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Names have power. Indeed, even dreadful ones. I called myself Quill. However? I was Pointless. So I decided to save Asylum, however that implied I lost everything: my glorious sheets, my old name, my fudging body… and my sweet, hot perfect partner. At the point when the super-hot and in a real sense horny Mess sends me back home, not every person breaks out the confetti. You'd think by forfeiting myself, I would have tackled a great deal of issues. In any case, I just uncovered more, and made some new, strong, sparkle loathing adversaries. At the point when Defenders begin to vanish, I'm stuck meandering through Safe-haven's storm cellar/sex prison to track down them… and that is where I find a horrendous truth. The genuine peril isn't on the opposite side of the Incomparable Entryway. It was inside Safe-haven from the start. Fallen Quill is a comical, hot sentiment that finishes on a… hang tight for it… cliffhanger. You want to peruse Lost Plume first, except if you're into that confounded, just-been-resurrected feeling. Throughout the series, the principal character will wind up cheerfully soulmated with more than part of the gang, and she'll most likely placed the continues on an entryway. This book is planned for grown-up perusers and contains genuine and made-up irreverence, passing references to SA, a ton of evil presence on-miscreant brutality, some heavenly messenger on-holy messenger viciousness, and a couple of unequivocal scenes with a sizable amount of magnificent cuties to go around. If it's not too much trouble, deal with yourself while deciding to peruse. I known a great deal of torment in my short 400 and eighteen years. I'd been beaten, starved, whipped, consumed, jabbed in the eye by an ungainly stepbrother with a sharp stick, and nibbled on the ass one time by a genuine ass - which sounds entertaining, until it's grimy jackass teeth in your butt in a really long period way before anti-microbials were imagined. I'd even had that extraordinary lobotomy, and a couple of less critical medical procedures, long before morphine. Be that as it may, the aggravation I felt presently, drifting between universes, was the most horrendously terrible yet. I was 98% sure I was in Damnation. With the exception of the music, the giggling, and the way that my most seasoned companion - whose name I actually didn't have the foggiest idea - was keeping my blown-separated molecules intact with some kind of otherworldly superglue while he taunted me. "That is your speculation, minimal one? You imagine that is my name? Seraphiel." I snorted, or did the non-physical same. My iotas and particles were all the while drifting excessively unreservedly to make sound, and I was sure I had no lips to chat with. Or on the other hand lungs to inhale with. At the point when I'd strolled into the, as a matter of fact Extraordinary Door in Asylum to forfeit myself, I'd felt my entire body get disintegrated, so… how was I in any event, thinking? I had no cerebrum! Unexpectedly, I felt an excess of like a scarecrow, far away from the Kansas I'd resided in once, back when houses were still turf hovels on the fields. Just I wasn't simply missing my cerebrum. My long, silver hair, my green eyes, even my little, filth covered body - they were gone, as well. All I had left of the old Feather was my unremarkable companion and guide since my most memorable life on The planet, who continuously dealt with me when I was harming.
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