
Three poachers emerged from the woods and crossed the
lawn to the front porch, their gruesome tattoos covered by
black jackets, an arsenal of guns and knives strapped to
their hips. Ginger crouched lower in the grass, her palms
sweating, her mouth dry and sticky. She was damned lucky
they hadn't seen her, that she hadn't been trapped in the
house.
Minutes passed and Ginger stayed still. The poachers
didn't come out. No sound carried from the house. After an
agonizing eternity, the last remnants of the fog thinned,
and movement drew her attention.
The archangel, moving swiftly, flew in low over the
treetops. Wings blurred as he landed on the balcony. The
resulting breeze fanned her skin.
Wren's twenty-foot wingspan framed his body, more
striking in person than in any of the pictures she'd seen.
No wonder the balcony railings were gone. He found his
footing and folded his white wings, the black markings
forming a pleasing angular pattern reminiscent of a snowy
owl. His flight feathers overlapped behind his legs.
Beautiful, yet purely masculine. Wren's body was carved
from long, elegant muscles that could only belong to
someone who needed to lift his body weight in flight. He
wore tattered black pants that set off both his feathers
and the almond skin of his upper body.
He rolled his shoulders, ran a hand over his dark, spiky
hair and reached for the door.
Ginger jumped to her feet, her heart pounding.
"No! Poachers! They're inside!"
The archangel stared down at her, his eyebrows high in
surprise, and spread his wings. He leapt off the balcony
and ascended in a flurry of wing movement. Ginger trembled
with relief. She watched him fly, mesmerized.
Wren circled high above the house, his wings fully
extended as he soared. The sensation of his gaze on her
made her breath hitch. Why wasn't he leaving?
"You goddamned, meddling bitch!"
She whirled around and came face to face with the
poacher from the café. Brown eyes wide with rage, he
grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off her feet.
***
Wren dove, his wings angled for maximum speed. The woman
below had saved his life. He couldn't just leave her. The
poachers would kill her for her interference.
The woman twisted within the poacher's grasp and threw a
punch. The human let go of her, raising both of his hands
to his face. After a brief stumble, she took off full tilt
toward the road. Excellent, maybe she'd make it on her own…
Two more poachers came out of the house and cut her off.
Sunlight glinted off knives in their hands. The first
poacher recovered and closed in behind her.
With practiced precision, Wren soared mere feet over the
grass, aiming for the group. The men blocking the woman's
escape pivoted and threw themselves to the ground. Eyes
wide, the woman's jaw dropped and she tried to scramble out
of Wren's path.
Wren seized her jacket and hauled her into the air.
Wren's flight feathers missed the third poacher by inches.
The human scum flailed and fell backward into the grass.
Wren beat his wings and carried the woman toward the
road. She clung to his neck, her breath rapid and warm on
his skin. Her hair hit him in the face and her heady,
jasmine scent filled his lungs.
"Do you have a car?" he yelled over the noise of flight.
She nodded vigorously.
"Then go. Fast." He landed on the dirt road at a run and
let go of her. She stumbled and fell. Back on her feet a
second later, she disappeared into the trees. Relieved, he
ascended and banked to head north.
The first gunshot missed him, but a second pierced the
muscular part of his wing. Air rushed out of his lungs in a
strangled scream. He fought through the blinding pain,
landed behind the abandoned house, and sank to his hands
and knees in the tall grass. Warm blood streamed down his
feathers.
The poachers closed in, their guns aimed in his
direction. Wren braced himself and stood, dragging his
injured wing. His body shook and cold sweat broke out over
his skin from shock, but he faced the humans with his
shoulders squared and his chin high.
Wren's blood iced over as the poachers encroached. He
had one weapon at his disposal, one chance left to walk
away alive. He flexed his fingers, preparing to strike the
moment they stepped too close.
But the poachers wore gloves, boots, jeans and leather
jackets zipped up to their throats. Damn it. If he couldn't
touch their skin, he had no chance. His pain momentarily
took a back seat to bone-deep fury.
"Lark sent you." Who else but Lark would know to tell
them to cover their skin, that Wren could leach their life
away at will if he touched them? Fully aware of Wren's
macabre talent, the former Guardian had worn leather
himself the night he'd murdered Wren's parents, eighteen
years ago.
"Yes." The nearest poacher held Wren's gaze, his mouth a
thin line, his brown eyes narrow. He stood well out of
Wren's reach, gun aimed and steady.
Wren fisted his hands at his sides and braced himself.
The poacher lowered the gun an inch and cocked his
head. "You look just like your old man."
"You are not fit to speak of my father!"
"Would it interest you to know he's still alive?"
Wren flicked his uninjured wing. What kind of sick joke
is this? "Fuck you!"
The poacher lifted his shoulders. "You'll see."
Knots of pain formed in Wren's chest. His father, Lark's
prisoner for nearly two decades? But alive? Or were these
poachers just lying for the sick fun of it?
Another poacher, a short man with a black bandana around
his head, holstered his semi-automatic and drew a
tranquilizer gun. Wren dodged, but the blood loss left his
legs cold and heavy. A dart struck him in the shoulder. His
skin burned. He ripped the dart out and backed further
away, but his vision blurred and his legs collapsed. With
his face in the cold, wet grass, he fought to remain
conscious.
The brown-eyed poacher came forward, knelt, and stroked
Wren's outstretched wing as if showing affection to a
prized pet.
"Get your damned hands off me!" Wren struggled to speak,
his lips as numb as the rest of his body. His vision grew
blurry.
His form an indistinct smear against the blue sky, the
poacher yanked a feather free and tucked it behind his ear.
He fisted his leather-gloved hand and ground his knuckles
into the gunshot wound.
Wren clenched his teeth and suppressed a scream. The
agony pushed him over the edge, into oblivion.
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