By Karyn Henley
The stranger’s cloak had fallen again, and with it, an extended, white, blood-stained wing. When Melaia, a tender priestess, witnesses the ugly homicide of a stranger within the temple courtyard, age-old legends recited in track without notice come to lifestyles. She discovers wings at the stranger, and the assassin takes the form of either a hawk and a guy. Angels. Shape-shifters. Myths and stories—until now. Melaia reveals herself in the midst of a blood feud among immortal brothers who destroyed the stairway to heaven, stranding angels within the earthly realm. while Melaia turns into a aim, she reveals shelter with a band of angels trying to fix the stairway. however the recovery is most unlikely with no settling an historic debt—the “breath of angel, blood of man,” a fee that consists of Melaia’s center, soul, and future.
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Additional resources for Breath of Angel (The Angelaeon Circle)
She could hear Hanni advising her to avoid those who use it. Yet Melaia had enjoyed Gil’s company. She felt safe in his presence. He had truly been what he had said: a friend. But to make the sign of the Tree herself? Should she? A breeze shivered through the golden trees, stirring their leaves into a restless Shhhould shhhee? Shhhould shhhee? Melaia stared at the woods, amazed to hear her own thoughts in the shush of the leaves. She shook her head, attributing the sound to her wild imagination.
Melaia glanced back and forth between Benasin and Hanni. She had never seen the high priestess so agitated. Both Hanni and Benasin seemed to have forgotten she was present. “It’s my duty to protect this temple and my priestesses,” said Hanni. “I do not wish to be mixed up in the disputes of angels. ” Benasin seemed amused. Hanni huffed. ” Melaia bit her lip. Hanni’s sharp, direct observations intimidated most people, but Benasin was unruffled. He obviously knew he had to brave some thorns to reach Hanni’s soft side.
When he stopped at an arched doorway, she peered over his shoulder. Lord Silas, the overlord, a pale, shrunken man, sat staring at his folded hands, which thumped a shaky beat on his lap as if he were measuring his thoughts. Across from him sat a sun-browned, noblelooking young man, clean-shaven, with chestnut hair and the king’s emblem of a white lion on his dove gray cloak. Yareth, sly eyed and pale as ever, saluted Melaia with his goblet from where he lolled against the sill of a latticed window.