An angel finds passion and danger in the arms of an unexpected lover in Nalini Singh’s New York Times bestselling series that “may do for angels what [Christine] Feehan did for vampires” (Dear Author)… The gentle teacher of angelic young, and the keeper of her people’s histories, Jessamy is respected and admired by everyone who knows her. Yet, born unable to soar into flight, she has spent thousands of years trapped in the mountain stronghold of the Refuge, her heart encased in painful loneliness…until the arrival of Galen, warrior angel from a martial court. Rough-edged and blunt, Galen is a weapons-master at home with violence, a stranger to the sweet words it takes to woo a woman—but he is also a man determined to claim Jessamy for his own, to dance with her through the skies denied her for so very long…even if their exhilarating passion proves as dangerous as the landscape of war and unrest that lies before them. Angels’ Dance previously appeared in the anthology, Angels’ Flight .

Medium Thomas Jacobson shares the wisdom of the spirit of James Martin Peebles, who lived in the nineteenth century and tells readers through Jacobson that life on Earth should be treated like an educational process. Reprint.

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW, LOS ANGELES TIMES, SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE, AND PUBLISHERS WEEKLY For more than four hundred years, the art of ballet has stood at the center of Western civilization. Its traditions serve as a record of our past. Lavishly illustrated and beautifully told, Apollo’s Angels—the first cultural history of ballet ever written—is a groundbreaking work. From ballet’s origins in the Renaissance and the codification of its basic steps and positions under France’s Louis XIV (himself an avid dancer), the art form wound its way through the courts of Europe, from Paris and Milan to Vienna and St. Petersburg. In the twentieth century, émigré dancers taught their art to a generation in the United States and in Western Europe, setting off a new and radical transformation of dance. Jennifer Homans, a historian, critic, and former professional ballerina, wields a knowledge of dance born of dedicated practice. Her admiration and love for the ballet, as Entertainment Weekly notes, brings “a dancer’s grace and sure-footed agility to the page.”

When the darkness of unspeakable tragedy collides with the infinite glory of heaven, what happens? What salve can heal the deepest of wounds when dawn breaks and the nightmare is real? What words can console a grieving father or mother when the blossom of the womb fades and falls? Images of hope, soft words that set the mind at ease, beautiful memories brought home by a beautiful story. I Know Why the Angels Dance is a healing salve; it incites a cleansing catharsis; it serves as a holy image-maker, mending hearts and minds with glimpses of heaven’s glory. It opens spiritual eyes. We are all on a collision course with the unknown. Will it be a plunge into darkness or a passing from one existence into a brighter one? Two fathers, one in the light and one in darkness, each face the reality of that passage, and both struggle to find and apply the healing balm. Yet, God uses the faith of a child to reach out to the downcast—the hand of an extraordinary girl leads them to the healing they long for. The reality of death meets the hope of the ages, and the victory comes in the visions and songs of a little girl. After reading I Know Why the Angels Dance, you will cherish life and family like never before, and the passage everyone must make will no longer be a leap into darkness. It will be a step into glory.

Author Ralph Cotton grew up listening to stories of the James-Younger gang, and as the years passed his fascination led him to seek the truth behind the legends. Now, in this brilliant blend of history and imagination, he offers up a fresh and gritty look at the gang through the eyes of Jeston Nash. Jeston Nash bears a striking resemblance to his cousin, Jesse Woodson James of Clay County, Missouri. After killing a Yankee soldier in self-defense, Jeston meets his cousins, Jesse and Frank, and joins them to fight in Quantrill’s guerrilla forces. Later, after the war, he rides with the James-Younger gang as they invent their special brand of bank and train robbery. All the while, Jeston seeks vengeance against Daniel Zanone, of the Free Kansas Militia - the man responsible for the death of his child. In While Angels Dance, the reader will experience the events, places, and people that helped fuel the legends of these men. It is a vivid adventure tale of the outlaw West and an original view of the James-Younger gang. While Angels Dance was a candidate for the Pulitzer Prize in fiction.

Christina dreams of dancing on air, but reality keeps bringing her down to earth. Her dance teacher thinks Christina should give it up, that Christina will never have the right build for dancing. Christina thinks where there's a will there's a way. If she can only make herself over, she's sure her wishes will come true. Her friends liked the old Christina just fine, and they're worried she's trying too hard to change. Christina is truly more special than anyone can guess, least of all Christina, but it will take a special being to make her see the light.

All her life Brelyn has wanted to use her talent to play for the angels. She dreams of being a drummer girl and can't wait to practice outside where she is free to use God's world as her drum pad. Watch as she uses a beat of faith and an ear full of imagination to see the angels dance to her rhythms inPlay Brelyn Play, Dance Angels Dance'Awesome book! ...teaches us...to use the gifts and talents the Lord has given us to glorify Him and His angels.' -Debbie Melvin, Second grade teacher, Greensboro Elementary School

Angels Dance and Angels Die tells the story of the turbulent relationship between legendary Doors front man, Jim Morrison, and his common-law wife, Pamela Courson. Follow the lives of Courson and Morrison before their fateful meeting in 1965; their lives together until Morrison's death in 1971; and Courson's life without Morrison, including her fight to gain the rights to his estate until her death from a heroin overdose on April 25, 1974.

The empty Sky Room was an oval Victorian greenhouse restaurant atop Chicago’s about-to-be-destroyed 17-story Majestic Hotel. It was a penthouse covering three-fourths of the roof, which was surrounded by a safety parapet about three feet high, capped with glazed tile the green color of oxidized bronze. I expected that Willie would be waiting to leap out at me from behind one of the abandoned fake plants. All I heard over the storm was the murmuring of pigeons hiding in the chimney from the rain. I stood in the center of the room, figuring Willie must have secreted herself in her trench coat and hat against one of the ebony oak pilasters along the edge of the room. I waited for lightning to give away her position. It did. I saw her outside the glass walls through rivulets of rain, as sheet lightning illuminated the clouds over the lake, silhouetting Willie perched atop the parapet wall on the far corner of the building like some sort of gargoyle. The tails of her trench coat were flapping in the gale rising from Quincy Street. Her rain hat was gone and her drenched black curls were writhing on each side of her face. I ran to the door she’d left open and stepped toward her. She crouched like a swimmer on a starting block, staring at the bottom of the pool stories below... a very dark pool. A flashing traffic light jaundiced her face like some wild Hitchcock effect. She didn’t look at me, but down toward the blinking amber light. I stopped dead in my tracks, not sure what to do. She was perched only a few feet from where I stood. If I startled her, she could fall. I looked for a gentle way to get her attention. The low thunder from the sheet lightning over Lake Michigan growled in our faces. Suddenly a shock wave of light and heat, like a nuclear blast, erupted as lightning struck the boom of the demolition derrick. A gust of hot firey dragon breath belched from the crane. Willie bolted straight up, but she lost her footing on the parapet’s wet glazed cap. As she did, I leapt from the doorway and was able to catch hold of the tail of her trench coat just as her butt hit the edge and slipped over the side. I had the trench coat and the trench coat had Willie, but only by her arms. I was in a tug-of-war where both sides would win, or both sides would lose. Without thought, I collected all the material from her coat that I could and twisted it by ducking and pirouetting behind the parapet. This wrapped the makeshift hawser around my left forearm for a more-secure grip. I peered over the parapet where I could see the top of Willie’s head with her arms raised up above her like count Dracula about to turn into a bat and take flight. “Cross your arms!” I shouted, but there was no response.