The Tattooed Heart: A Messenger of Fear Novel. Майкл Грант
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      First published in Great Britain 2015

       by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

       The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

      Published with arrangement with HarperTeen,

      a division of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 1350 Avenue of the Americas,

      New York, New York 10019, USA

      Text copyright © 2015 Michael Grant

       Illustrations copyright © Joe McLaren

      First e-book edition 2015

      ISBN 978 1 4052 6518 8

      Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1260 6

       www.egmont.co.uk

      A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

      Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties.

      Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

      Parts of this book are inspired by Aitzaz Hassan Bangash, who died saving his school from a suicide bomber. I’ve changed names, locations, and details to serve my story.

       For Katherine, Jake, and Julia.

       Contents

       Cover

       Title page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       5

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       Acknowledgments

       Back series promotional page

       Also by Michael Grant

      From childhood I suffered from occasional nightmares featuring the most vivid monsters and the most intense of emotions. A constant theme was helplessness. I was often paralyzed in my dreams. Or, if I could move, it was in slow motion while everything and everyone around me moved at normal speed. I would often wake myself by screaming. Deliberately, you see. In the throes of the horror I would tell myself to scream, to scream until I was awake.

      When my father died, my dreams changed and became bittersweet. I had one terrible dream in which I saw him dead. After that he was never dead, just far away. I never saw him in his casket, nor did my unconscious mind conjure the moment when an enemy’s bullet took his life. He was always alive and his eyes shone not with fear but with regret and love. I would savor those dreams and seek to prolong them. And when at last, reluctant, I woke, I would find my pillow wet.

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