Random Books from the Bookshelf

Rides a Dread Legion by Raymond E. Feist

The first page reads:

The demon howled its outrage.

Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, reeled back from the explosion of mystic energies unexpectedly hurled at him. Had his protective wards not been firmly established, he would have instantly died; the demon was powerful enough to send sufficient force through the barrier to slam the magic-user hard against the cave wall behind him. The blow he took on the back of the head was going to rise a nasty bump in quick order.

Demons always brought with them a large amount of mystic energies, enough to destroy any unprepared mortal standing nearby as they entered this plane of reality. It was one of the reasons for erecting wards, beyond merely confining the demon to a specific location. This one had arrived with a much more impressive explosion than the Warlock anticipated, and that surprised him.

Dead Girls Are Easy by Terri Garey

The first page reads:

“She’s coding. Give me another round of epi, stat.”

“Doctor-“

“Keeping bagging her, nurse. I’m not letting her go yet. Change it to 360.”

Had I left the TV on? I’d never cared much for medical dramas. Too much intensity, too much crying, too many doctors undergoing personal crises of faith – I’d rather believe they were professionals who knew what they were doing and leave it at that.

The body on the table jerked at least a foot in the air when the paddles touched its chest. A hand flopped to the side, revealing red fingernails and a silver thumb ring. A woman.

A high-pitched whining from one of the machines was getting on my nerves, but I had to give the director credit. The urgency on the faces of the people clustered around the gurney looked pretty real.

In the Woods by Tana French

The first page reads:

Picture a summer stolen whole from some coming-of-age film set in small-town 1950s. This is none of Ireland’s subtle seasons mixed for a connoisseur’s palate, watercolor nuances within a pinch-sized range of clouds and soft rain; this is summer full-throated and extravagant in a hot pure silkscreen blue. This summer explodes on your tongue tasting of chewed blades of long grass, your own clean sweat, Marie biscuits with butter squirting through the holes and shaken bottles of red lemonade picnicked in tree houses. It tingles on your skin with BMX wind in your face, ladybug feet up your arm; it packs every breath full of mown grass and billowing wash lines; it chimes and fountains with birdcalls, bees, leaves and football-bounces and skipping-chants, One! two! three! This summer will never end. It starts every day with a shower of Mr. Whippy notes and your best friend’s knock at the door, finishes it with a long slow twilight and mothers silhouetted in doorways calling you to come in, through the bats shrilling among the black lace trees. This is every summer decked in all its best glory.