By Heather Graham
1898: sure for Chicago, the freighter Jerry McGuen is going down in Lake Michigan, taking with it each guy aboard. yet what different destiny may possibly befall a vessel sporting the ill-gotten sarcophagus of an Egyptian sorcerer?
Now: A veteran diver and "ghost ship" specialist is exploring the mythical spoil for a documentary. He dies inexplicably contained in the freighter's major saloon. Then one other diver is killed and panicked rumors upward push like bubbles from the lake: old demons have woke up below!
The expedition's beleaguered financier calls paranormal investigator Katya Sokolov to Chicago to avoid wasting the film--and possibly a few blameless lives. besides media forensics guru Will Chan, Kat plumbs the depths of an evil which may date again to the time of the Pharaohs. yet a few secrets and techniques are top drowned within the seas of the past....
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Additional info for The Unspoken (Krewe of Hunters, Book 7)
Lucy’s white face, the horrible gaping below her chin, the blood-drenched thing with the twisting, plum-colored face—it was the Latin Lover who’d been grinding with Lucy on the dance floor, there was no mistaking that white shirt. What had he done to her? The taste in her mouth, Sophie realized, was blood. She’d bitten him hard enough to break the skin. Oh, God. What is he going to do to me? “Kyle’s dead? ” The very young male voice again. ” The man sagged a little bit. His arms were still iron around her.
The car was nice and warm, so the touch of cold wind on her bare legs was shocking when she stepped out. She pulled the back of the skirt down one more time and wished she’d just worn jeans. Jeans covered up a lot. ” And I don’t have anything else in my closet. Food first, clothes later, that’s the rule. Luce was already tapping her foot, eager to be off down the cracked sidewalk. “Oh, please. Margo the Battle-Ax wears scrubs all day. ” She’d squeezed into a short evening-blue silk sheath that showed off her ample curves, and her legs looked long and beautiful in a pair of fishnets, ending in a lovely pair of glittering silver heels.
He descended into the red welter of combat, the animal in him roaring, and didn’t care that there would be witnesses. The upir died, shredded and shrieking, the rot of its last exhale throttling the alleyway. Zach landed, foul liquid staining his fingers, and his bones crackled again as he looked for more to kill. They pressed against him, those of his kind, and a thread of scent tried to cut through the reek of death and decay. It was a reminder, something he had to attend to, some problem his human side had to solve.
The Unspoken (Krewe of Hunters, Book 7) by Heather Graham