03. One Fell Sweep by Ilona Andrews.pdf

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One Fell Sweep
Innkeeper Chronicles #3
Ilona Andrews
COPYRIGHT
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s
imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
One Fell Sweep
Copyright © 2016 by Ilona Andrews
Ebook ISBN: 9781943772711
Edited by Lora Gaasway
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
NYLA Publishing
350 7
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Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.
http://www.nyliterary.com
DEDICATION
To Lora Gasway
Thank you for everything. We miss you and deeply regret your passing.
CHAPTER 1
A faint chime tugged me out of sleep. I opened my eyes and blinked. I’d
dreamt of a desert, a vast endless sea of shifting yellow sand under a white
sun. I had wandered through it, ankle-deep and barefoot, feeling the grains of
sand slide under my toes with each sinking step, trying to find something or
someone. I had looked for hours, but found only more sand. The soothing
ceiling of my dark bedroom was too much of a shock after the sunlit dunes,
and for a confusing moment, I didn’t know where I was.
Magic chimed in my head again, brushing against my senses, feather-light
and quick, but insistent. Someone had skimmed the boundary of the inn.
I swung my feet to the wooden floor, picked up my broom, and went
down the shadowy hallway. Beast, my tiny Shih Tzu, darted from under the
bed and trailed me, ready to attack unknown invaders. It was five days before
Christmas, and I wasn’t expecting guests, especially not at two o’clock in the
morning. But then, of course, when Gertrude Hunt Bed and Breakfast did
receive guests, they were never the usual kind and they rarely announced
themselves.
The hallway ended in a door. I swiped the knitted cardigan hanging on the
hook to the right of the door, wrapped myself in it, and slid my feet into a pair
of slippers. This December started with a flood and then turned unseasonably
cold. At night, the temperature got down into the low thirties, which in Texas
terms meant the apocalypse had to be nigh. Going outside was like stepping
into a freezer, while the inside of the inn was warm and toasty, so I bundled
up when I went out, then shed sweatshirts and cardigans at random doorways
when I came back in.
The door swung open in front of me and I stepped out onto the balcony.
The cold air hit me. Wow.

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