By Anne Rice
It’s the current day. Toby O’Dare—aka fortunate the Fox—is a freelance killer of underground reputation on task 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 while a mysterious stranger, a seraph, deals him an opportunity to avoid wasting instead of ruin lives. O’Dare, who some time past dreamt of being a clergyman, seizes his probability. Now he's carried again during the a long time to thirteenth-century England, to darkish nation-states the place accusations of formality homicide were made opposed to Jews, the place young ones without notice die or disappear. during this primitive environment, O’Dare starts off his perilous quest for salvation, a trip of possibility and flight, loyalty and betrayal, selflessness and love.
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Additional resources for Angel Time: The Songs of the Seraphim, Book One
The Mission Inn was part of that very small world in which I wore no disguise. I was simply me when I went there, six foot four, short blond hair, gray eyes—a person who looked like so many other people that he didn’t look like any special person at all. I didn’t even bother to wear braces to disguise my voice when I went there. I didn’t even bother with the de rigueur sunglasses that shielded my identity in every other place, except the apartment and neighborhood where I lived. I was just who I am when I went there, though who I am was nobody except the man who wore all those elaborate disguises when he did what he was told to do by The Right Man.
That was gone forever. Fact was, I simply wanted the blueprint of the paths that I’d traveled in those early years. Maybe I just wanted to walk the sacred ground, walk through places of pilgrimage and sanctity because I couldn’t actually think about them too much. I liked the beamed ceiling of the Serra Chapel, and its darkly painted walls. I felt calm in the quality of gloom inside it, the glimmer of the gold retablo at the far end of it—the golden framework that was behind the altar and fitted with statues and saints.
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. But they did have it almost right: I was nobody. I was a dead man walking around in a live body. And I did work for only one man, my boss, the one I called, in my heart of hearts, The Right Man. It simply never occurred to me to work for someone else.
Angel Time: The Songs of the Seraphim, Book One by Anne Rice