Fantasy
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Final Heir (Jane Yellowrock)
The stakes couldn't be higher in the newest novel in the New York Times bestselling, pulse-pounding Jane Yellowrock series.
Jane Yellowrock is the queen of the vampires, and that makes her a target as she fights to maintain control and keep peace in the city of New Orleans. She has enemies at every turn, because vampires live forever, and they keep their grudges alive with them. That includes the Heir, the vampire sire of the Pellissier bloodline, which gave rise to Leo Pellissier himself-Jane's old boss and the former master of the city.
With the Heir and all the forces of darkness he can muster arrayed against her, Jane will need all the help she can get. She'll find it in her city, her friends, her found family, and, of course, the Beast inside of her.
Jane Yellowrock is the queen of the vampires, and that makes her a target as she fights to maintain control and keep peace in the city of New Orleans. She has enemies at every turn, because vampires live forever, and they keep their grudges alive with them. That includes the Heir, the vampire sire of the Pellissier bloodline, which gave rise to Leo Pellissier himself-Jane's old boss and the former master of the city.
With the Heir and all the forces of darkness he can muster arrayed against her, Jane will need all the help she can get. She'll find it in her city, her friends, her found family, and, of course, the Beast inside of her.
Editorial Reviews
"Hits the ground running and does not let up…breakneck pacing and deep layers of intrigue keep the pages turning. Series fans cannot afford to skip this one." – Publishers Weekly
Praise for the Jane Yellowrock novels
"A lot of series seek to emulate Hunter's work, but few come close to capturing the essence of urban fantasy: the perfect blend of intriguing heroine, suspense, [and] fantasy with just enough romance."-SF Site
"Hunter delivers the fast pace, high stakes, and flawlessly crafted fight scenes fans expect."-Publishers Weekly
"Jane Yellowrock is smart, sexy, and ruthless."-#1 New York Times bestselling author Kim Harrison
"Readers eager for the next book in Patricia Briggs's Mercy Thompson series may want to give Faith Hunter a try."-Library Journal
"Hunter's very professionally executed, tasty blend of dark fantasy, mystery, and romance should please fans of all three genres."-Booklist
"Hunter is an expert at creating worlds filled with intriguing supernatural elements and exciting scenarios; the latest Yellowrock novel packs a powerful punch."-RT Book Reviews
"Seriously. Best urban fantasy I've read in years, possibly ever."-C. E. Murphy, author of Magic and Manners
Praise for the Jane Yellowrock novels
"A lot of series seek to emulate Hunter's work, but few come close to capturing the essence of urban fantasy: the perfect blend of intriguing heroine, suspense, [and] fantasy with just enough romance."-SF Site
"Hunter delivers the fast pace, high stakes, and flawlessly crafted fight scenes fans expect."-Publishers Weekly
"Jane Yellowrock is smart, sexy, and ruthless."-#1 New York Times bestselling author Kim Harrison
"Readers eager for the next book in Patricia Briggs's Mercy Thompson series may want to give Faith Hunter a try."-Library Journal
"Hunter's very professionally executed, tasty blend of dark fantasy, mystery, and romance should please fans of all three genres."-Booklist
"Hunter is an expert at creating worlds filled with intriguing supernatural elements and exciting scenarios; the latest Yellowrock novel packs a powerful punch."-RT Book Reviews
"Seriously. Best urban fantasy I've read in years, possibly ever."-C. E. Murphy, author of Magic and Manners
Readers Top Reviews
LynanneC. Cacciatore
Got the book and begin reading it then got sidetracked with life after the first day of receiving it. Stopped started until just had to read it until it was finished on the fourth day of receiving it! As always one powerful warrior woman that takes charge her way though with the people she cares about and trusts to follow her. We so need a Leader like her in our world today of political vampires! I’m hoping for more though suggest you read the book because I’m not sharing how it goes just that I’m proud of Jane and Thankful for Faith Hunter as it’s creator and author!
Jewelry buff
I was blanking on how this series could be ended. I didn’t want it to, yet a part of me was so curious. I didn’t start it cause I knew it might end in a way that made me cry angry tears. Instead this fantastic series ended in a way that allows so many possible characters to tell their own stories after the New Orleans saga comes to a glorious head in battle. The wolf, the angel, the evil-the witches and vampires and humans. The enemies and family that Jane has made over the years all coalesce in a fabulous tale of terror, tears, and triumph. What a way to go! Thank you for such a wonderful ride through the years, Faith Hunter. I can hear Bitsa growling now. Can’t wait to see where you go next. Bravo!
Kindle
I am In Mourning because this is the last book in the Jane Yellowrock series, the BEST series ever. So many layers and complexities, characters and personalities brought to life and plots within plots within plots. I waited in anxious anticipation for a YEAR for this book and I wasn't disappointed, but how will I live without the joy of seeing another Jane Yellowrock book appear in my Kindle? Still, I'm Elated because the book had the expected excellent writing, juicy plot, plenty of thrills and my favorite character ever got the ending she deserved, an ending that was most satisfying. And I'm Exhausted because I stayed up most of the night to finish it. It was well worth it. Thank you, Faith Hunter!
TLR3
I have read this series since the beginning. I'm so invested in the characters. Not just Jane/Beast but so many others who are so alive in my mind! Eli, Alex, Molly, Angie baby! And so many more! I dreaded this book coming out, because I am just not ready to let go. As always, Faith Hunter stepped up and did not let me down! She tied up the story with a pretty scarlet red bow, as Jane would love! I hope we get to see more of this great cast of characters in follow up stories. This has been a great ride. I hope the author will continue writing. Her gift is so special! Thank you Faith Hunter for all the blood, sweat and tears I'm sure you have shed, to make these books as amazing as they are for all of us!
Douglas R. Pratt
In the fireworks biz, the Grand Finale used to be called the blow-off. You might think they are just throwing whatever they had left at the sky, but you'd be wrong; the blow-off is carefully planned and choreographed. It has to be, because it's what you remember. This is a remarkable blow-off, the Grand Finale of a story extending through fifteen books. We are seeing an ending crafted the way the author wanted it, not because the contract ran out, or the inspiration went away, or (as has happened much too often) we lose the writer before the story is told. It's satisfying from start to finish. You will want to get the audiobooks, because of the remarkable melding of the talents of a brilliant voice artist with a superb writer, and because this story grows in the re-telling. If it touches you at all, you will not read or listen only once.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
Like a Stray Animal
Haunting Aggie's Home
Eyes closed, I felt the movement of unexpected cool air as the sweathouse door opened and shut. Last week, I had learned that Aggie One Feather, the Cherokee elder leading me into understanding my personal and tribal history, sometimes left and reentered when I was sweating through a haze of her herbal infusions and my own hidden memories. She said humans couldn't survive five or six hours in a sweathouse like I could, let alone all night, so she would slip out and back in.
I had asked her if she had a nanny camera hidden in the sweathouse to keep track of me. Her reply had made me laugh: "You need a legion of angels to look over you, but a nanny cam could help."
The rustling of her cotton shift, the sound of her breath, and the crackle of flames seemed loud as she settled across the fire from me and fed the coals. I smelled cedar and burning herbs and heard the scritch-grind of her mortar and pestle. Behind my lids it seemed lighter than before. It had to be near dawn.
It occurred to me that the ceremonial fire was, itself, symbolic. It was parts of this world and the next, the two halves of the universe, energy and matter. It was wood and air and energy, and together they made flame and smoke, the destruction of matter into energy. Then that thought wisped away with the fire.
Aggie said, "Drink."
I opened my eyes against the crack and burn of dried sweat, and studied the small pottery cup she held. On the third try I managed to croak, "Eye of newt? Ragweed? Mold off your bathroom floor? Peyote?"
"That never gets old," she lied, amusement hidden in her gaze. "I have no mold on my bathroom floor."
Which meant the liquid could be composed of the other three. Or not. I took the cup and drained it. The decoction tasted of lemon peel, fennel, wild ginger, something I couldn't identify, and salt. I turned the empty, handleless cup in my fingers. It wasn't traditional Cherokee work, but something fired in a modern kiln and given a bright blue glaze.
"What did your dreams show you?" Aggie asked.
I handed back the cup and said, "Same as last time. The angel's location looks a little like my soul home. Walls that curve in toward the ceiling, dark streaks of water on them. Wings that seem to lie flat across the ceiling and down, as if dripping to the floor. Light that comes from nowhere and everywhere. There might have been a puddle of blood on the floor. Hard to tell. But unlike my soul home, I keep seeing people standing along the walls."
"People or other angels?"
I frowned at the question. Had there been wings behind the people? "Maybe. Maybe a suggestion of wings, like shadows. Or maybe I just want to have seen that and so I remember it now."
"Did you see yourself in your dream-state?"
If I watched myself, as opposed to being an active part of the dream, that would tell her a lot about whether this was a vision teaching me about myself and my life path, a prophetic dream portending something about the future, or if it had been a memory. I closed my eyes again and pulled at the fragments. The angel's wings draped, so much larger, longer than in artwork depicting the messenger beings. I heard the faint drip of water, but the echo was different from the usual loud reverberations of my soul home. This place itself was subtly different from previous visions.
In the memory of my vision, I saw myself. My hair was braided into a fighting queue and I was dressed in armor, one of the latest models Eli, my brother of choice, bought these days, now that money wasn't an object. In teaching visions, I usually wore tribal clothing, the kind my father had worn when I was a child.
In addition to the armor, at my waist I was wearing the Mughal blade that Bruiser had given me.
That was interesting.
In the dream-state I did nothing, said nothing, so it probably wasn't a vision teaching me about who I was or guiding my path through life. Seeing myself meant it wasn't a memory. The ancient knife itself was part of a prophecy, and I seldom wore it, mostly for ceremonial occasions when the prophecy did me no good. Only rarely had I worn it into battle.
When he gave the blade to me, Bruiser had said, "A certain wily salesman suggested that the damascene blade is charged with a spell of life force, to give the wielder the ability to block any opponent's death cut. Pure balderdash, but it makes a nice tale." Except that Alex, the tech-genius of Yellowrock Securities and Clan Yellowrock, had traced the blade back to the seventeen hundreds, and there were stories over the centuries about people surviving the death stroke of an opponent's blade.
"Prophecy?" I asked the universe. Or God...
Like a Stray Animal
Haunting Aggie's Home
Eyes closed, I felt the movement of unexpected cool air as the sweathouse door opened and shut. Last week, I had learned that Aggie One Feather, the Cherokee elder leading me into understanding my personal and tribal history, sometimes left and reentered when I was sweating through a haze of her herbal infusions and my own hidden memories. She said humans couldn't survive five or six hours in a sweathouse like I could, let alone all night, so she would slip out and back in.
I had asked her if she had a nanny camera hidden in the sweathouse to keep track of me. Her reply had made me laugh: "You need a legion of angels to look over you, but a nanny cam could help."
The rustling of her cotton shift, the sound of her breath, and the crackle of flames seemed loud as she settled across the fire from me and fed the coals. I smelled cedar and burning herbs and heard the scritch-grind of her mortar and pestle. Behind my lids it seemed lighter than before. It had to be near dawn.
It occurred to me that the ceremonial fire was, itself, symbolic. It was parts of this world and the next, the two halves of the universe, energy and matter. It was wood and air and energy, and together they made flame and smoke, the destruction of matter into energy. Then that thought wisped away with the fire.
Aggie said, "Drink."
I opened my eyes against the crack and burn of dried sweat, and studied the small pottery cup she held. On the third try I managed to croak, "Eye of newt? Ragweed? Mold off your bathroom floor? Peyote?"
"That never gets old," she lied, amusement hidden in her gaze. "I have no mold on my bathroom floor."
Which meant the liquid could be composed of the other three. Or not. I took the cup and drained it. The decoction tasted of lemon peel, fennel, wild ginger, something I couldn't identify, and salt. I turned the empty, handleless cup in my fingers. It wasn't traditional Cherokee work, but something fired in a modern kiln and given a bright blue glaze.
"What did your dreams show you?" Aggie asked.
I handed back the cup and said, "Same as last time. The angel's location looks a little like my soul home. Walls that curve in toward the ceiling, dark streaks of water on them. Wings that seem to lie flat across the ceiling and down, as if dripping to the floor. Light that comes from nowhere and everywhere. There might have been a puddle of blood on the floor. Hard to tell. But unlike my soul home, I keep seeing people standing along the walls."
"People or other angels?"
I frowned at the question. Had there been wings behind the people? "Maybe. Maybe a suggestion of wings, like shadows. Or maybe I just want to have seen that and so I remember it now."
"Did you see yourself in your dream-state?"
If I watched myself, as opposed to being an active part of the dream, that would tell her a lot about whether this was a vision teaching me about myself and my life path, a prophetic dream portending something about the future, or if it had been a memory. I closed my eyes again and pulled at the fragments. The angel's wings draped, so much larger, longer than in artwork depicting the messenger beings. I heard the faint drip of water, but the echo was different from the usual loud reverberations of my soul home. This place itself was subtly different from previous visions.
In the memory of my vision, I saw myself. My hair was braided into a fighting queue and I was dressed in armor, one of the latest models Eli, my brother of choice, bought these days, now that money wasn't an object. In teaching visions, I usually wore tribal clothing, the kind my father had worn when I was a child.
In addition to the armor, at my waist I was wearing the Mughal blade that Bruiser had given me.
That was interesting.
In the dream-state I did nothing, said nothing, so it probably wasn't a vision teaching me about who I was or guiding my path through life. Seeing myself meant it wasn't a memory. The ancient knife itself was part of a prophecy, and I seldom wore it, mostly for ceremonial occasions when the prophecy did me no good. Only rarely had I worn it into battle.
When he gave the blade to me, Bruiser had said, "A certain wily salesman suggested that the damascene blade is charged with a spell of life force, to give the wielder the ability to block any opponent's death cut. Pure balderdash, but it makes a nice tale." Except that Alex, the tech-genius of Yellowrock Securities and Clan Yellowrock, had traced the blade back to the seventeen hundreds, and there were stories over the centuries about people surviving the death stroke of an opponent's blade.
"Prophecy?" I asked the universe. Or God...
