Intensity by Dean Koontz

By Dean Koontz

Earlier hour of darkness, Chyna Shepard, twenty-six, gazes out a moonlit window, not able to sleep on her first evening within the Napa Valley domestic of her most sensible friend’s kinfolk. intuition proves trustworthy. A murderous sociopath, Edgler Foreman Vess, has entered the home, reason on killing every body within. A self-proclaimed “homicidal adventurer,” Vess lives in basic terms to fulfill all appetites as they come up, to immerse himself in sensation, to dwell with out worry, regret or limits, to stay with depth. Chyna is trapped in his lethal orbit.

Chyna is a survivor, toughened by means of a lifelong fight for defense and self-respect. Now she is going to be proven as by no means earlier than. firstly her sole target is to get out alive—until, accidentally, she learns the id of Vess’s subsequent meant sufferer, a remote blameless merely she will shop. pushed through a newly chanced on thirst for which means past mere self-preservation, Chyna musters each internal source she has to avoid wasting an endangered girl…as second by means of second, the terrifying chance of Edgler Foreman Vess intensifies.

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He tugged at my hair, pulling some free, then stepped away. “You are the spawn of a Sax­on whore,” he said, 'and no Sax­on could ev­er be trust­ed. " “Gra­cious Lord,” I said to him, but he did not stay to hear more. There was a time when he bowed his knee to me and kissed my sword, but now he is a saint and I am noth­ing but the most mis­er­able of sin­ners. And a cold sin­ner too, for the light be­yond our walls is hol­low, grey and full of threat. The first snow will fall very soon. And there was snow when Arthur's tale be­gan.

We wait­ed for Mer­lin's re­turn, but he did not come and the Tor seemed emp­ty with­out him, though our dai­ly life hard­ly changed. The store-​rooms had to be kept filled and the rats had to be killed and the fire­wood and spring wa­ter had to be car­ried up­hill three times a day. Gu­dovan, Mer­lin's scribe, kept a tal­ly of the ten­ants' pay­ments while Hy­wel, the stew­ard, rode the es­tates to make cer­tain no fam­ily cheat­ed their ab­sent lord. Gu­dovan and Hy­wel were both sober, hard-​head­ed, hard-​work­ing men; proof, Nimue told me, that Mer­lin's ec­cen­tric­ities end­ed where his in­come be­gan.

Tanaburs scut­tled from pil­lar to pil­lar, mut­ter­ing charms and spit­ting. When he passed close to my hid­ing place I crouched low un­til the smell of him had fad­ed. Flames crack­led on the fire-​stones at the hall's two ends, their smoke min­gling and churn­ing in the soot-​black­ened roof space. There was no sign of Nimue. Wine, smoked fish and oat­cakes were served to the vis­itors, then Bish­op Bed­win made a speech ex­plain­ing to Nor­wen­na that Gundleus, King of Sil­uria, while on a mis­sion of friend­ship to the High King, had hap­pened to be pass­ing close to Ynys Wydryn and had thought it cour­te­ous to pay this vis­it to the Prince Mor­dred and his moth­er.

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