Hell and Earth: A Novel of the Promethean Age
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From the Â“talentedÂ” (Entertainment Weekly) award-winning author of Whiskey and Water and Blood and Iron.
Kit Marley and William Shakespeare are playwrights in the service of Queen Elizabeth, employed by the Prometheus Club. Their words, infused with magic, empower Her MajestyÂ’s rule. But some of the Prometheans, comprised of EnglandÂ’s most influential men and mages, conspire to usurp the Queen.
Able to walk in both worlds, Kit seeks allies to aid him in his mission to protect ElizabethÂ—only to encounter enemies, mortal and monster, who will stop at nothing to usher in a new age. But despite the might of his adversaries, Kit possesses more power than even he can possibly imagine.
can be both things at once.» Not if Lucifer can help it, Kit answered, and crouched back in the saddle as Gin collected himself to scramble down a slope that was gravel, was slick mud, was traprock, and scree. The five hounds ran before them; the fey steeds strove beneath. The light shifted gold for crimson as the sun broke free of the horizon, and Kit leaned closer to Gin’s neck and held on for dear life. Mehiel, my brother, I dare say the one thou lovest doth care for thee, as well. Act
online communities: Kit Kindred, Matt Bowes, Lis Riba, Sarah Monette, Kat Allen, Stella Evans, Chelsea Polk, Dena Landon, Brian and Wendy Froud, Liz Williams, Treize Armistedian, Rhonda Garcia, Leah Bobet, Chris Coen, Ruth Nestvold, Marna Nightingale, Hannah Wolf Bowen, Amanda Downum, Rachele Colantuono, John Tremlett, Gene Spears, Mel Melcer, Larry West, Jaime Voss, Walter Williams, Kelly Morisseau, Andrew Ahn, and Eric Bresin. I would also like to thank Ellen Rawson and Ian Walden, who
Tom, as one, and Ben a moment behind: “Master Marlowe—” «Come, my love» I have to go,” Kit said, turning over his patchworked shoulder to regard the other three. “He’s calling me.” He looked away with effort and squared his shoulders, and stepped into the light. Angels singing, and cries—those cries that might be ecstasy or might be grief: he could not say. Broad arms, white wings, enfolded him in comfort; the last lingering burning of his scars faded into cool and calm as Lucifer held him
Jonson’s plays were performed regularly by the boy players at Paul’s. And isn’t that a little odd? Kit asked himself. That there was no such opposition to another such establishment almost across the street? Kit pressed both hands against the glass as the image swam again. He pushed it back toward Blackfriars, but it slid through his control like the reins of a fractious horse, leaving him grasping after nothing. Baines must be there. This is whatever Essex’s stupidity is intended to conceal.
might have slipped aside and taken a seat just above the salt—there was one near Amaranth, on the bench she had pushed aside to make room for the bulk of her coils—except Prince Murchaud raised his head and smiled, and beckoned with one refined oval hand. Kit turned his head to get a glimpse of Amaranth through the otherwise vision Lucifer had awakened in his right eye. She seemed to him a long spill of dark water, a black surface shattered with ephemeral reflections of light. Murchaud and the