By Margaret Weis
Someone,or something,is rippingthe hearts from dwelling males. Justinian, Lord Sterling, has lived for hundreds of years, serving an old entity recognized merely because the Dragon. Immortality is Justin's gift. yet to maintain it, he needs to continue killing. Lt. Sandra McCormick is a devoted cop, a loner whose activity is her shelter from a twisted earlier. yet to maintain it, she needs to cease the killing.Two loners, each one stalking the opposite. every one destined to be the other's savior--and downfall. for romance, unforeseen, unstoppable, attracts them jointly. And love is the single vice the Dragon won't permit . . .
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Extra resources for Dark Heart: Book I of Dragon's Disciple
You gotta right to remain silent—” “I want to help you, Officer Madrone,” the Chinese man said, his voice as calm as if he were reading numbers off a spreadsheet. His mouth thinned to a tight line as he looked at Madrone. Madrone blinked. “You know my name? I don’t think I know you. ” “No, Mr. Madrone. You don’t know me. ” He raised one hand as Madrone glared at him. “Leave the skin, Mr. Madrone,” he said. Madrone stared at him in disbelief. Was that pity in his 26 Margaret Weis and David Baldwin eyes?
Madrone’s gun was lying some distance from the body, as though it had been thrown there by Madrone or the killer. Madrone’s right hand was bruised, several of the fingers broken and swollen. It appeared there had been a struggle for control of the weapon. And Madrone lost, she thought, an ugly quiver growing in her belly. She saw a lot of death, but a cop was different. Part of the clan. It could have been her. A single bullet casing gleamed on the floor a few feet from Jack’s body. “It looks like Jack got a shot off.
Turned back into the room. “Hey! ” A tech grunted, reached into his bag, and handed her one. A long-handled Maglite. ” She adjusted the focus of the lens for wide-angle, then leaned out and aimed the beam at the brick skin of the building beneath the window frame. There they were, just like the ones on the college building where Baxter had been killed. Those strange marks on the windowsill, the scratches in the brick. “Hey, Mac,” she said softly. ” She moved aside as he pushed his bulk at the window, then poked his head out.