KRISTINE GRAYSON TOTALLY SPELLBOUND PDF

Would it be so wrong to let go—just this once—and do something crazy? All of the stories feature The Fates, three women who form the governing body of the magical, and are catalysts for a romance in each book. Spellboundd series by Grayson is her Three Fates series, based off the ancient Greek legends of the Fates. LibraryThing recommendations and tag cloud.

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The silence, the empty roads, the darkness surrounding her car made her feel like she was the only person on the planet.

Driving in darkness calmed her—usually. She blamed the road. Interstate 15 between San Bernadino and Las Vegas had become a superhighway. Well-lit, congested, a gazillion lanes wide, it ruined the effect of night driving. Trucks zoomed by her Mini Cooper, shaking it. By the time she reached Barstow, her hands had formed new grooves in the steering wheel. Another hour later, she wished she had taken the back roads and risked breakdowns, desert heat, and the occasional wild-eyed loner.

Her best friend Conchita had tried to convince her to rent an SUV. The last thing you want is a teeny tiny car. Rated best in its class for safety, Megan said. In its class, Conchita said. The class of David, not the class of Goliath. Not even David would survive getting smushed by really big tires. Megan was beginning to agree. Some careless trucker, dozing at the wheel, could drive over her and not even notice. She blew an errant strand of red hair out of her face and shrugged her shoulders, trying to loosen them.

Travers The Unflappable had sounded flapped. Instead, he swore and confessed that he was in trouble. Travers the neat freak, Travers the accountant, Travers the exceptionally cautious was never, ever in trouble.

The trouble role in the family had gone to their oldest sister, Vivian, who had blackouts and strange psychic moments and crazy friends. When Vivian had gotten married in Oregon a few weeks ago, the entire family had breathed a sigh of relief. Then Travers, who had vowed he was heading straight home to L. Megan loved Kyle more than anyone else in the world. They were both misfits—Kyle because of his big brain and his strange interests, and Megan because—well, because she was Megan.

She sighed, straightened her spine, and heard her back crack. She flicked on the radio for company, spun through the dial, and heard talk, oldies, talk, rap, talk, hip-hop, talk, talk, and more talk. Finally she shut the thing off, preferring the sound of her own worries to the constant nattering of people who thought they were in great trouble.

She had enough of that at her job, which was why she was shutting down her practice. She was a child psychologist with a boatload of rich clients who all thought Little Johnny or Little Suzy needed a little talking-to to go with their Prozac. She had become a psychologist to help people. Usually, all Johnny and Suzy needed were some time and attention and love would be nice too , but nothing Megan did could get that message through to the parents.

So she tried to patch the holes where she could. And she was getting tired of patching. Three more trucks zoomed by, their horns blaring in the night.

In fact, the long stretch of interstate had cleared. Either everyone had vanished, or her speedometer was screwed up. She glanced in her rearview mirror. No one behind her, either. Ahead, the streetlights unnatural looking things on a desert highway winked out. Darkness surrounded her. Darkness and silence and long, empty stretches of road. The hair rose on the back of her neck. She rolled down her window, hoping a little fresh air would calm her.

Cool and dry, the air smelled of sagebrush and sand. Maybe she should pull over. Maybe she was asleep and dreaming. She slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded for a moment on the empty pavement before coming to a stop. Ahead of her, the creature—a rabbit? Then, out of nowhere, a falcon swooped down, caught—the rabbit??

Now Megan knew she was dreaming. Nor were there falcons. Not unless they were human creatures. Still no cars. She took a deep breath, and limped her vehicle to the shoulder. Then she got out, and slapped herself hard across the face. Nothing had changed. Except now her face hurt. A man stepped onto the shoulder from the side of the road. He had a leather glove on his wrist, and held a tiny hood in his hand. In the swirling dust illuminated by her headlights, he looked like a ghost.

He was tall but slightly built. His hair was long and brown, tied into a ponytail with a leather cord. He seemed to like leather—not the shiny black leather that bikers wore, but soft brown leather, maybe even some kind of suede. Even his boots looked medieval—all fabric with soles too soft for the desert on a cold summer night. He was looking at her like he expected something from her.

Then she realized that he did—an answer. To his question. About a bird. I think the rabbit was screaming. He stepped out of the headlights and into the darkness of the road. By reflex, she looked over her shoulder. Still no trucks or cars or SUVs. No sign of anything but her, the mighty hunter, and his bird. The streetlights flicked on one by one, and then a truck whizzed past, the wind in its wake so strong that she nearly toppled into her car.

Standing on the shoulder was not the brightest thing she could do. She got back into her car as more trucks and SUVs and sedans went by—all the things she had thought she missed.

And Kyle, of course. Kyle, who saw superheroes and monsters behind every tree. Megan could not see the resemblance. But then, she rarely read comic books. Maybe it should be. Maybe this was some kind of psychotic episode. Her cheek still stung from her self-administered blow, she was a little chilled from the night air, and her eyes had taken a minute to adjust to the increased light.

And somehow, she had gotten to the side of the road. That was as much a miracle as seeing a medieval hunter in the darkness, following the trail of his falcon into the desert. She glanced at her watch. If she were being logical and practical, she would find a place to turn off and get some sleep before going any farther. Maybe she should call Travers and flake out on Vegas.

But Kyle needed her. And just as a baby-sitter, Travers had said. She could baby-sit her only nephew. At least for the time being. Rob Chapeau stood beside the interstate for a good minute, watching the Mini Cooper slam on its brakes and then limp to the side of the road.

No one was supposed to. He brought Felix out to hunt at least five times a week—a falcon got restless in the big city—and he did it as far away from anything as he could get. He tried to vary his locations, using the interstate only when he felt he had no other choice. Like tonight. He probably could have created a bubble in that spot—bubbles warped time just enough so that most normal folks felt a shiver as they passed through or saw a heat shimmer—and no one would have noticed.

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