By Anne Rice
It’s the current day. Toby O’Dare—aka fortunate the Fox—is a freelance killer of underground status on project to kill as soon as again. He’s a soulless soul, a lifeless guy walking. His nightmarish global of lone and deadly missions is disrupted while a mysterious stranger, a seraph, bargains him an opportunity to avoid wasting instead of spoil lives. O’Dare, who in the past dreamt of being a clergyman, seizes his likelihood. 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 childrens unexpectedly die or disappear. during this primitive atmosphere, O’Dare starts his perilous quest for salvation, a trip of risk and flight, loyalty and betrayal, selflessness and love.
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Extra resources for Angel Time: The Songs of the Seraphim, Book One
The door to the veranda was hanging wide open. He was talking into the phone and hammering on the computer keyboard. I could see a cascade of numbers flashing by. Sounded like German, and I could understand only that he was irritated with somebody and mad in general at the whole world. Sometimes bankers make the easiest targets, I reflected. They think their vast wealth protects them. They rarely use the bodyguards that they need. I moved towards him, and set the flowers in the center of the dining room table, ignoring the mess of breakfast dishes.
And Hell will be worse than this. There’ve always been criminals great and small who went to Mass with their families and presided over sacramental occasions. I don’t have to tell you about the Italian Mafioso of cinematic legend who goes to his daughter’s First Communion. Don’t they all? I had no family. I had no one. I was no one. I went to Mass for myself who was no one. In my files at Interpol and the FBI, they said so: he is no one. No one knows what he looks like, or where he came from, or where he will appear next.
In fact surely he had. But this was the only one about which everyone was certain. There had been times in the past when I’d driven north to visit the Mission at Carmel, and look into the little cell there that they’d re-created and ascribed to Junípero Serra, and meditated on the simplicity of it: the chair, the narrow bed, the cross on the wall. All a saint needed. And then there was San Juan Bautista, too, with its refectory and museum—and all the other Missions that had been so painstakingly restored.