The second in the Neon Blue trilogy, Blood Yellow follows urban witch Tsara Faa as she recovers from her involvement with the infernal, and tries to avert a war between Boston’s shapeshifters and vampire clans.
Here’s the blurb from the back cover:
A shape-shifter’s been murdered by the Charles. The shifters claim it was the vampires, and the vampires claim they’re innocent. Now they’re all looking to me to find the real killer.
Trouble is, I think the real killer may already be looking for me. And the demon who could protect me, is the demon I just banished back to Hell.
And here’s a taster from the first chapter:
I can’t say from personal experience, although if my night gets much worse I might find out. There’s a pretty major disadvantage to being the only human in a room with several unhappy vampires.
“This was not one of us,” the vampire’s speaker, Hill, says again. I can feel the irritation roll off him in waves. It has a sour smell, like old sweat.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair and wish I had a cup of coffee. Any flavor would do right now. Just something to warm me in this chilly, formal room. In the artic environment of anger and distrust between the four vampires and the handful of shifters who are staring at them.
But there’s no coffee. Nothing to eat or drink, in fact. It’s the first wake I’ve been to where there wasn’t any food. But then, shifters do things differently.
I don’t want to commit the faux pas of summoning a cup of coffee if there’s a reason that there’s nothing to eat or drink, but I’m in need of comfort. It’s been a long day. Toby’s wake has been hard. I rub my thumb over a strand of beads circling my left wrist. Sometimes touching them makes me feel better. But not tonight. I’m drained, and I want something to hug. Something more than a memory. So I reach. A cream and gold-streaked lizard, no bigger than my cupped hands, appears in my lap with a puff of steam and the whiff of sulfur. Wizard, my familiar, turns three circles in my lap, his tiny claws prickling through my pants, and settles down with a grumble that sounds vaguely like a purr. I stroke the soft, scaly curve of his body. Touching him makes me feel better instantly. Warmer. More relaxed.
“Are you suggesting this was one of the clans?”
My calm only lasts a moment. Then Ana’s question makes me tense again, because it’s not really a question. It has the flatness of an accusation. Ana’s usually more diplomatic. But since it’s her foster-son, or what’s left of him, who is lying in the casket at the far end of the room, I guess her lack of diplomacy is understandable.
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