Product Description
Brilliant Rosamund Hill has lived her life buried in academia, discounting the legend of the Chosen as a myth—then Aaron Eagle shows up at her door. With the promise of a love that will defy fate itself, Rosamund is forced to confront the truth about the Chosen…and the dangerous man who sweeps her into a world of dark secrets.
From the Author
Read an excerpt from "Storm of Shadows" on your ereaders and your bookshelves NOW!
"Hello?" Aaron called into the depths of the library basement. "Dr. Hall? It's Aaron Eagle."
"Back here!" A voice floated over and through the shelves. A woman's voice.
They must have finally dug up the funding to get Dr. Hall an assistant. Good thing. The old guy could croak down here and no one would notice for days. Aaron walked back to the work area where manuscripts, scrolls and a stone tablet covered the tables.
A girl leaned over the tablet, brush in hand, studying it. "Put it on the table over there." She waved vaguely toward the corner.
Aaron glanced over at the table piled with Styrofoam containers and fast food bags. He looked back at the girl.
Her skin was creamy and fine-grained, a good thing, since she did not wear a single drop of make-up. She was perhaps a little skinny, but with what she was wearing, who could tell? Her dress drooped where it should fit and hung unevenly at the hem. She had latex gloves over her hands -- nothing killed a man's interest like latex gloves -- and she wore brown leather clogs. Birkenstocks. As the crowning touch, she wore plastic rimmed tortoise shell glasses that looked like an extension of the frizzy carrot red hair trapped at the back of her neck.
Yet for all that she was not in any way attractive, she paid him no heed. "Who do you think I am?" he asked.
"Lunch. Or" -- her glasses had slid down her nose -- "did I miss lunch? Is it time for dinner already? What time is it?"
"It's three."
"Rats. I did miss lunch." Lifting her head, she looked at him.
He did a double take violent enough to give him whiplash.
Beneath the glasses, dense, dark lashes surrounded the biggest, most emphatically violet eyes he'd ever seen.
Like a newly wakened owl, she blinked at him. "Who are you?"
"I'm. Aaron. Eagle." He emphasized each word. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Rosamund Hall."
"Back here!" A voice floated over and through the shelves. A woman's voice.
They must have finally dug up the funding to get Dr. Hall an assistant. Good thing. The old guy could croak down here and no one would notice for days. Aaron walked back to the work area where manuscripts, scrolls and a stone tablet covered the tables.
A girl leaned over the tablet, brush in hand, studying it. "Put it on the table over there." She waved vaguely toward the corner.
Aaron glanced over at the table piled with Styrofoam containers and fast food bags. He looked back at the girl.
Her skin was creamy and fine-grained, a good thing, since she did not wear a single drop of make-up. She was perhaps a little skinny, but with what she was wearing, who could tell? Her dress drooped where it should fit and hung unevenly at the hem. She had latex gloves over her hands -- nothing killed a man's interest like latex gloves -- and she wore brown leather clogs. Birkenstocks. As the crowning touch, she wore plastic rimmed tortoise shell glasses that looked like an extension of the frizzy carrot red hair trapped at the back of her neck.
Yet for all that she was not in any way attractive, she paid him no heed. "Who do you think I am?" he asked.
"Lunch. Or" -- her glasses had slid down her nose -- "did I miss lunch? Is it time for dinner already? What time is it?"
"It's three."
"Rats. I did miss lunch." Lifting her head, she looked at him.
He did a double take violent enough to give him whiplash.
Beneath the glasses, dense, dark lashes surrounded the biggest, most emphatically violet eyes he'd ever seen.
Like a newly wakened owl, she blinked at him. "Who are you?"
"I'm. Aaron. Eagle." He emphasized each word. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Rosamund Hall."
Read more about the Chosen Ones on Christina's website christinadodd.com
