Langiappe And Lost Legends – Brenda Trim

“We need to move now.” Twenty minutes later, we were in Lia’s SUV, racing toward the industrial canal. I’d packed every healing herb and potion I could carry, along with the spelled bandages and crystals I used to amplify healing energy. Phi brought the family journal and what notes we’d managed to take about the artifacts.

She’d spread them across her lap as she searched for anything useful. Dea slumped against the seat with her phone clutched in her death grip as she fired off another text to Phoebe. The AC in the car was doing jack squat against the New Orleans summer heat that turned even breathing into a workout. “Need a favor. Check plantation + river situation.

Buy time. Please?” She added the please because manners still counted when asking your very pregnant friend to wade into supernatural BS. The plan had been coffee and gossip this morning, maybe some beignets if Phoebe’s demon spawn wasn’t performing backflips in protest. But now? Total wash. Between the babies using her bladder as a trampoline and whatever magical clusterfuck was brewing back in Maine, Phoebe couldn’t exactly set up camp in the bayou.

She was needed at home. “Take the next right,” Dea blurted. “The energy signature is getting stronger. I can feel the time distortions now. Some moments feel stretched, others compressed. It’s making me dizzy.” “I’m getting it, too,” Dani said. She was doing her best not to vibrate out of her skin next to Dea. “The crystal’s gone from Zen master to rabid raccoon on bath salts. Someone’s forcing it way off its normal frequency.” The Warehouse District rose up ahead of us like some hipster’s wet dream gone wrong.

These weren’t the pretty parts with the converted art galleries and overpriced coffee shops. No, we were headed for the grimier edges where gentrification hadn’t bothered to plant its flag. Past the National WWII Museum and the Contemporary Arts Center. I was glad to continue past the fancy condos and gastropubs that had taken over the old cotton warehouses on Julia Street.

There were too many innocents around there. We were aiming for the sketchy-as-hell section near Tchoupitoulas Street, where some buildings still wore their Katrina scars like badges of honor. The morning sun was playing peek-a-boo between the old industrial buildings, and the shadows were dancing to their own beat. “That one,” Dea announced. She pointed at a crusty-looking warehouse that was probably old enough to have stored goods for the Confederate army.

“The spirits are practically screaming about it.” “Holy shit!” I yelped when Dea’s nose decided to audition for a Tarantino film. This had never happened before when she used her spirit powers. The crystal’s temporal fuckery was written all over the impression of Niagara Falls her nose was doing. I’d never seen her bleed so much. I practically assaulted her face with my healing powers. Normally my abilities worked faster than a caffeine junkie mainlining espresso.

Cover Art by Fiona Jayde This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the authors. Created with Vellum OceanofPDF.com “Have no fear, you will find your way. It is in your bones. It is in your soul.” ~Dreya OceanofPDF.com I CHAPTER 1 DAHLIA was attempting to manufacture the perfect moment of tranquility with the desperate determination of someone who knew better. I’d draped myself across my favorite armchair like a Renaissance nude.

I had even positioned myself precisely where the late afternoon light created a halo of warmth. The leather beneath me was worn to a butter-soft patina from countless hours of literary escapes prior to my magical life. It still cradled me like an old friend. My second energy drink of the day (because who could sleep when your city’s magical feel had the stability of a house of cards?)

condensed quietly on Dani’s latest antiquing trophy. The side table had enough character to write its own memoir. It was a perfect addition to the plantation. My tablet balanced precariously on my lap. My latest literary acquisition was open on the screen. Still page one. I kept willing my eyes to focus on the words with the same intensity I usually reserved for willing my roux to cook faster.

“These curtains,” I mused aloud as my gaze wandered to the windows like a prisoner seeking parole. “Worth every exorbitant penny.” The lie tasted almost believable. Dani had insisted on them during our latest bout of redecorating. She’d spouted phrases like “elevate the space” and “transform the aesthetic” with the fervor of a convert to the Church of Interior Design.

I had to admit that they did make our sprawling plantation house feel less like a supernatural waystation and more like home. It was no small feat, considering I shared it with Dani, our mates, and whatever member of our extended family needed sanctuary from the latest magical crisis. At that moment, everything was perfect. Peaceful. Pristine.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 96e86347996b4ad5
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,387,924 bytes (2.277 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 203
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 344.12 minutes
• Total Words: 68,824
• Total Characters: 406,864
• Average Words per Page: 339.03
• Average Characters per Page: 2004.26

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