Laurell K Hamilton Books Novels & Stories

"You trust me with your secret, and I trust you with mine." "A secret that would ruin me. And you." "It will only ruin us if you tell. But I assure you, my lips are sealed. If anything, I'm more at a disadvantage since I was the one who technically killed your father for changing his IV drip." Was this trust? I thought it was supposed to be a good thing. Then why did this feel... heavy and suspicious. It's different but not entirely wrong. Perhaps Lucas was right. They're just secrets meant to break us if someone tells. But a disagreeing thought screams, secrets aren't meant to be hidden, they always find a way to come out. It's just a matter of who tells first.

The ones that had survived every version of him and every place he'd lived. Her finger stopped on a dark green spine, the gold lettering almost entirely rubbed away. She tilted it toward her. Walt Whitman. *Leaves of Grass.* The most worn book on the shelf — the cover soft with handling, the corners rounded, the spine held together by old glue and what appeared to be sheer stubbornness. She pulled it out carefully and it fell open in her hands the way books fall open to the pages they've visited most, the paper remembering where it's been taken before.

I pee a lot, and smelling and seeing things that are sensitive to my body makes me puke. "Liam, just leave the poor girl alone." Sydney stepped in and pressed those breasts of hers on Liam's arm. "Come on. The book is a room. So we are going to have loads of fun." Loads of fun, indeed. "Just give me a minute," Liam brushed Sydney off, making her pout. "Lily, are you okay?" I scoffed.

he called and then held the door open for us to walk in. Hannah pulled the note out again, giving it a brief skim. "I'll be in the back experiencing betrayal, death, heartbreak, and tragic love. All that is not mine to behold," Hannah breathed out heavily as she walked to the back of the library. She looked at all the titles above the shelves as she walked and then she stopped at the leisure reading section. English literature. "I don't think she meant Garret was in here." Hannah moved to the Shakespeare section and pulled out a book. "Romeo and Juliet." She flipped through the pages of the book and then slid the book back on the shelf when she found nothing. She looked again carefully and t

Rose shushed us as Russell came jogging on stage. “Hi.” He said. “I’m Russell Hamilton and I am the older brother of author Joey Hamilton.” “Oh no.” Alice whispered. “He’s still going this bit.” “Yes, that Joey Hamilton, who wrote The Emily Shade Mysteries. The massively successful series of mystery novels, beloved by children and adults. And I am proud of Joey, she’s my best friend and the non-romantic love of my life. But she published a New York Times number one bestseller novel when she was fourteen and it makes everything I do look a little pathetic.”

The cellar stairs stretched before me like a descent into the underworld. Each step echoed off ancient stone, a countdown to something I couldn't name. Behind my eyes, the images flickered without mercy, the courtyard, the post, the whip rising and falling. June's back splitting open. June's blood painting the stones. June's eyes, even then, even at the worst moment, looking at me with something that wasn't quite defeat. I had ordered those lashes. I had stood there and watched them fall. I had told myself it was justice, necessary discipline, the hard cost of maintaining order in a pack that needed to know its Alpha would not be challenged.

Hashmuk whisphered against his ears, licking his earlobes. "Hashmuk, I have something to do." He tried to wriggle himself free from his grip when he recalled that him and his friends had agreed to meet at the palace’s library to dig deeper into the magic books they had carried along with them. "What do you want to do? Can’t it wait?" He asked, trailing kisses down his body. He wasn’t given time to respond because the next minute Hashmuk captured his lips for an itense deep kiss. Kelvin smiled through the kiss, closed his eyes and gripped Hashmuk’s hair. With one swap, he turned him so that he would be on top and captured his lips, pulled him against him for another heated kiss.

The evening breeze was gentle, carrying the fresh scent of early summer plants growing. In the courtyard below, children laughed and ran around. Elderly residents strolled leisurely. Life flowed on in its most ordinary and solid form. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air. The three months after Arya's death, which had been full of her family's scheming, were like a long, oppressive nightmare. Thankfully, I had woken up. Wounds would scab over, pain would fade, and the lessons I learned would stay with me, making me stronger and wiser going forward. Night fell, and the city lights came on. I went back inside and turned on the lights. Warm illumination instantly filled the ent

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.