Traveling with the Dead [NOOK Book]

Overview

A former British spy tracks a vampire who is conspiring with the Austrian government in an evil plot
After a career spying for Queen Victoria, James Asher enjoyed a quiet retirement until he met the vampire Don Simon, an immortal Spaniard who taught him about the secret society of bloodsucking undead. Now one of the vampires, the Earl of Ernchester, has turned his back on Britain. When Asher spots him boarding a train for Paris in the company of an Austrian spy, he springs...
See more details below
Traveling with the Dead

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$8.99
BN.com price
(Save 10%)$9.99 List Price

Overview

A former British spy tracks a vampire who is conspiring with the Austrian government in an evil plot
After a career spying for Queen Victoria, James Asher enjoyed a quiet retirement until he met the vampire Don Simon, an immortal Spaniard who taught him about the secret society of bloodsucking undead. Now one of the vampires, the Earl of Ernchester, has turned his back on Britain. When Asher spots him boarding a train for Paris in the company of an Austrian spy, he springs into action. If the immortals can forge an alliance with England’s enemies, then the Empire is doomed. Asher tails the Earl to Paris and across the Continent, plunging into the heart of a terrifying conspiracy of the undead—with the fate of the British Empire at stake. This ebook features an illustrated biography of Barbara Hambly, including rare photos and never-before-seen documents from the author’s personal collection.

Now, after six years, this book plunges readers back into the intrigue-filled, eerie exploits of James Asher, former spy in His Majesty's Secret Service, and Don Simon Ysidro, oldest and most cunning of London's vampires. A dark veil of international espionage, binding foreign powers and vampire forces together, cast Asher as bait in a game he cannot expect to survive.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The vampire subculture of 19th-century Europe serves as a vehicle for ruminations on love and honor in Hambly's follow-up to Those Who Hunt the Night. The time is 1908, and biologist Lydia Asher is hot on the trail of her husband, James, a former spy and Oxford don who in turn is shadowing Charles Farren, the vampire Earl of Ernchester, and Farren's mortal traveling companion, the nefarious mercenary Ignace Karolyi. Lydia's pursuit of James parallels a similar trek made by Farren's wife, Anthea, who travels in James's company and is as passionately concerned about Farren's welfare as Lydia is about James's. International adventures take these characters from London to Vienna and ultimately to Constantinople, where they become enmeshed in the byzantine political power struggle that has lured Farren there against his will. Although Hambly invests these vampire and mortal personages with the traditional values being threatened by an evolving modern Europe, her vivid portraits allow them to emerge as memorable personalities distinct from the viewpoints they represent. Believable and sympathetic, pursuer and pursued carry the story over its occasional plot muddles and gothic contrivances to a spectacular finale. Hambly covers no ground that hasn't been explored in the historical vampire sagas of Anne Rice and Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, but once again she uses familiar elements skillfully to tell an engrossing tale. 50,000 first printing; author tour. (Oct.)
Library Journal
Former British espionage agent James Asher is one of the few mortals aware of the existence of vampires. After he stumbles upon a meeting between an Austrian spy and the long-dead Earl of Ernchester, he embarks upon a dangerous journey across Europe to prevent a catastrophic alliance between human governments and the inhumane society of the undead. Hambly's sequel to Those Who Hunt the Night (Ballantine, 1990) captures both the subtle ambiance of turn-of-the-century political intrigue and the even more baroque pathways of the human and the inhuman heart. With its rich atmosphere and vibrant characters, this dark fantasy belongs in most libraries.
School Library Journal
YAVampire fans looking for a fast-moving, well-plotted tale need look no further. Soon after his cousin's death, James Asher catches a glimpse of Ignace Karolyi quietly exchanging newspapers with an almost-ordinary looking figure. Years in the secret service make Asher aware of what average citizens might missKarolyi is in the company of a vampire, and they are headed for Paris. Asher follows them. When his wife receives the message of his whereabouts, she entreats an acquaintance vampire to assist her in tracking her husband, knowing that his life is in danger. Details of Europe at the turn of the century, including politics, manners of the wealthy, and vampire lore, are woven seamlessly into this tale. Well-developed characters, both mortal and immortal, span the range of human behavior. Some are mainly noble; some are definitely nasty. Good entertainment for teens ready to move on to literate, light adult fiction.Barbara Hawkins, Oakton High School, Fairfax, VA
Roland Green
The sequel to Hambly's "Those Who Hunt the Night" (1990), one of the best vampire novels of the decade, meets the standards of its predecessor. John Asher, retired British intelligence officer turned Oxford don, sights an Austrian spy in dubious company. Investigating, he discovers an Austrian spymaster who can command the services of the undead as well as the living, which constitutes a threat to Britain he cannot ignore. Fighting the threat, Asher, energetically aided by his doctor wife, Lydia, takes a perilous journey all the way to the Balkans. From beginning to end, the book succeeds as both a classic vampire tale and a specimen of the relatively new genre, the historical thriller. Add it with the highest recommendation to the dark fantasy and historical fiction collections.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781453216477
  • Publisher: Open Road Publishing
  • Publication date: 3/29/2011
  • Series: James Asher Vampire Series , #2
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 300
  • Sales rank: 207,219
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Barbara Hambly (b. 1951) is a New York Times bestselling author of fantasy and science fiction, as well as historical novels set in the nineteenth century. After receiving a master’s degree in medieval history, she published The Time of the Dark, the first novel in the Darwath saga, in 1982, establishing herself as an author of serious speculative fiction. Since then she has created several series, including the Windrose Chronicles, Sun Wolf and Starhawk series, and Sun-Cross series, in addition to writing for the Star Wars and Star Trek universes. Besides fantasy, Hambly has won acclaim for the James Asher vampire series, which won the Locus Award for best horror novel in 1989, and the Benjamin January mystery series, featuring a brilliant African-American surgeon in antebellum New Orleans. She lives in Los Angeles.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Traveling With the Dead


By Barbara Hambly

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 1995 Barbara Hambly
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1647-7


CHAPTER 1

All souls and black rain, and cold that passed like needles through flesh and clothing to scrape the bones inside. Sunday night in Charing Cross Station, voices racketing in the vaults of glass and ironwork overhead like ball bearings in a steel drum. All James Asher wanted was to go home.

A day and a night spent burying his cousin—and dealing with the squabbling of his cousin's widow, mother, and two sons over the estate to which he'd been named executor—had reminded him vividly why, once he'd gone up to Oxford twenty-three years ago, he'd never had anything further to do with the aunt who raised him from the age of thirteen. It had just turned full dark, and Asher drew his greatcoat closer around him as he strode down the long brick walkway of the platform, jostling shoulders with his erstwhile fellow passengers in a vast frowst of wet wool and steam and reflecting upon the lethal adeptness of familial guilt. Outside, the streets would be slick and deadly with ice.

Asher's mind was on that—and on the hour and a half between the arrival of the express from Tunbridge Wells at Charing Cross and the departure of the Oxford local from Paddington—when he saw the men whom he would later have given anything he possessed not to have seen.

They stood under the central clock in the echoing cavern of the station. Asher happened to be looking in their direction as the taller of the two removed his hat and shook the drops from it, gestured with a gloved hand toward the iron frame into which boards bearing departure times had been slotted. Asher's eye, still accustomed to cataloging details after half a lifetime in secret service to his country, had already been caught by the man's greatcoat: the flaring skirts, the collar and cuffs of karakul lamb, the soft camel color and the braiding on the sleeves all shouting at him, Vienna. More specifically, one of the Magyar nobility of that city rather than a German Viennese, who tended to less flamboyance in their dress. A Parisian would have worn that smooth, well-fitted line, but probably not that color and certainly without braiding; the average Berliner's coat generally bore a striking resemblance to a horse blanket no matter how rich the man might be.

Vienna, Asher thought, with the tiniest pinch of nostalgia. Then he saw the man's face.

Dear God.

He stopped at the head of the steps down from the platform, and the blood seemed to halt in his veins. But even before his mind could form the words Ignace Karolyi in England, he saw the face of the other man.

Dear God! No.

It was all he could think.

Not that.

Later he thought he would not have seen the smaller man at all had his eye not been arrested, first by Karolyi's greatcoat, then by the Hungarian's face. That was one of the most frightening things about what he now saw. In the few seconds that the two men spoke—and it was not more than a few seconds, though they exchanged newspapers, an old trick Asher had used hundreds of times himself during his years with Intelligence—Asher's mind registered details that he should have seen before: the fiddleback cut of the small man's shabby black greatcoat, and the way the creaseless buff-colored trousers tapered to straps under the insteps. Under a shallow-crowned beaver hat his hair was short- cropped, and he did not gesture at all as they spoke: no movement, no change of stance, not even the shift of the gloved fingers wrapped about one another on the head of his stick.

That would have told him, if nothing else did.

Three women in enormous hats, feathers drooping with wet, intervened, and when Asher looked again, Karolyi was striding briskly in the direction of the Paris boat-train.

There was no sign of the other man.

Karolyi's going to Paris.

They're both going to Paris.

How Asher knew, he couldn't have said. Only his instinct, honed in years with the Department, had not waned in the eight peaceful years of Oxford lecturing that had passed since he quit. Heart pounding hard enough to almost sicken him, he made his way without appearance of hurry to the ticket windows, the small bag of a weekend's worth of clean linen and shaving tackle swinging almost unnoticed in his hand. By the station clock it was half past five. The departures board announced the Dover boat-train at quarter of six. The fare to Paris was one pound, fourteen and eight, second class—Asher had just over five pounds in his pocket and paid unhesitatingly. Third class would have saved him twelve shillings—the cost of several nights' lodging in Paris, if one knew where to look—but his respectable brown ulster and stiff-crowned hat would have stood out among the rough-clothed workmen and shabby women in the third- class carriages.

He told himself, as he bought the ticket, that the urgency of not calling attention to himself was the only reason to stay out of third class tonight. But he knew it was a lie.

He walked along the platform among women in cheap poplin skirts loading tired children onto the cars, screaming at one another in the clipped, sloppy French of Paris or the trilled r's of the Midi; among men huddled, coatless, in jackets and scarves against the cold, and tried not to listen to his heart telling him that someone in third class was going to die tonight.

He touched a passing porter on the arm. "Would you be so kind as to check the baggage car and tell me if there's a box or trunk, five feet long or over? Could be a coffin, but it's probably a trunk."

The man squinted at the half-crown in Asher's hand, then sharp brown eyes went to Asher's face. "C'n tell you that right now, sir." Asher automatically identified the cropped ou and glottal stop i of the Liverpool Irish, and wondered at his own capacity for pursuing philological points when his life was in danger. The man touched his cap. "Near killed old Joe 'eavin' the thing in, awkward an' all."

"Heavy?" If it was heavy, it was the wrong trunk.

"'Eavy enough, I say, but not loaded like some. No more'n seventy pound all told."

"Could you get me the address from the label? A matter of information," he added as the brown eyes narrowed suspiciously, "to the man's wife."

"Runnin' out on 'er, is 'e? Bleedin' sod."

Asher made a business of checking his watch against the station clock at the end of the platform, conscious all the while of the men and women getting on the train, of the thinning of the crowd that made him every second more visible, every second closer to a knife-blade death. Steam chuffed from the engine and a fat man in countrified tweeds, coat flapping like a cloak in his wake, hared along the platform and scrambled into first class, pursued by a thin and harried valet heavily laden with hatboxes and train cases.

He'd have to telegraph Lydia from Paris, thought Asher. It brought a stab of regret—she'd sit up tonight waiting for him until she fell asleep surrounded by tea things, lace, and medical journals, in front of the bedroom fire, beautiful as a scholarly sylph. For two nights he had looked forward to lying again at her side. Foul as the weather had been, she'd probably simply assume that the train had been held up. Not a worrier, Lydia.

Still the porter hadn't come back.

He tried to remember who the head of the Paris section was these days.

And, dear God, what was he going to tell them about Charles Farren, onetime Earl of Ernchester?

His hand moved, almost unconsciously, to his collar, to feel the reassuring thickness of the silver chain he wore beneath. It was not a usual ornament, for a man and a Protestant. He hadn't thought about it much, except that for a year now he had not dared remove it. It had slipped into place like those other habits he'd acquired "abroad," as they said in the Department; habits like memorizing the layout of any place he stayed so that he could move through it in the dark, or noting faces in case he saw them again in another context, or carrying a knife in his right boot. The other dons at New College, immersed in their specialties and their academic bunfights, never noticed that the self- effacing Lecturer in Etymology, Philology, and Folklore could identify even their servants and knew every back way out of every college in that green and misty town.

These were matters upon which his life had depended at one time—and might now still depend.

In the summer his students had commented, when they'd gone punting up the Cherwell, on the double chain of heavy silver links he wore on either wrist; he'd said they were a present from a superstitious aunt. No one had commented on or seemed to connect the chains with the trail of ragged red scars that tracked his throat from ear to collarbone and followed the veins up his arms.

The porter returned and casually slipped a piece of paper into his hand. Asher gave him another half-crown, which he could ill spare with his fare back from Paris to be thought of, but there were proprieties. He didn't glance at the paper, only pocketed it as he strolled along the platform to the final shouts of "All aboard!"

Nor did he look for the smaller man, though he knew that Ernchester, like himself, would be getting on at the last moment.

He knew it would not be possible to see him.


Eight years ago, toward the end of the South African war, James Asher had stayed with a Boer family on the outskirts of Pretoria. Though they were, like many Boers, sending information to the Germans, they were good people at heart, believing that what they did helped their country's cause—they had welcomed him into their home under the impression he was a harmless professor of linguistics at Heidelberg, in Africa to study Bantu pidgins. "We are not savages," Mrs. van der Platz had said. "Just because a man cannot produce documents for this thing and that thing does not mean he is a spy."

Of course, Asher had been a spy. And when Jan van der Platz—sixteen and Asher's loyal shadow for weeks—had learned that Asher was not German but English and had confronted him in tears, Asher had shot him to protect his contacts in the town, the Kaffirs who slipped him information and would be horribly killed in retaliation, and the British troops in the field who would have been massacred by the commandos had he been forced to talk. Asher had returned to London, resigned his position with the Foreign Office, and married, to her family's utter horror, the eighteen-year-old girl whose heart he never thought he had the smallest hope of winning.

At the time, he thought he would never exert himself for King and Country again.

And here he was, bound for Paris with the rain pounding hollowly on the roof of the second-class carriage and only a few pounds in his pocket, because he had seen Ignace Karolyi, of the Austrian Kundschafts Stelle, talking to a man who could not be permitted to take Austrian pay.

It was a possibility Asher had lived with, and feared, for a year, since first he had learned who and what Charles Farren and those like him were.

Making his way down the corridor from car to car, Asher glimpsed Karolyi through a window in first class, reading a newspaper in an otherwise empty compartment.

The Dorian Gray beauty of his features hadn't changed in the thirteen years since Asher had last seen him. Though Karolyi must be nearly forty now, not a trace of silver showed in the smooth black hair or the pen trace of mustache on the short upper lip; not a line marred the corners of those childishly wide-set dark eyes.

"My blood leaps at the thought of obeying whatever command the Emperor may give me." Asher remembered him springing to his feet in the soft bright haze of the gaslit Café Versailles on the Graben, the bullion glittering on the scarlet of his Guards uniform; remembered the shine of idealistic idiocy in his upturned face. "I will fight upon whatever battlefield He may direct." One could hear the capital letter in he—the Emperor—and around him, his fellow beau sabreurs of the Imperial Life Guards had roared and applauded, though they'd roared louder when another of their number had joked, "Yes, of course, Igni ... but who's going to point you in the direction of the enemy?"

Even when Karolyi had hunted Asher with dogs through the Dinaric Alps after torturing to death his local contact and guide—when it was blindingly obvious that his pose as a brainless young nobleman who spent most of his time waltzing at society balls rather than drilling with his regiment was a sham—that was still the Karolyi Asher remembered.

They'd never met face-to-face in that hellish week of hide-and-seek among the streams and gorges, and Asher didn't know if Karolyi was aware who his quarry had been. But passing along the corridor now with barely a glance through the window, he remembered the body of the guide, and was disinclined to take chances.

In any case, it was not Karolyi whom he feared most.

The third-class carriage was noisier than second, crowded and smelling of unwashed wool and dirty linen. A child cried on and on like the shriek of a factory whistle. Unshaven men looked up from Le Figaro or the Illustrated London News as Asher walked between the hard, high-backed benches. Yellow electric light jittered over cheap felt hats, wet paper flowers, plain steel pins; a woman said, "Hush now, Beatrice, hush," in a voice that held no hope of Beatrice hushing this side of the Gare du Nord.

Asher kept his collar turned up, knowing Farren would recognize him. It unnerved him to realize that the man might be in this carriage and he would never so much as catch a glimpse of him. He didn't like to think about what would happen to him in that case.

At the far end of the third-class car was a baggage compartment, given over to bicycles and crated dogs and an enormous canework bath chair. It was unlighted, and through its windows Asher could see the rain flashing like diamonds in the dirty light shining from third class. As Asher stepped through and closed the door, the cold struck him—all the windows had been opened, rattling noisily in their frames, wet flecks of water spattering through.

At his feet a dog in a cage whined with fear.

The smell of the rainy night could neither cover nor disperse the stink of death.

Asher looked around him quickly, kneeling so as to be out of the line of the window. Dim light came through the little judas on the door, but not enough; he fumbled a lucifer match from the box in his greatcoat pocket, scratched it with his nail.

The man's body had been folded small, knees mashed into chest, arms bent close to sides, the whole skinny tangle of him shoved tight into a corner behind a double bass in a case.

Asher blew out the match, lit another, and crouched to worm close. The dead man was young, dark, unshaven, with a laborer's callused hands and a roughly knotted kerchief around his neck instead of a cravat. His clothing smelled of cheap gin and cheaper tobacco. One of his shoes was worn through. Only a little blood had soaked into the neckerchief, though when Asher moved it down with one finger, he saw that the jugular vein had been cut clear through, a rough, ripping tear, the edges white and puffy, mangled as if they had been chewed and sucked. Asher had a scar that size where his collar pressed the silver links of the necklace against his skin.

A third match showed the dead man's face utterly white, blue-lipped, eyebrows and beard stubble glaring, though by the appearance of the eyelids he'd been dead for less than thirty minutes. Moving a frayed pants cuff, Asher saw the bare ankle had not yet begun to turn livid. Probably, Asher thought with a queer, angry coldness, it never would, much.

He blew out the match, stowed the stub—with the stubs of the first two—in his pocket, and slithered from between the bath chair and bass fiddle case. He'd passed the conductor in the second-class carriage, on his way down the train. The official's nearness had probably interrupted the murderer before he could dump the body out into the night, or perhaps Ernchester was waiting till they were farther from London. Asher left the compartment quickly, dusting his hands on his coat skirts and muttering to himself like a man who has not found what he sought. Nobody in third class gave him a glance.

By the time the train reached Dover, he suspected, the body would be gone. To call attention now to what he had found would only, inevitably, call attention to himself. He wasn't such a fool as to think he would then ever reach Paris alive.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Traveling With the Dead by Barbara Hambly. Copyright © 1995 Barbara Hambly. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 5
( 13 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(11)

4 Star

(2)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 13 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 17, 2012

    My new favorite author!

    I love the way Ms. Hambly writes. She creates vivid pictures with words. I thought this book, the 2nd in her vampire series, was even better than the 1st one. I've already read it twice. I recommend this one.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 5, 2012

    Well written

    Finished the Asher vampire series earlier today and still thinking about it. So well written and thought provoking. Will put these books on the favorites shelf.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 22, 2011

    Excellent

    Re-reading Those that Hunt the Night and Traveling with the Dead after more than 10 years I found them just as good as the first time read. Barbara Hambly is a wonderful author who takes you out of your world and puts you smack down into her created world with words and descriptions that keep you rooted to the spot until the end of the book. I can't wait to start reading Blood Maidens.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 27, 2005

    Mesmerizing and Fulfilling

    Ahh, the pleasure of real writing talent! She has the eye, the ear and the imagination to take a reader where she's been- even when the place doesn't exist.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 18, 2004

    Oh please, may I have some more please?

    These two books were so wonderful. I devoured them and raved about them to my husband for weeks on end. I have waited years for more installments in the series... alas to no avail. Barbara Hambly seems to have given up on the vampire and moved on to the african american detective in new orleans, Benjamin January. Those books are OK, but not as good as Travelling with the Dead and Those Who Hunt The Night.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 7, 2001

    Both death and love are timeless...

    In this sequal to 'Those Who Hunt the Night,' Barbara Hambly returns us to the world of London's vampires, and of the husband and wife who alone among mortals know of their existence. A chance sighting of a vampire and a spy in a railway station leads agent-turned-don James Asher into a trap. His physician wife Lydia daringly engages the aid of the enigmatic Don Simon Ysidro, most deadly of the London vampires, to save her husband and unearth the dark secret of the Deathless Lord of Constantinople.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 14, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 11, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 28, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 14, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 7, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted November 20, 2008

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted November 15, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 13 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)