The Spirit Rebellion (Eli Monpress Book 2)
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Eli Monpress is brilliant. He's incorrigible. And he's a thief.
He's also still at large, which drives Miranda Lyonette crazy. While she's been kicked out of the Spirit Court, Eli's had plenty of time to plan his next adventure. But now the tables have turned, because Miranda has a new job -- and an opportunity to capture a certain thief.
Things are about to get exciting for Eli. He's picked a winner for his newest heist. His target: the Duke of Gaol's famous "thief-proof" citadel. Eli knows Gaol is a trap, but what's life without challenges? Except the Duke is one of the wealthiest men in the world, a wizard who rules his duchy with an iron fist, and an obsessive perfectionist with only one hobby: Eli.
It seems that everyone is hunting for Eli Monpress.
commands the spirit world’s inborn hatred of demons to create a crushing weight. Supposedly, with practice, a skilled League member can control its strength, make it less painful on the victim.” He stopped just short of her outstretched hand, grinning wide. “I never saw much point in that.” He nudged her with his boot, turning her over, and held his sword above her exposed throat, just above her silver collar, which, for once, lay perfectly still against her skin. “Time to go to work,” he said,
Eli Monpress.’ Written out the day my uncle died, no less! It’s scandalous!” “Phillipe di Monte,” Miranda said thoughtfully. “Isn’t he the villain from Pacso’s The Piteous Fall of Dulain?” “I don’t care if it was Punchi the puppet!” the nephew shouted back. “I just want to know why he’s getting almost twenty thousand standards of my money when his advice obviously didn’t work!” Miranda didn’t have an answer for that. Fortunately, Lelbon appeared at that moment to tell her that Fellbro was
for, the wind climbed again and hurried away across the treetops. Minutes passed in still silence, and then, in the empty air above the boy, a white line appeared. It grew like a slash in the air, spilling sharp, white light out into the dark. From the moment the light appeared, nothing in the forest moved. Everything, the insects, the animals, the mushrooms, the leaves on the ground, the trees, the water running down them, everything stood frozen, watching as a white, graceful, feminine hand
and pushed his plate away. “Send him in.” The boy stepped back, and the duke’s unexpected guest sailed into the room. Sailed was the right word. Edward had never met anyone as preoccupied with his appearance as Hern. The Spiritualist was in full regalia today, a tight green coat embroidered with blue and silver in the imitation of peacock feathers, with tall, turned, and pointed cuffs hanging down over the glittering, knuckle-sized jewels of his rings. “I swear, Edward,” he said, collapsing
why Merchant Prince Whitefall charged the old cheapskate double for his rooms. When the page was gone the duke stood alone at his table going over his plans step by step in his head. He did this often, for it gave him great pleasure to be thorough. Phelps would balk at having to print thousands of detailed posters and have them packed for distribution in one night, but a successful man seized opportunity when it arrived. The Court’s interest in Monpress had been the last uncontrollable element.