By Kate Griffin
For Matthew fast, this day isn't like several different day. it's the day on which he returns to existence. years after his premature loss of life, Matthew speedy unearths himself respiring once more, mendacity in mattress in his London home.Except that it truly is not his mattress, or his domestic. And the final time this sorcerer used to be noticeable alive, an unknown assailant had gouged a gap so deep in his chest that his demise used to be irrefutable...despite his physique by no means being found.He does not have lengthy to mull over his resurrection even though, or the adjustments which have been wrought upon him. His merely situation now could be vengeance. Vengeance upon his large killer and vengeance upon the person who introduced him again.
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Additional info for A Madness of Angels: Or The Resurrection of Matthew Swift
I could feel damp goose bumps up the length of my arms. We were fascinated by them, rolling up our sleeve to stare at the distortion of our flesh, and the little hairs standing to attention as if they were stiff with static. Even the cold interested us, how disproportionate it made our senses, our freezing feet too large for the space they inhabited, our numbed fingers huge pumpkin splatters across our thoughts; and it occurred to us that the human body was a very unreliable tool indeed. Crispy bacon.
I turned to the litterbug. It sensed my intentions, shifted uneasily, rose up a little, flexing the metal shards of one of its paws and emitting puffs of smoke. I pinched the penny of heat between my thumb and forefinger, and it winked out. For a second, nothing happened. Then the cigarette embers in the creatures eyes glowed brighter, burnt yellow, and exploded into flame. The spitting fire caught the newspaper of its head and burrowed into the soggy mass, sparks digging down through its skull to the dry ash and paper that formed the bulk of its long, snoutish head.
Feeling I might regret it later, I left the shoes. I put the business card and the Ł50 in my trouser pockets and headed for the door. On the way out, we caught sight of our reflection in the big mirror and stopped, stared, fascinated. Was this now us? Dark brown hair heading for the disreputable side of uncared for not long enough to be a bohemian statement, not short enough to be stylish. Pale face that freckled in the sun, slightly over-large nose for the compact features that surrounded it, head plonked as if by accident on top of a body made all the more sticklike by the ridiculous oversized clothes it wore.