Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland Series #2)

Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland Series #2)

4.0 85
by James Lee Burke

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“America’s best novelist” (The Denver Post) brings back one of his most fascinating characters—Texas sheriff Hackberry Holland, cousin to lawman Billy Bob Holland—in this heart-pounding bestseller.

In a heat-cracked border town, the bodies of nine illegal aliens—women and girls, killed execution-style—are unearthed


“America’s best novelist” (The Denver Post) brings back one of his most fascinating characters—Texas sheriff Hackberry Holland, cousin to lawman Billy Bob Holland—in this heart-pounding bestseller.

In a heat-cracked border town, the bodies of nine illegal aliens—women and girls, killed execution-style—are unearthed in a shallow grave. Haunted by a past he can’t shake and his own private demons, Hack attempts to untangle the grisly case, which may lead to more bloodshed. Damaged young Iraq vet Pete Flores, who saw too much before fleeing the crime scene, and his girlfriend, Vikki Gaddis, are running for their lives. Sorting through the lowlifes who are hunting down Pete, and with Preacher Jack Collins, a Godfearing serial killer for hire, in the mix, Hack is caught up in a terrifying race for survival—for Pete, Vikki, and himself.

Editorial Reviews

Marilyn Stasio
Crazy he may be, but Preacher is one of Burke's most inspired villains—violent and cruel, but also profoundly moralistic and self-loathing, qualities that he shares with Hackberry Holland, as he informs the guilt-haunted sheriff when they finally meet.
—The New York Times
Burke brings back a character from one of his early novels, Lay Down My Sword and Shield (1971). Hackberry Holland, cousin to Billy Bob Holland, star of his own series, is the sheriff of a sleepy Texas town near the Mexican border, the last stop for the aging Hack after a tumultuous personal life and an up-and-down career as a politician and lawyer. His downshifted lifestyle is torn asunder when Hack discovers the bodies of nine illegal aliens, buried in a shallow grave behind a church. The trail leads to a troubled Iraq vet, who knows something about the killings, and his country-singer girlfriend, both now on the run from various baddies who want to make sure the kids don’t tell anyone what they know. Hack and his deputy, Pam Tibbs, who has a romantic interest in her boss despite his insistence that he is much too old for her, join the chase. It will come as no surprise to Burke fans to learn that the chief baddie is a seriously bent, Bible-spouting stone killer who sees Hack as the other side of his coin, but this is no by-the-numbers retread of familiar Burke tropes. Hackberry, more so than his cousin, Billy Bob, is his own man, shaped by the unforgiving Texas soil the way Robicheaux bleeds bayou blue, less of a powder keg waiting to explode than Dave but, in Burke’s signature phrase, still stand-up all the way. Burke fans will notice much that is familiar here—the lyricism, the minor key, the elegiac refrain—but the melody is new and haunting. And, besides, you just have to love a guy with a name like Hackberry. —Bill Ott
Publishers Weekly

MWA Grandmaster Burke spins a tale replete with colorful prose and epic confrontations in his second novel to feature smalltown Texas sheriff Hackberry Holland (after Lay Down My Sword and Shield). An anonymous phone call leads Holland, a Korean vet who survived a POW camp, to the massacre and burial site of nine Thai women, a crime that brings FBI and ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) officials running. As a slew of bad guys relocated from New Orleans after Katrina grapple for advantage in new territory, mercurial killer "Preacher" Jack Collins finds plenty of work. Pete Flores, a possible witness to the massacre, and his girlfriend are targeted by Collins for elimination, and by the FBI for bait. Holland must protect the hapless Flores and his girl from both. Three strong female characters complement the full roster of sharply drawn lowlifes. The battle of wills and wits between Holland and Collins delivers everything Burke's fans expect. (July)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Reviews
The murder of nine Thai prostitutes in a border town kicks off fireworks for a Texas cousin of Billy Bob Holland, who left plenty of violent miscreants behind when he retired to Montana (In the Moon of Red Ponies, 2004, etc.). The nine women were hijacked, herded out of a truck to a lot behind a gas station, methodically executed and buried in a mass grave, at least one of them before she was quite dead. Who could have done such a ghastly deed? wonders Sheriff Hackberry Holland. Almost everybody it seems. The massacre certainly wouldn't have been beneath Artie Rooney, who's run prostitutes in Galveston since Hurricane Katrina chased him out of New Orleans, or Hugo Cistranos, the dead-eyed contract killer who followed him. These heavily armed lowlifes seem determined to put the crime off on Nick Dolan, whose family restaurant adjoins his topless bar. Scariest of all is Jack Collins, aka the Preacher, a one-man apocalypse whose most unnerving tactic is to bring his enemies face to face with imminent death and then decline to pull the trigger. Given the high-casualty infighting among the criminals and the Prince of Darkness as antagonist, it's hard for Hackberry, who's haunted by the requisite Burke demons (war, drink, women), to make much of an impression, especially when the most heroic characters are Nick's wife Esther and truck-stop waitress Vikki Gaddis. Nearly every scene builds to a fine crescendo of tension, though the story as a whole is too ritualistic to do the same.
From the Publisher
"Burke is a deliberate storyteller; he doesn't skimp on the action, but his exploration of human foibles is deep, and his characters are true...Rain Gods is about catching the bad guys, but it's also a moving, melancholy examination of how we do wrong, then try our best to atone." — Connie Ogle, Miami Herald

"If James Lee Burke has the deepest regional voice in the genre — and I do believe that's so — it's because he understands those feelings that keep people connected to the places where they have, or once had, roots...Preacher is one of Burke's most inspired villains..." — Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

"...readers will find some of the best and most memorable prose of Burke's career...It is the narrative...that is the biggest strength of this character-driven novel. Burke is at heart a poet capable of describing the light and the dark in equal measures of the beautiful and horrific, one who can both gradually illuminate the darkness and cast dark shadows across the sun, often within the space of a single short paragraph. Rain Gods is a work of deep, violent and, yes, beautiful magic, a wondrous manifestation of one of our best American authors becoming even better, as improbable and impossible as that may seem." — Joe Hartlaub, Bookreporter.com

"...there's something so winning about Hackberry Holland, something so perfect for the times in which we're reading...anger and bitterness fuel a fair amount of James Lee Burke's fiction, showing how the best and the worst of us are driven by demons — the memories of bad family history; of wars past and present; the pull of the bottle; the furious engine that drives some to desire money or power, by whatever means; the slow, seeping poison of grief and regret. In Rain Gods, Burke once again renders the cautionary tale he has perfected over 28 books." — Susan Larson, New Orleans Times Picayune

Product Details

Pocket Books
Publication date:
Hackberry Holland Series, #2
Edition description:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
8.04(w) x 5.44(h) x 1.20(d)

Read an Excerpt

Rain Gods

  • ON THE BURNT-OUT end of a July day in Southwest Texas, in a crossroads community whose only economic importance had depended on its relationship to a roach paste factory the EPA had shut down twenty years before, a young man driving a car without window glass stopped by an abandoned blue-and-white stucco filling station that had once sold Pure gas during the Depression and was now home to bats and clusters of tumbleweed. Next to the filling station was a mechanic’s shed whose desiccated boards lay collapsed upon a rusted pickup truck with four flat bald tires. At the intersection a stoplight hung from a horizontal cable strung between two power poles, its plastic covers shot out by .22 rifles.

    The young man entered a phone booth and wiped his face slick with the flat of his hand. His denim shirt was stiff with salt and open on his chest, his hair mowed into the scalp, GI-style. He pulled an unlabeled pint bottle from the front of his jeans and unscrewed the cap. Down the right side of his face was a swollen pink scar that was as bright and shiny as plastic and looked pasted onto the skin rather than part of it. The mescal in the bottle was yellow and thick with threadworms that seemed to light against the sunset when he tipped the neck to his mouth. Inside the booth, he could feel his heart quickening and lines of sweat running down from his armpits into the waistband of his undershorts. His index finger trembled as he punched in the numbers on the phone’s console.

    “What’s your emergency?” a woman dispatcher asked.

    The rolling countryside was the color of a browned biscuit, stretching away endlessly, the monotony of rocks and creosote brush and grit and mesquite trees interrupted only by an occasional windmill rattling in the breeze.

    “Last night there was some shooting here. A lot of it,” he said. “I heard it in the dark and saw the flashes.”

    “Shooting where?”

    “By that old church. I think that’s what happened. I was drinking. I saw it from down the road. It scared the doo-doo out of me.”

    There was a pause. “Are you drinking now, sir?”

    “Not really. I mean, not much. Just a few hits of Mexican worm juice.”

    “Tell us where you are, and we’ll send out a cruiser. Will you wait there for a cruiser to come out?”

    “This doesn’t have anything to do with me. A lot of wets go through here. There’s oceans of trash down by the border. Dirty diapers and moldy clothes and rotted food and tennis shoes without strings in them. Why would they take the strings out of their tennis shoes?”

    “Is this about illegals?”

    “I said I heard somebody busting caps. That’s all I’m reporting. Maybe I heard a tailgate drop. I’m sure I did. It clanked in the dark.”

    “Sir, where are you calling from?”

    “The same place I heard all that shooting.”

    “Give me your name, please.”

    “What name they got for a guy so dumb he thinks doing the right thing is the right thing? Answer me that, please, ma’am.”

    He tried to slam down the receiver on the hook but missed. The phone receiver swung back and forth from the phone box as the young man with the welted pink scar on his face drove away, road dust sucking back through the glassless windows of his car.


    TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, at sunset, the sky turned to turquoise; then the strips of black cloud along the horizon were backlit by a red brilliance that was like the glow of a forge, as though the cooling of the day were about to be set into abeyance so the sun’s heat could prevail through the night into the following dawn. Across the street from the abandoned filling station, a tall man in his seventies, wearing western-cut khakis and hand-tooled boots and an old-fashioned gun belt and a dove-colored Stetson, parked his truck in front of what appeared to be the shell of a Spanish mission. The roof had caved onto the floor, and the doors had been twisted off the hinges and carried inside and broken up and used for firewood by homeless people or teenage vandals. The only tree in the crossroads community was a giant willow; it shaded one side of the church and created a strange effect of shadow and red light on the stucco walls, as though a grass fire were approaching the structure and about to consume it.

    In reality, the church had been built not by Spaniards or Mexicans but by an industrialist who had become the most hated man in America after his company security forces and members of the Colorado militia massacred eleven children and two women during a miners’ strike in 1914. Later, the industrialist reinvented himself as a philanthropist and humanitarian and rehabilitated his family name by building churches around the country. But the miners did not get their union, and this particular church became a scorched cipher that few associate with the two women and eleven children who had tried to hide in a root cellar while the canvas tent above them rained ash and flame upon their heads.

    The tall man was wearing a holstered blue-black white-handled revolver. Unconsciously, he removed his hat when he entered the church, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the deep shadows inside the walls. The oak flooring had been ripped up and hauled away by a contractor, and the dirt underneath was green and cool with lack of sunlight, packed down hard, humped in places, smelling of dampness and the feces of field mice. Scattered about the church’s interior, glinting like gold teeth, were dozens of brass shell casings.

    The tall man squatted down, his gunbelt creaking, his knees popping. He picked up a casing on the end of a ballpoint pen. It, like all the others, was .45-caliber. He cleared his throat softly and spat to one side, unable to avoid the odor that the wind had just kicked up outside. He rose to his feet and walked out the back door and gazed at a field that had been raked by a bulldozer’s blade, the cinnamon-colored dirt scrolled and stenciled by the dozer’s steel treads.

    The tall man returned to his pickup truck and removed a leaf rake and a long-handled shovel from the bed. He walked into the field and sank the steel tip of the shovel blade with the weight of his leg and haunch and struck a rock, then reset the blade in a different spot and tried again. This time the blade went deep, all the way up to his boot sole, as though it were cutting through compacted coffee grounds rather than dirt. When he pulled the shovel free, an odor rose into his nostrils that made his throat close against the bilious surge in his stomach. He soaked a bandana from a canteen in his truck and wrapped it around the lower half of his face and knotted it behind his head. Then he walked slowly across the field, jabbing the inverted half of the rake handle into the ground. Every three or four feet, at the same depth, he felt a soft form of resistance, like a sack of feed whose burlap has rotted and split, the dry dirt rilling back into the hole each time he pulled the wood shaft from the surface. The breeze had died completely. The air was green with the sun’s last light, the sky dissected by birds, the air stained by a growing stench that seemed to rise from his boots into his clothes. The tall man inverted the rake, careful not to touch the tip that he had pushed below the soil, and began scraping at a depression that a feral animal had already crosshatched with claw marks.

    The tall man had many memories from his early life that he seldom shared with others. They involved images of snowy hills south of the Yalu River, and dead Chinese troops in quilted uniforms scattered randomly across the slopes, and F-80 jets flying low out of the overcast sky, strafing the perimeter to push the Chinese mortar and automatic weapons teams back out of range. The wounds on the American dead piled in the backs of the six-bys looked like roses frozen inside snow.

    In his sleep, the tall man still heard bugles blowing in the hills, echoing as coldly as brass ringing on stone.

    The spidery tines of the rake pulled a lock of black hair free from the dirt. The tall man, whose name was Hackberry Holland, looked down into the depression. He touched the rake at the edges of the rounded shape he had uncovered. Then, because of either a lack of compaction around the figure or the fact that it lay on top of other bodies, the soil began to slide off the person’s face and ears and neck and shoulders, down into a subterranean hole, exposing the waxy opalescence of a brow, the rictus that imitated surprise, one eye lidded, the other as bold as a child’s marble, a ball of dirt clenched in the figure’s palm.

    She was thin-boned, a toy person, her black blouse a receptacle for heat and totally inappropriate for the climate. He guessed she was not over seventeen and that she had been alive when the dirt was pushed on top of her. She was also Asian, not Hispanic as he had expected.

    For the next half hour, until the light had gone from the sky, he continued to rake and dig in the field that had obviously been scraped down to the hardpan by a dozer blade, then backfilled with the overburden and tamped down and graded as smoothly as if in preparation for construction of a home.

    He went back to his truck and threw the rake and shovel in the bed, then lifted his handheld radio off the passenger seat. “Maydeen, this is Sheriff Holland,” he said. “I’m behind the old church at Chapala Crossing. I’ve uncovered the burials of nine homicide victims so far, all female. Call the feds and also call both Brewster and Terrell counties and tell them we need their assistance.”

    “You’re breaking up. Say again? Did I read you right? You said nine homicide—”

    “We’ve got a mass murder. The victims are all Asian, some of them hardly more than children.”

    “The guy who made the nine-one-one, he called a second time.”

    “What’d he say?”

    “I don’t think he just happened by the church site. I think he’s dripping with guilt.”

    “Did you get his name?”

    “He said it was Pete. No last name. Why didn’t you call in? I could have sent help. You’re too goddamn old for this crap, Hack.”

    Because at a certain age, you finally accept and trust yourself and let go of the world, he thought. But in reply, all he said was “Maydeen, would you not use that kind of language over the air, please?”


    PETE FLORES NEVER quite understood why the girl lived with him. Her hair was chestnut-colored, cut short and curled on the ends, her skin clear, her blue-green eyes deep-set, which gave them a mysterious quality that intrigued men and caused them to stare at her back long after she had walked past them. At the diner where she worked, she conducted herself with a level of grace that her customers, mostly long-haul truckers, sensed and respected and were protective of. She attended classes three nights a week at a junior college in the county seat, and the previous semester had published a short story in the college literary magazine. Her name was Vikki Gaddis, and she played a big-belly J-200 Gibson that her father, a part-time country musician from Medicine Lodge, Kansas, had given her when she was twelve years old.

    Her husky voice and accent were not acquired or feigned. On occasion, when she played her guitar and sang at the diner, her customers rose from their chairs and stools and applauded. She also performed sometimes at the nightclub next door, although the patrons were unsure how they should respond when she sang “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” and “Keep on the Sunny Side of Life.”

    She was still asleep when Pete entered the paintless frame house they rented, one that sat inside the blue shadow of a hill when the sun rose above the horizon as hot and sultry as a broken egg yolk, the light streaking across the barren land. Pete’s scalp and face were pulled tight with the beginnings of a hangover, the inside of his head still filled with the sounds of the highway bar he had been in. He washed his face in the sink, the water running cool out of a faucet that drew on an aluminum cistern elevated on stilts behind the house. The hill that blocked the sunrise, almost like an act of mercy, looked made of rust and cinders and was dotted with scrub brush and mesquite trees whose root systems could barely grow deep enough to find moisture. He knew Vikki would be up soon, that she had probably waited for him last night and slept fitfully, either knowing or not knowing where he was. He wanted to fix breakfast for her, as a form of contrition or in a pretense at normalcy. He filled the coffeepot with water, and the effect of both darkness and coolness it created inside the metal was somehow a temporary balm to the pounding heat inside his head.

    He smeared margarine inside a skillet and took two eggs and a piece of sliced ham from the ice chest he and Vikki used as a refrigerator. He broke the eggs in the skillet and set the ham and a slice of sourdough bread beside them and let the skillet begin to heat on the propane stove. The smell of the breakfast he wanted to cook for Vikki rose into his face, and he rushed out the back door into the yard so he would not retch on his clothes.

    He held on to the sides of a horse tank, his stomach empty now, his back shaking, a pressure band tightening across his scalp, his breath an insult to the air and the freshness of the morning. He thought he heard the thropping downdraft of gunships and the great clanking weight of an armored vehicle topping a rise, its treads dripping sand, a CD of Burn, Motherfucker, Burn screaming over the intercom. He stared into the distant wastes, but the only living things he saw were carrion birds floating high on the wind stream, turning in slow circles as the land heated and the smell of mortality rose into the sky.

    He went back inside and rinsed his mouth, then scraped Vikki’s breakfast onto a plate. The eggs were burned on the edges, the yolks broken and hard and stained with black grease. He sat in a chair and hung his head between his knees, the kitchen spinning around him. Through the partially opened door of the bedroom, through the blue light and the dust stirring in the breeze, he could see her head on the pillow, her eyes closed, her lips parted with her breathing. The poverty of the surroundings into which he had taken her made him ashamed. The cracks in the linoleum were ingrained with dirt, the mismatched furniture bought at Goodwill, the walls a sickly green. Everything he touched except Vikki Gaddis was somehow an extension of his own failure.

    Her eyes opened. Pete sat up straight in the chair, trying to smile, his face stiff and unnatural with the effort.

    “I was fixing you breakfast, but I made a mess of it,” he said.

    “Where you been, hon?”

    “You know, up yonder,” he replied, gesturing in the direction of the highway. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. “Why would people throw away their tennis shoes but take the shoestrings with them?” he asked.

    “What are you talking about?”

    “In the places where the wets go through, there’s trash and garbage everywhere. They throw away their old tennis shoes, but they take out the strings first. Why do they do that?”

    She was standing up now, pulling her jeans over her panties, looking down at her fingers as she buttoned her jeans over the flatness of her stomach.

    “It’s ’cause they don’t own much else, isn’t it?” he said in answer to his own question. “Them poor people don’t own nothing but the word of the coyote that takes them across. That’s a miserable fate for someone, isn’t it?”

    “What have you got into, Pete?”

    He knitted his fingers together between his thighs and squeezed them so hard he could feel the blood stop in his veins. “A guy was gonna give me three hundred bucks to drive a truck to San Antone. He said not to worry about anything in the back. He gave me a hundred up front. He said it was just a few people who needed to get to their relatives’ houses. I checked the guy out. He’s not a mule. Mules don’t use trucks to run dope, anyway.”

    “You checked him out? Who did you check him out with?” she said, looking at him, her hands letting go of her clothes.

    “Guys I know, guys who hang around the bar.”

    Her face was empty, still creased from the pillow, as she walked to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee. She was barefoot, her skin white against the dirtiness of the linoleum. He went into the bedroom and picked up her slippers from under the bed and brought them to her. He set them down by her feet and waited for her to put them on.

    “There were some men here last night,” she said.

    “What?” The blood drained from his cheeks, making him seem younger than even his twenty years.

    “Two of them came to the door. One stayed in the car. He never turned off the motor. The one who talked had funny eyes, like they didn’t go together. Who is he?”

    “What did he say?”

    Pete hadn’t answered her question. But her heart was racing, and she answered him anyway. “That y’all had a misunderstanding. That you ran off in the dark or something. That he owes you some money. He was grinning all the time he talked. I shook his hand. He put out his hand and I shook it.”

    “His head looks like it has plates in it, like there’s a glitter in one eye and not the other?”

    “That’s the one. Who is he, Pete?”

    “His name is Hugo. He was in the truck cab with me for a while. He had a Thompson in a canvas bag. The ammo pan was rattling, and he took it out and looked at it and put it back in the bag. He said, ‘This sweetheart of a piece belongs to the most dangerous man in Texas.’”

    “He had a what in a bag?”

    “A World War Two submachine gun. We were stopped in the dark. He started talking on a two-way. Some guy said, ‘Shut it down. Wipe the slate clean.’ I got out to take a leak, then I climbed down in an irrigation ditch and kept going.”

    “He squeezed my hand hard, really hard. Wait, you ran away from what?”

    “Hugo hurt your hand?”

    “What did I just say? Are these people dope traffickers?”

    “No, a lot worse. I’ve got into some real shit, Vikki,” he replied. “I heard gunfire in the dark. I heard people screaming inside it. They were women, maybe some of them girls.”

    When she didn’t answer, when her face went blank as though she were looking at someone she didn’t know, he tried to examine her hand. But she went to the kitchen screen, her back to him, her arms folded across her chest, an unrelieved sadness in her eyes as she stared at the harshness of the light spreading across the landscape.

  • Meet the Author

    James Lee Burke, a rare winner of two Edgar Awards, and named Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, is the author of more than thirty previous novels and two collections of short stories, including such New York Times bestsellers as Light of the World, Creole Belle, Swan Peak, The Tin Roof Blowdown, and Feast Day of Fools. He lives in Missoula, Montana.

    Brief Biography

    New Iberia, Louisiana and Missoula, Montana
    Date of Birth:
    December 5, 1936
    Place of Birth:
    Houston, Texas
    B.A., University of Missouri, 1959; M.A., University of Missouri, 1960

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    Rain Gods 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 85 reviews.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    This book had me from page one. Preacher is one of fiction's most memorable bad guys. I could not put this book down!
    Redskins More than 1 year ago
    His very best, his darkest and most inovative. Elevates his writing skills and his reputation
    capotegirl More than 1 year ago
    Burke scores again with this riveting, beautifully penned tale. Flawed good guys against evil bad guys with redeeming qualities set in a background only a masterful author could make beautiful, a compelling plot and equally compelling sub-plots, put Rain Gods on my Must Read list. The audio version was just the thing for my long road trip, especially with the narrator, Will Patton, providing the perfect voice for this excellent thriller.
    edofarrell More than 1 year ago
    James Lee Burke writes novels with descriptions of incomparable beauty juxtaposed with poverty, hate, envy and lonliness. His characters are well developed and each is uniquely flawed. The plot is tight and believable with excellent dialog and some unexpected twists. If you've read Burke before you know what a treat you're in for. If you've never read Burke this is an excellent book to get started on and you've many, many more to enjoy. Excellent work by one of the pre-eminent writers of noir fiction.
    Poppyishere More than 1 year ago
    This is one of the best books that I have read this year. James Lee Burke brings back his character Hackberry Holland (who we haven't seen in too long - one of the drawbacks of the author having two great characters to work with - Dave Robicheaux and Billy Bob Holland. Hackberry is a sheriff who finds the corpses of nine Asian women buried in the field behind the church, shot by a World War Two machine gun. It turns out that the dead women were prostitutes and drug mules in an organized-crime ring run by a nasty criminal. The killer is a famous hitman called Preacher (one of Burke's most evil bad guys for a long time). I strongly recommend fans of James Lee Burke, crime fiction, and simply people who like good books to buy this novel. You won't be disappointed. Peter
    AvidreaderJD More than 1 year ago
    This writer seems to know his readers are intelligent and writes accordingly. Good plot, keeping up with this world we are in now. Had to read to the end...this is a page turner.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    Being from west Texas, it was nice to read his very colorful descriptions of the landscape and weather in the desert. His characters were great !! Highly recommend. I jumped into this book not knowing it is the most current book in a series. Was still great, even though I didn't know much about the main character. I am going to start at the beginning.
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