Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Excerpt of Dark Child By Travis Hunter


I am deeply blessed to be able to publish the latest offering from Essence Best-selling Author Travis Hunter, whose previous books include: A One Woman Man, Something to Die For, A Family Sin, Trouble Man, Married But Still Looking and The Hearts of Men. I am sure that you will enjoy this new novel immensely. It is a rollercoaster ride, full of suspense, romance, and the ramifications of both good and bad decisions.


When poor babies wind up missing, no one seems to care.

Urban Brown is a white man who grew up in the dark recesses of the inner city where he was the victim of torment, abuse, abandonment, deception and murder. Urban overcame his horrid past to live a peaceful and prosperous existence in his upper-class community. He has everything a man could ask for: a career, which he loves; a sprawling estate and a drop-dead gorgeous fiancée, Sierra. Then out of the blue, he receives a phone call that changes his life.

Jamillah is Urban's sister, and unlike her brother, she wasn't able to overcome the horrors of her past and turned to drugs to ease the pain. Life on the streets is hard enough, but once a baby comes along, she tries to sell him on the black market. Urban won't hear any of it, and he and Sierra resolve to raise the child as their own. But upon further investigation, Urban realizes that his sister is involved in a dark and sinister scheme to steal black babies from poor girls in small, rural towns and sell them to the highest bidders. As Urban digs deeper and deeper into the kidnapping network, he gets dangerously close to the heart of the matter and is disgusted and disheartened by what he discovers.

Dark Child is a chilling story about the untold struggles of the disenfranchised that inspiringly illustrates how one man is not able to turn his back on the problems of his former community -- even though he so desperately wants to leave that troubled place in his past forever.

Chapter 1
“Get yo’ hands in dem pockets, cracker,” a deranged-looking man, who was obviously high on some form of narcotics, said while pointing a big silver pistol at his victim. “I gotta have it and you gonna give it to me.”

The man’s victim stood in front of him with his hands in his pockets. He seemed a bit startled but not to the point of panic. He surveyed the man with his eyes but never bothered to remove his hands.

“You deaf? Come out with the cash, cracker,” the robber barked again, then stuck the gun closer to the man’s face. “And I mean all of it. ‘Cause I got places to be, gotdamn it.”

A car turned onto the street, shining its lights on the robbery in progress, but the robber continued as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The victim, on the other hand, smiled. The car’s lights allowed him to see something that instantly placed him at ease. Suddenly, this potentially life-threatening moment had turned into a somewhat amusing one.

The victim once had faced the barrel of a gun and he remembered being so scared he couldn’t think straight, but not this time. One quick glance and he knew death’s door wasn’t in his immediate future.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and showed two clean palms. “Flat broke,” he said with a smile.

The addict’s eyes bulged as if they were going to fall out of their sockets. “You think I’m playing wit yo’ ass, don’t ya? You better reach again and come back with more than some damn lent,” the robber warned. “I ain’t no playtoy.”

“I don’t know what to tell ya,” the victim said, turning his attention to the surrounding area of dark and grimy streets. He was in the heart of inner-city Atlanta and he couldn’t wait to leave.

The robber placed the barrel of the gun at his victim’s forehead and pulled back the hammer. “I… Ain’t… Gonna… Tell… Yo’… Ass… No… Mo,” he barked.

The victim was trying to locate his sister. Suddenly, the robber transformed from amusing to annoying. He pulled his head back and glared at the addict.

“You must be crazy. This is a gun, fool,” the robber said, removing the pistol and shaking it in his victim’s face. “Is you blind? Do you see this steel? I don’t know if anybody ever told yo’ ass, but guns kill.”

“Go play with someone else, man,” the victim said, trying to walk around the robber, but he was stopped when the gun was jammed into his back.

“Go play!” the robber asked, his voice rising a few octaves.

“I’m not going to ask you again,” the victim said in a very low and serious tone.

The addict looked perplexed; he furrowed his brows and cocked his head to the side. “You the police?”

“No,” the man said, turning around and facing his pitiful-looking nemesis.

“Don’t lie, cracker, ’cause that’s contrapment if you is. I know the gotdamn laws.”

Urban Brown chuckled. As much as he wanted to destroy the man standing in front of him, he couldn’t help but find him to be nothing short of hilarious. He shook his head and looked around again. This was not a social call and he wasn’t trying to be out here all night.

“Why don’t you just ask me if you can have a few dollars?” Urban asked.

“’Cause I don’t want a few dollars, cracker. I want all the gotdamn dollars. And I know you the poooolice but I don’t give a shit. Cop or not, I’m robbing yo’ ass and I ain’t telling you no mo.”

Urban shook his head and took a deep breath.

“I gots places to be, where folks get high in the sky, baby,” the robber said, taking a whiff of the high that would be forthcoming after Urban’s money was in his possession. “You think I got all night to be out here robbing yo’ preppy-looking ass?”

Urban actually laughed at that one.

“Oh, I see you think I’m Eddie Murphy, Chris Tucker, or some damn body. But let me tell you this, you simple-minded, cracker-ass cracker, I’ll shoot the shit outta you.”

This little game was getting old and the temperature was dropping by the second. Urban hunched his shoulders and pulled the fur on his coat a little closer around his neck in order to knock off the chill.

“Listen, man,” the addict said in a frustrated tone, as if he were trying to reason with his victim. “I don’t wanna shoot you. Lord knows, I ain’t no killer, but I will. And check this out, if I shoot you, I’mma still rob you. I’m tryna help you. Damn, white people summa da dumbest muhfuckas I ever seen in my life.”

“Allen Johannesburg Timmons,” a voice shouted from about twenty feet away. “Whatchu doing, boy?”

“Damn it, Momma…” the addict snapped, turning his head toward the voice.

Urban used the distraction to his advantage and reached back and slapped Allen hard across his skinny face. The impact sounded like a gunshot and Allen fell back, holding his stinging face. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and then jerked the gun back toward Urban.

“Pull the trigger,” Urban said. He was no longer smiling and was now stalking Allen. Allen was backing up as Urban reared back and smacked him again.

“You crazy? You better recognize who you dealing with, cracker. I’m the devil, gotdamn it!” Allen yelled, his voice cracking as the pain registered. “You don’t slap me like I’m some bitch.”

Urban slapped him again.

Allen yelled and pulled the trigger.

Click, click,click,click. The hammer hit an empty chamber over and over again.

“Momma,” Allen called out to the skinny woman.

With no help coming from his mother, Allen reared back as if he were kin to Satchel Paige and threw the gun at Urban. The gun hit Urban in the chest and he caught it. He flipped open the revolver’s cylinder, turned the gun, and showed Allen six empty chambers.

“Well, Mr. Devil, I’m going in here for about five minutes. Run and get yourself some bullets and try again,” Urban said as he wiped away his prints with his sweater, dropped the gun to the ground, and then kicked it in the sewer.

He nodded respectfully at Allen’s sickly looking mother, then turned and walked into the building behind him.

“Good thing you came ’round here when you did, Momma. I was about to kill a white man,” Allen said. “Ain’t no way I’mma let a white boy whup me. Shiiiiiit.”

“I know that’s right,” his mother said. “But you did the right thing. You get prison time for fooling with white folks.”

Chapter 2

Three hours ago, Urban was resting comfortably on his California King bed with the sleep number set at thirty-five when the phone rang. He was tempted not to answer because he was in such a peaceful place, but the continued ringing shattered that state of mind to bits.

“Hello,” he said in an incoherent tone. He was always a hard sleeper and it generally took him a minute or so to gather himself.

“Urban, you sleep?” a familiar voice said.

“I was.”

“Well, get up,” his foster mother’s voice registered in his semi-conscious state. “Jamillah done lost her complete mind this time.”

Upon hearing his sister’s name, he was tempted to hang up the phone and go back to sleep, but the respect he had for the woman on the other end of the phone kept him talking.
Jamillah was Urban’s younger sister and she happened to be strung out on any kind of illegal drug one could imagine. But to hear her tell it, she only had a nagging cold and was taking too much Robitussin.

“What did she do this time?” Urban said, lying on his back, trying to hold on to his sleep.

“She showed her little narrow behind up here with a baby. Baby couldn’t be six months old and now she done up and disappeared. Now she can go out in the streets all she wants cause she’s grown, but I ain’t ’bout to let her have that baby out in this night air like that. It’ll give him pneumonia and the whoopin’ cough. She didn’t even take the baby’s bag with the milk and diapers in it. She showed up here without that. What the baby gone eat?”


The mentioning of a baby got his attention. For as long as he could remember, he had a soft spot in his heart for kids, and babies were even more special to him.

Jamillah was a hot, ridiculous mess and he wanted no part of her, but if she had a baby and had him out there living in her world, then he had to do something about that. Besides, his foster mother’s stress had always been his stress. The woman on the other end of the phone had raised many kids, but his number seemed to be number one on her speed dial list when things needed to be done.

“Call the police, Momma,” he said.

“Lord Jesus, that Jamillah tryna kill me. My pressure already high and now she done ran out and did this,” Wilma (Momma Winnie) Jackson said. “Why would she want to have that precious baby out in this weather?”

Momma Winnie had taken Urban and Jamillah in when no one else wanted them. Their biological parents were killed when Urban was thirteen and Jamillah was ten-years old.

Urban could picture Momma Winnie sitting on the side of her bed, wearing her tattered night dress, clutching a well-used Bible to her bosom, while praying to her God to deliver a person who wanted no part of deliverance.

“Why won’t you call the police, Momma?” Urban asked again.

“Oh, boy, don’t be like that. You know all they’ll do is put her in jail and I can’t stand to see nothing I raised behind no bars. That ain’t no place for people.”

“That’s a good place for her.”

“No, that’s not a good place for her. She needs a little help; that’s all. I’ve been trying to get her to go to church with me and let Reverend Power lay his mighty hands on her. You know he knows how to get them evil spirits out of her, but she won’t ever stay round here long enough for me to get her over there.”

Urban shook his head at his mother’s foolish belief in a man who charged twenty dollars to heal someone by slapping them senseless. He could see the pastor and his hustling cronies sitting at a bar laughing at the pathetic memebers of his congregation who put their undying trust in his velvety words.

“Momma, that crap doesn’t work.”

“I ain’t about to get into that with you this morning, boy. Now if you wanna stay a nonbeliever, then you’ll have to answer for that on Judgment Day.”

“I’m not a nonbeliever; I just don’t believe in that fool. Anyway, did you give Jamillah any money?”

“I’m gonna pray for you, Urban.”

“Thank you. It’s always nice to know that you’re appealing to the Man upstairs on my behalf.”

“Boy, I don’t know how the Devil done got such a hold on you. Good Jesus, I swear I don’t know.”

“The money, Momma,” Urban repeated.

“No, I didn’t give her any money and she didn’t ask for none either.”

“Did she steal any?”

“No, and I want you to stop being so doggone negative. I don’t know why I even bother to call you,” Momma Winnie said, fussing as usual. “You sho get on my nerves sometime with all that negative talk.”

“Momma, go and check your purse.”

“Urban, I don’t need to go check nothing. That girl wouldn’t steal from me. She said she was done with all that stealing and I believe her, even if you don’t.”

“She’s done it before,” he said as he stood and walked into the bathroom. He knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep for a while.

“You need to learn to forgive. Read your bible sometime, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’” Momma Winnie said, quoting her favorite scripture.

“Momma, go and check your purse,” Urban said, shaking his head.

Momma Winnie was as sweet as the day was long and was an eternal optimist but she was as naïve as a newborn when it came to the ways of a drug addict.

“Oh Lord, hold on,” she said.

Urban could hear her mumbling about how foolish he was and how she was going to prove to him that Jamillah didn’t take anything. The moan he heard in the background told him that the purse was a little lighter than it was before Jamillah had arrived.

“I’ll go see if I can find the baby,” he said when she came back to the phone.

“I can’t believe she would go into my purse after I already told her how I feel about thieves,” she said, genuinely hurt by her discovery.

“Get some rest, Momma. I’ll check back in with you after I locate the nutcase,” Urban said before hanging up the phone.

Urban walked into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, took a swish of Listerine, and washed his face. He walked into his spacious closet and got dressed. He had cussed his sister out so many times that he didn’t even bother to waste his words this time. He couldn’t count the number of times he had made the same trek out in the middle of the night, in search of his wayward sister after Momma Winnie called him crying. And yet, here he was again.

Urban drove around the areas in Southwest Atlanta where Jamillah was known to hang out. He scanned the streets as he drove at a snail’s pace, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. These trips were always hard on him because he loved his sister with every fiber of his being; yet he hated what she had become.

Urban slowed down and started asking the people of the night if they had seen a scrawny, mix-raced woman who might be carrying a baby. Most of the natives looked at him as if he were a cop and had no words for him. He guessed it wasn’t every day they saw a well-dressed white man riding around in the middle of the night asking about a drug addict.

Urban figured he needed a different plan of attack and started opening up his wallet as he asked the questions. Amazing! All of a sudden, folks had all kinds of Jamillah sightings. Urban had to marvel at the power of a ten-dollar bill with the folks who were considered have-nots.
After a few palms were greased, he used his power of deduction with the information he was given and figured he’d heard the “Ritz” too many times to ignore it.

“The Ritz Carlton?” he asked, confused, immediately wondering what in the world his sister would be doing at a high-priced hotel.

“Nah, brah,” a short guy with about ten teardrops tattooed on his face said. “The Ritz Zoo.” The short guy pointed to a warehouse behind them. “Roll up in there; you’ll see what I mean.”

Urban pulled his Chevy Tahoe in a space across the street from the ghetto Amsterdam and wondered what he was getting himself into. He reached into his glove compartment, removed his gun, a .40-caliber Glock pistol, and slid it into his coat pocket. It was three o’clock in the morning and he found himself walking into a scene right out of “Crack heads Gone Wild.”

Urban crossed the threshold into the land of damnation. The second he entered the building, the odor of the place attacked his senses like a pack of rabid coyotes. He started to turn around but the thought of an innocent baby being exposed to this repugnance forced him to continue moving forward. He used his forearm to filter the disgusting aroma of drugs, urine, and human feces on top of unwashed bodies as he moved deeper into the crack house.

The scene before him was enough to drive a preacher wild and yet these people were up in there as if it were the new juke joint.

Urban stepped over bodies, empty beer bottles, and only God knew what else and winced time and time again at the human destruction lying before him.

If there was a hell on earth, this had to be it. The only light illuminating the den of drug fiends came from a street post on the corner and the constant flicker of the addicts’ cigarette lighters and matches.

“You wanna date, daddy,” a girl, who sounded like she couldn’t be any older than fifteen, said. “I’ll suck yo’ dick so good you’ll wanna marry me.”

Urban ignored her and kept moving. Fresh off of smacking some fool outside who tried to rob him without bullets, now he was fighting off women who were trying to sell him their polluted bodies.

“Hey, man,” a baritone voiced man said. “She can’t do it like me. I’ll suck you better than that lil’ skinny ho ever could. Give me ten dollars and I’ll make you real happy, bro.”

Urban frowned and fought the urge to vomit at the mere thought of the homosexual man touching him.

Nasty bastard! he thought as he stepped, then stumbled on what felt like someone’s leg but found his footing. He looked down and saw a man sitting Indian-style while placing a needle into his arm, oblivious to all of the chaos surrounding him.

Damn, how can someone shoot up in the dark?

The place was so dark he could barely see his own hand in front of his face; yet he kept moving as he tried to get an eye on Jamillah.

This is some ridiculous shit, he thought.

Urban had always taken pride that he never stood in judgment of people, but he had to wonder, How in the world could you let your life come to this?

Just as he turned away from the guy on the floor, he heard a baby’s cry. That had to be her. God, please let that be her. Urban changed his course and headed in the direction of the infant’s cry.

The odor in the place was making him dizzy, so he abandoned the easy approach and started kicking, stepping on and over people as he made his way toward the window. People complained, cried, and threatened him, but he couldn’t have cared less. The light from the street lamp was shining directly on Jamillah’s haggard-looking face.

Urban stopped in his tracks.

Oh my God!

He hadn’t seen his little sister in almost a year and a half and, even then, she looked horrible but now… Wow. She looked as if she were a walking dead woman.

Sweat poured from her paste-like face, even though the temperatures hovered in the low teens inside the dilapidated crack house.

The crying infant was squirming on the floor beside Jamillah while she held a crack pipe to her mouth and lit a flame.

Just as she was about to inhale, Urban stormed over and slapped the pipe out of her hand, knocking it to the floor and breaking it. Addicts nearby scurried like rats to retrieve unsmoked crack.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jamillah said, jumping to her feet with wild, bulging eyes. “Why you do that?”

Urban didn’t respond.

One look at her and he could tell she was too far gone for any type of meaningful conversation. Urban reached down and picked up the baby.

“Oh hell to the nah,” Jamillah cried, trying to grab her baby. “I need my money.”

“He can’t stay here,” Urban said.

His voice registered with his baby sister and it stopped her in her tracks. She let go of the baby and placed her hands over her eyes to shield the light. “Urban?” Jamillah said.

“Jamillah.” Urban’s tone was nothing but business.

“What you doing here, big bro?”

“I came to smoke a little crack with you. Why do you think I’m here?” Urban said, walking away with the baby.

Jamillah quickly realized that this wasn’t a social call and that her brother was leaving with the baby. She couldn’t have that.

“Give me that baby and you go somewhere and mind your damn business, man,” she said, grabbing at the baby.

Urban pushed her hand away from the baby, but she grabbed onto the child’s tiny leg. He knew the fragile baby couldn’t take her pulling on it so he reached out and pinched her ear.

“Ouch,” she screamed, releasing the baby’s leg. “Give me the baby, Urban.”

“You should be happy I’m here to take her away from this…,” Urban said as he looked around and couldn’t even find the words for what he was seeing.

“It’s a he and I got something set up. So mind your business. I got this,” Jamillah said with a roll of her neck.

“Yeah, you look like you have everything under control.”

“I do. These people gonna adopt him in the morning,” she said. “They’re giving me five-thousand dollars, Urban. Then I can get myself together. I know I look a mess but I’m telling you. This time it’s gone be different. I’m ready to get my life together. Going to a rehab place; a real one. Not one of those bullshit places they send niggas to. I’m talking about one of those fancy spots. I got it all planned out. I’m about to get myself straight, big bro. You should be happy for me.”

“I’m thrilled, but I don’t know if anyone ever told you, you can’t sell children. That’s illegal.”

“Man, these people gonna adopt him.”

“That’s not an adoption, that’s a crime. Now move,” Urban said, pushing her a little harder than he intended to.

“Fuck you and the law,” Jamillah said, finding her balance. “I can do whatever I wanna do. Is the law gonna help me feed his lil’ ass? Do you think the law is gonna buy some damn Pampers?”

“Where is his father?”

“Look around and pick somebody.”

Urban couldn’t understand how he could be surprised by her response, but he was. He frowned at what his little sister’s life had become, then walked away.

“Hell to the nah,” Jamillah said, walking as fast as she could in order to get in front of her brother. “The people gonna pick him up at eight o’clock in the morning. You can think what you wanna think, but he’s gone,” she continued, snapping her finger in his face. “In a few more hours, I’ll be straight and he will too, so go on with your save-the-world ass.”

“You are one sick individual and you should really seek some help. You know that?” he said, slapping her hand as hard as he could.

“Rape!” she screamed. “He's trying rape my baby.”

“Shut up,” Urban said and continued walking.

“You shut up and give me the baby. Now I need that money and I ain’t about to let you fuck it up.”

Urban walked around her, but drug addicts weren’t known to give up easily when money was on the line. Jamillah reached out and grabbed her brother’s arm, trying to stop him, but he just kept walking.

“Urban, please. Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. I owe some people a few dollars and they want they money. They gonna hurt me bad if I don’t pay ’em.”

“I’mma hurt you if you don’t get your hands offa me,” Urban snapped.

She ignored him and kept talking.

“The people that I’m giving the baby to are real nice. They gonna give him a good home.”

“Get your hands off of me,” he snapped again with a low and deliberate growl.

“I can’t,” Jamillah cried. “Urban, please don’t take the baby.”

Urban was flabbergasted and heartbroken all at the same time. This person standing in front of him didn’t look or sound anything like the beautiful little girl he used to know, the same little girl who couldn’t go to sleep for three months after the death of their parents unless she was in his presence.

Her once pretty, cream-colored skin was now riddled with scars and pockmarks. Dark spots were all over her once beautiful face and that hair was a bird’s nest of a mess.

“Jamillah,” Urban said, stopping to face his sister. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars tomorrow. After I give you this money, I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again. I don’t want to see you anywhere near Momma’s house. Do you hear me? You can go and crawl in a hole and smoke all the crack you want.”

Jamillah scratched her head and wrinkled her brows as if she were deep in thought. “I need it tonight.”


“Fuck you,” she said, frowning up her bony little face. “Don’t forget what I know.”

“Don’t you forget it,” Urban snapped.

Jamillah looked at Urban with a mixture of fear and hatred burning in her eyes.

He walked around her and out the door. His nostrils welcomed the cool night’s air and he took in a deep, lung-cleansing breath.

Jamillah was still trying to keep up.

“You gonna give me the money or I’mma call the police and mess up your perfect little world, Urban. I hate to do it, but I will. I still remember everything. You got a lot of nerve running around her passing judgment on people after what you did.”

Urban paused and thought back to a rainy night fifteen years ago when he did something that changed his life and him forever. He forced the thought from his mind.

“I’m giving you one-thousand dollars. Take it or leave it,” Urban said, not even dignifying her threat.

Jamillah started laughing. A very hearty, yet patronizing laugh.

“Five-thousand! If you want that baby, then the price is five-thousand dollars. And being that one little anonymous phone call from me to the proper people can shatter your little world, if I were you, I would get my banker on the phone as soon as possible, big brother.”

Urban didn’t respond; he just stared at the shell of a woman that stood in front of him.

“Yeah, you can mean mug me all you want, but tell me why I wouldn’t use what I know to get what I need?” Jamillah asked with her bony hands on her hips.

“Momma Winnie’s worried sick about you,” he said, refusing to be baited by her.

That seemed to set her off. “Well, tell your momma I’m fine and stop all that fake shit. She don’t care about me, you, or anybody else. Fuck her.”

Urban couldn’t tell if it was the drugs talking, but that response about the woman who cared more for her than she did for herself was way out of line.

“I should slap the taste out of your mouth for saying something that stupid,” Urban said, feeling himself losing control of his temper by the second. “She’s up right now, crying her eyes out over your sorry ass. She’s probably the only person on this earth who still cares about you, you pathetic piece of shit. Now get the hell out of my face.”

“Fuck you!” she screamed. “And you can tell your Momma I said to forget about me. Tell her you found me dead. Tell her I stuck a needle in my arm and blew my damn heart up.”

“Why don’t you go and make that happen for real!”

Jamillah got quiet and stared at her brother. She looked at Urban as his last words to her cut deeper than any other scar the streets could ever throw at her. She couldn’t help but wonder if he really meant that or if he was speaking from anger. She needed to believe that it was the latter.

“What time will you be bringing me my money?” Jamillah asked as she fought the urge to cry.

“When I get up,” he said, holding the baby close to his chest.

“What time, Urban?” she repeated. “And don’t try to play me or you will regret the day you ever decided to play Mr. Badass, big brother.”

Urban started walking again.

“I need some money. What do you have on you?”

Urban stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. At that point, he simply wanted to get out of there. “Here,” he said, holding the money out.

Jamillah snatched it before he could say another word.

It was time to leave the drug-infested neighborhood and get back to the comforts of his own life in suburban Atlanta. The baby was crying and he couldn’t take the sight of Jamillah anymore.

Jamillah stuffed the money into her pocket. “Let’s go,” she said. A man who was lurking in the shadows joined her and they took off across the street. “I want my five-thousand dollars, Urban!” she yelled.

And just like that, she was gone.

Urban thought he was used to his sister’s foolishness, but this took the cake. His heart broke into a million little pieces as he stared into the innocent eyes of the little brown-skinned baby.

Then he had a visual of Jamillah handing his nephew over to some crazed pedophile where torture and torment would be his only future.

Who else would buy a baby from a crack head?

Urban looked at the baby and surmised he couldn’t have been any more than a few months old. He was wrapped in a jean jacket and a dirty T-shirt served as his diaper.

“Let’s go, little buddy,” Urban said as they got into his truck. He blasted the heat. “Uncle Urban’s gonna make it all right.”

If you enjoyed this excerpt, please purchase Dark Child at your local bookstore or order it online at: http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Child-Novel-Zane-Presents/dp/159309244X/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247597869&sr=1-2


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