By Alex Archer, Steven Savile
The robbery of a whetstone from a Welsh museum and the homicide of a curate in the course of a grave theft appear, initially, like random crimes. however the troubling deeds are associated through a precarious thread. An strange number of infrequent and scattered British antiquities has turn into a target—and the relics' worth lies in whatever even more harmful than money…
Annja Creed, archaeologist and host of television's Chasing History's Monsters, is within the U.K. while her mentor, Roux, interrupts her sojourn with information of the thefts. He's definite that the 13 Treasures of england are sought after for his or her rumored energy. Roux initiatives Annja with finding and conserving the treasures earlier than the incorrect individual unearths them, which means she needs to stand opposed to a girl fueled through insanity and the fires of her historical Celt blood—and a sword as strong and otherworldly as Annja's personal.
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Additional info for Celtic Fire September (Rogue Angel, Book 50)
One palm tree —you know it—hangs on. It’s still there. Its base is cemented over, dishonoring it and yet not preventing it from dying. The broad fan of the tree has no new green growth. Black smoke whirls about its fruitless top; the cold rain of the hard winters has curled its spiky leafage. It resembles the people who planted it. It’s cheerless yet carries on and may survive them. The traﬃc increases, leading you to expect a city. Here ’s the Oﬃce of Arab Aﬀairs, which is an old Turkish structure, all white and very picturesque.
They’re very proud and erect as if manipulating prize horses. They hug the painful ﬂanks of the donkey with their too long legs. They only have to extend a foot grazing the ground or lift it up so as to be alternatively walking or riding. They enjoy themselves in crushing with their bulk these small brave creatures. At the slightest cry, the slightest signal, the whole bunch spurts ahead in a straight line, ears ﬂattened, with the hurried, sharp noise of a herd of sheep on the run. At last you can see, though unclearly through a cloud of dust that is aﬂame with the direct rays of the morning sun, the entrance to Algiers, still called Bab-Azoun in memory of the long torn-down gate.
The ﬁrst thing of any height to be seen is old Mount Atlas; then the top of Bouzareah, which is nearer, appears; and ﬁnally Algiers, a whitish triangle set on a green plateau. Precisely at noon as the navy cannon were sounding, the ship’s anchor was lowered. It was hot. The wind was no longer blowing; the sea was of a dark blue, the sky clear and deeply colored, and there was an odor of benjamin. I recognized this charming city by its odor. An hour later I was going along the road to Mustapha—chance had had me run into Slimen, my old coachman, at the entrance to the docks.
Celtic Fire September (Rogue Angel, Book 50) by Alex Archer, Steven Savile