2007, ISBN: 9780802136886

Gebundene Ausgabe

Dell. Good. 4.16 x 1.06 x 6.71 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 416 pages. Cover worn <br>In a world of sorcery and seduction, th e nights bring out the beautiful, the damned, a… Mehr…

Dell. Good. 4.16 x 1.06 x 6.71 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 416 pages. Cover worn <br>In a world of sorcery and seduction, th e nights bring out the beautiful, the damned, and the desired. He re, Riley Jenson is on her own-half werewolf, half vampire, worki ng for an organization created to police the supernatural races. Trusting her superiors and lovers barely more than she trusts her worst enemies, Riley plays by her own set of rules. Her latest m ission: to enter the heavily guarded pleasure palace of a crimina l named Deshon Starr-a madman-scientist who's been messing around in the gene pool for decades. With two sexy men-a cool, seduct ive vampire and an irresistibly hot wolf-vying for her attention, Riley must keep focused. Because saving the world from Deshon St arr will mean saving herself-from the trap that's closing in arou nd her. . . . Editorial Reviews About the Author Keri Arthur fi rst started writing when she was twelve years old, and to date, s he's finished fifteen novels. Her books have received many nomina tions and prizes, including making the final five in the Random H ouse Australia George Turner Prize. She has also been nominated i n the Best Contemporary Paranormal category of the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Awards, received a 'perfect 10' from Romance Re views Today, as well as being nominated for Best Shapeshifter in PNR's PEARL Awards. She's a dessert and function cook by trade, a nd married to a wonderful man who not only supports her writing, but who also does the majority of the housework. They have one da ughter, and live in Melbourne, Australia. Excerpt. ® Reprinted b y permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Training sucked. Especially when the main aim of that training was to make me som ething I'd once vowed never to become-a guardian for the Director ate of Other Races. Becoming a guardian might have been inevitab le, and I might have accepted it on some levels, but that didn't mean I had to be happy about the whole process. Guardians were f ar more than just the specialized cops most humans thought them t o be-they were judge, jury, and executioners. None of this legal crap the human cops were forced to put up with. Of course, the pe ople in front of a guardian's metaphoric bullet were generally ou t-of-control psychos who totally deserved to die, but stalking th e night with the aim of ending their undead lives still wasn't so mething that had reached my to-do list. Even if my wolf soul so metimes hungered to hunt more than I might wish to acknowledge. But if there was one thing worse than going through all the train ing that was involved in becoming a guardian, then it was trainin g with my brother. I couldn't con him. Couldn't flirt or flash a bit of flesh to make him forget his train of thought. Couldn't mo an that I'd had enough and that I couldn't go on, because he wasn 't just my brother, but my twin. He knew exactly what I could an d couldn't do, because he could feel it. We mightn't share the te lepathy of twins, but we knew when the other was hurting or in tr ouble. And right now, Rhoan was fully aware of the fact that I w as trying to pike. And he knew why. I had a hot date with an eve n hotter werewolf. In precisely one hour. If I left now, I coul d get home and clean up before Kellen-the hot date in question-ca me by to pick me up. Any later, and he'd see me as the beaten-up scruff I usually was these days. Isn't Liander cooking you a roa st this evening? I said, casually waving the wooden baton I'd bee n given but had yet to use. Mainly because I didn't want to hit m y brother. He, however, didn't have the same problem, and the br uises littering my body proved it. But then, he didn't really wa nt me to be doing this. Didn't want me on the mission drawing ine xorably closer. Yes. He continued to circle me, his pace as casu al as his expression. I wasn't fooled. Couldn't be, when I could feel the tension in his body almost as well as I could feel it in mine. But he has no intention of putting it on until I phone and tell him I'm on my way to his place. It's his birthday. You sho uld be there to celebrate it with him rather than putting me thro ugh the wringer. He shifted suddenly, stepping forward, the bato n a pale blur as he lashed out at me. I ignored the step and the blow, holding still as the breeze of the baton's passing caressed the fingers of my left hand. He was only playing, and we both kn ew it. I wouldn't even see his real move. He grinned. I'll be t here as soon as this is over. And he did invite you along, rememb er. And spoil the private party you have planned? My voice was d ry. I don't think so. Besides, I'd rather party with Kellen. Mea ning Quinn is still out of the picture? Not entirely. I shifted a little, keeping him in sight as he continued to circle. The pad ded green mats that covered the Directorate's sublevel training a rena squeaked in protest under my bare feet. Your sweat is causi ng that, he commented. But there's not nearly enough of it. Jesu s, Rhoan, have a heart. I haven't seen Kellen for nearly a week. I want to play with him, not you. He raised an eyebrow, a devili sh glint in his silver eyes. You get me on the mat, and I'll let you go. It's not you I want on the mat! If you don't fight me, they'll make you fight Gautier. And I don't think either of us wa nts that. And if I do fight you, and do manage to bring you down , they're going to make me fight him, anyway. Which pretty much s ucked. I wasn't overly fond of vampires at the best of times, but some of them-like Quinn, who was in Sydney tending to his airlin e business, and Jack, my boss, and the man in charge of the whole guardian division-were decent people. Gautier was just a murderi ng freak. He might be a guardian, and he might not have done anyt hing wrong just yet, but he was one of the bad guys. He was also a clone made for one specific purpose-to take over the Directorat e. He hadn't made his move yet, but I had an odd premonition that he would, and soon. Rhoan made another feint. This time the bat on skimmed my knuckles, stinging but not breaking skin. I resiste d the urge to shake the pain away and shifted my stance a little, readying for the real attack. So, what's happening between you and Quinn? Nothing had happened, and that was the whole problem. After making such a song and dance about me upholding my end of the deal we'd made, he'd basically played absent lover for the la st few months. I blew out a frustrated breath, lifting the sweaty strands of hair from my forehead. Can't we have this discussion after I play with Kellen? No, he said, and blurred so fast that he literally disappeared from normal sight. And while I could hav e tracked his heat signature with the infrared of my vampire visi on, I didn't actually need to, because my hearing and nose were w olf-sharp. Not only could I hear his light steps on the vinyl mat s as he circled around me, but I could track the breeze of his sp icy, leathery scent. Both were now approaching from behind. I d ove out of the way, twisting around even as I hit the mat, and la shed out with a foot. The blow connected hard and low against the back of his leg, and he grunted, his form reappearing as he stum bled and fought to remain standing. I scrambled upright, and lun ged toward him. I wasn't fast enough by half. He scooted well out of reach and shook his head. You're not taking this seriously, R iley. Yes, I am. Just not as seriously as he'd like me to. Not t his evening, anyway. Are you that desperate to fight Gautier? N o, but I am that desperate to see Kellen. Sexual frustration wasn 't a good thing for anyone, but it was particularly bad for a wer ewolf. Sex was an ingrained part of our culture-we needed it as m uch as a vampire needed blood. And this goddamn training had been taking up so much of my free time that I hadn't even been able t o get down to the Blue Moon for some action. I blew out another breath, and tried to think calm thoughts. As much as I didn't wa nt to hurt my brother, if that was the only way out of here, then I might have to try. But if I did succeed in beating him, then Jack might take that as a sign I was ready for the big one. And p art of me feared that-feared that no matter what Jack said, my br other was right when he said that I shouldn't be doing this. That I was never going to be ready for it, no matter how much trainin g I got. That I'd screw it all up, and put everyone's life in da nger. Not that Rhoan had actually said that last one. But as the time to infiltrate Deshon Starr's crime cartel drew nearer, it w as in my thoughts more and more. It's a stupid rule, and you kno w it, I said eventually. Fighting Gautier doesn't prove anything. He is the best at what he does. Fighting him makes guardians re ady for what they may face out there. Difference is, I don't wan t to become a full-time guardian. You have no choice now, Riley. I knew that, but that didn't mean I still couldn't rail against the prospect, even if my protests were only empty words. Hell, i f Jack came up to me today and offered me the chance to walk away from becoming a guardian, I wouldn't, because there was no way i n hell I'd walk away from the chance of making Deshon Starr pay. Not only because of what he'd done to me, but what he'd done to M isha, and to Kade's partner, and all those countless men and wome n still locked in breeding cells somewhere. Not to mention all t he things given life in his labs-abominations nature would never have created, creatures born for two purposes only. To kill as or dered, and to die as ordered. A chill ran across my skin. I'd on ly come across a few of those creatures, but I had a bad, bad fee ling that before this month was out, I'd see a whole lot more tha n I ever wanted to. I licked my lips, and tried to concentrate o n Rhoan. If I had to get him down on the mat to get out of here, then I would. I wanted, needed, to grab a little bit more of a no rmal life before the crap set in again. Because it was coming. I could feel it. A shadow flickered across one of the windows li ning the wall to the right of Rhoan. Given it was nearly six, it was probably just a guardian getting himself ready for the evenin g's hunt. This arena was on sublevel 5, right next to the guardia n sleeping quarters. Which, amusingly, did contain coffins. Some vamps just loved living up to human expectations, even if they we ren't actually necessary. Not that any humans ever came down he re. That would be like leading a lamb into the midst of a hungry den of lions. To say it would get ugly very quickly would be an u nderstatement. Guardians might be paid to protect humans, but the y sure as hell weren't above snacking on the occasional one, eith er. The shadow slipped past another window, and this time, Rhoan 's gaze flickered in that direction. Only briefly, but that half- second gave me an idea. I twisted, spinning and lashing out with one bare foot. My heel skimmed his stomach, forcing him backward . His baton arced around, his blow barely avoiding my shin, then he followed the impetus of the movement so that he was spinning a nd kicking in one smooth motion. His heel whistled mere inches fr om my nose, and probably would have connected if I hadn't leaned back. He nodded approvingly. Now, that's a little more like it. I grunted, shifting my stance and throwing the baton from one ha nd to the other. The slap of wood against flesh echoed in the sil ence surrounding us, and tension ran across his shoulders. I held his gaze, then caught the baton left-handed and started to hit o ut. Only to pull the blow up short and let my gaze go beyond him. Hi, Jack. Rhoan turned around, and, in that moment, I dropped and kicked his legs out from underneath him. He hit the mat with a loud splat, his surprised expression dissolving quickly into a bark of laughter. The oldest trick in the book, and I fell for i t. I grinned. Old tricks sometimes have their uses. And I guess this means you're free to go. He held up a hand. Help me up. I' m not that stupid, brother. Amusement twinkled in his silvery ey es as he climbed to his feet. Worth a try, I guess. So I can go? That was the deal. He rose and walked across to the side of the arena to grab the towel he'd draped over the railing earlier. Bu t you're back here tomorrow morning at six sharp. I groaned. Tha t's just plain mean. He ran the towel across his spiky red hair, and even though I couldn't see his expression, I knew he was gri nning. Sometimes my brother could be a real pain in the ass. May be next time you'll reconsider the option of cheating. It's not cheating if it works. Though his smile still lingered, little of that amusement reached his eyes. He was worried, truly worried, about my part in the mission we'd soon embark on. He didn't want me to do this any more than I'd wanted him to become a guardian. But as he'd said to me all those years ago, some directions in li fe just had to be accepted. You're here to learn defense and off ense, he said. Inane tricks won't save your life. If they only s ave it once, then they're worth trying. He shook his head. I can see I'm not going to talk any sense into you until after the sex fest. Glad you finally caught the gist of my whole conversation for the last hour. I grinned. And hey, look on the bright side: L iander's going to be mighty pleased to see you at a normal hour f or a change. He grunted. Well, if he wasn't so damn clingy, he m ight see me early more often. I raised my eyebrows at the annoya nce in his tone. He gives you free rein to be with who you want. I hardly call that clingy. I know, but- He stopped and shrugged. I don't know if I can give him what he wants. I don't know if I' ll ever be able to. Which was almost exactly what I'd said to Qu inn two months ago. It was amazing how our love lives seemed to b e following similar lines-although my reasons for saying those wo rds to Quinn were entirely different than my brother's statement. Rhoan actually loved Liander. I couldn't say the same about Quin n. Hell, we barely even knew each other beyond the realms of sex. And at least Liander had stuck with Rhoan, through good times a nd bad. Quinn had done a runner yet again, despite his declared i ntention of not letting me go until we'd fully explored this thin g between us. How he, Dell, 2007, 2.5, Bantam. Good. 4.21 x 1.19 x 6.86 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2000. 464 pages. Cover worn <br>With her bestselling mystery series fea turing Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell, Laurie R. King has creat ed lively adventure in the very best of intellectual company, acc ording to The New York Times Book Review. Now the author of The B eekeeper's Apprentice and The Moor--the first writer since Patric ia Cornwell to win both the American Edgar and British Creasey Aw ards for a debut novel (A Grave Talent)--unfolds a hitherto unkno wn chapter in the history of Russell's apprenticeship to the grea t detective. At the close of the year 1918, forced to flee Engla nd's green and pleasant land, Russell and Holmes enter British-oc cupied Palestine under the auspices of Holmes' enigmatic brother, Mycroft. Gentlemen, we are at your service. Thus Holmes greets the two travel-grimed Arab figures who receive them in the orange groves fringing the Holy Land. Whatever role could the volatile Ali and the taciturn Mahmoud play in Mycroft's design for this la nd the British so recently wrested from the Turks? After passing a series of tests, Holmes and Russell learn their guides are enga ged in a mission for His Majesty's Government, and disguise thems elves as Bedouins--Russell as the beardless youth Amir--to join t hem in a stealthy reconnaissance through the dusty countryside. A recent rash of murders seems unrelated to the growing tensions between Jew, Moslem, and Christian, yet Holmes is adamant that he must reconstruct the most recent one in the desert gully where i t occurred. His singular findings will lead him and Russell throu gh labyrinthine bazaars, verminous inns, cliff-hung monasteries-- and into mortal danger. When her mentor's inquiries jeopardize hi s life, Russell fearlessly wields a pistol and even assays the ar ts of seduction to save him. Bruised and bloodied, the pair ascen d to the jewellike city of Jerusalem, where they will at last mee t their adversary, whose lust for savagery and power could reduce the city's most ancient and sacred place to rubble and ignite th is tinderbox of a land.... Classically Holmesian yet enchantingl y fresh, sinuously plotted, with colorful characters and a dazzli ng historic ambience, O Jerusalem sweeps readers ever onward in t he thrill of the chase. From the Hardcover edition. Editorial R eviews Review Praise for Laurie R. King's Mary Russell novels: The great marvel of King's series is that she's managed to preser ve the integrity of Holmes' character and yet somehow conjure up a woman astute, edgy, and compelling enough to be the partner of his mind as well as his heart. --The Washington Post Book World The Moor: There's no resisting the appeal of King's thrillingly m oody scenes of Dartmoor and her lovely evocations of its legends. --The New York Times Book Review Erudite, fascinating...by all odds the most successful recreation of the famous inhabitant of 2 21B Baker Street ever attempted. --Houston Chronicle A Letter Of Mary: A lively adventure in the very best of intellectual compan y. --The New York Times Book Review An intellectual puzzler, ful l of bright red herrings and dazzling asides. --Chicago Tribune A Monstrous Regiment of Women: As audacious as it is entertaining and moving. --Chicago Tribune King has a gift for the rich, dec isive detail and the narrative crispness that distinguished Conan Doyle's writing. --The Washington Post Book World Beguiling...t antalizing. --The Boston Globe The Beekeeper's Apprentice: Rousi ng...riveting...suspenseful. --Chicago Sun-Times Worthy and welc ome, with the power to charm the most grizzled Baker Street Irreg ular. --Daily News, New York From the Hardcover edition. From t he Inside Flap With her bestselling mystery series featuring Sher lock Holmes and Mary Russell, Laurie R. King has created lively a dventure in the very best of intellectual company, according to T he New York Times Book Review. Now the author of The Beekeeper's Apprentice and The Moor--the first writer since Patricia Cornwell to win both the American Edgar and British Creasey Awards for a debut novel (A Grave Talent)--unfolds a hitherto unknown chapter in the history of Russell's apprenticeship to the great detective . At the close of the year 1918, forced to flee England's green and pleasant land, Russell and Holmes enter British-occupied Pale stine under the auspices of Holmes' enigmatic brother, Mycroft. Gentlemen, we are at your service. Thus Holmes greets the two tra vel-grimed Arab figures who receive them in the orange groves fri nging the Holy Land. Whatever role could the volatile Ali and the taciturn Mahmoud play in Mycroft's design for this land the Brit ish so recently wrested from the Turks? After passing a series of tests, Holmes and Russell learn their guides are engaged in a mi ssion for His Majesty's Government, and disguise themselves as Be douins--Russell as the beardless youth Amir--to join them in a st ealthy reconnaissance through the dusty countryside. A recent ra sh of murders seems unrelated to the growing tensions between Jew , Moslem, and Christian, yet Holmes is adamant that he must recon struct the most recent one in the desert gully where it occurred. His singular findings will lead him and Russell through labyrint hine bazaars, verminous inns, cliff-hung monasteries--and into mo rtal danger. When her mentor's inquiries jeopardize his life, Rus sell fearlessly wields a pistol and even assays the arts of seduc tion to save him. Bruised and bloodied, the pair ascend to the je wellike city of Jerusalem, where they will at last meet their adv ersary, whose lust for savagery and power could reduce the city's most ancient and sacred place to rubble and ignite this tinderbo x of a land.... Classically Holmesian yet enchantingly fresh, si nuously plotted, with colorful characters and a dazzling historic ambience, O Jerusalem sweeps readers ever onward in the thrill o f the chase. From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Lauri e R. King lives with her family in the hills above Monterey Bay i n northern California. Her background includes such diverse inter ests as Old Testament theology and construction work, and she has been writing crime fiction since 1987. The winner of both the Ed gar and the John Creasey Awards for Best First Novel, her most re cent novel is A Darker Place. From the Hardcover edition. Excer pt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The skiff was black, its gunwales scant inches above the waves. Like my two co mpanions, I was dressed in dark clothing, my face smeared with la mp-black. The rowlocks were wrapped and muffled; the loudest soun ds in all the night were the light slap of water on wood and the rhythmic rustle of Steven's clothing as he pulled at the oars. H olmes stiffened first, then Steven's oars went still, and finally I too heard it: a distant deep thrum of engines off the starboar d side. It was not the boat we had come on, but it was approachin g fast, much too fast to outrun. Steven shipped the oars without a sound, and the three of us folded up into the bottom of the ski ff. The engines grew, and grew, until they filled the night and seemed to be right upon us, and still they grew, until I began to doubt the wisdom of this enterprise before it had even begun. Ho lmes and I kept our faces pressed against the boards and stared u p at the outline that was Steven, his head raised slightly above the boat. He turned to us, and I could see the faint gleam of his teeth as he spoke. They're coming this way, might not see us if they don't put their searchlights on. If they're going to hit us I'll give you ten seconds' warning. Fill your lungs, dive off to the stern as far as you can, and swim like the living hell. Best take your shoes off now. Holmes and I wrestled with each other' s laces and tugged, then lay again waiting. The heavy churn seeme d just feet away, but Steven said nothing. We remained frozen. My teeth ached with the noise, and the thud of the ship's engines b ecame my heart-beat, and then terrifyingly a huge wall loomed abo ve us and dim lights flew past over our heads. Without warning th e skiff dropped and then leapt into the air, spinning about in ti me to hit the next wave broadside, drenching us and coming within a hair's-breadth of overturning before we were slapped back into place by the following one, sliding down into the trough and mou nting the next. Down and up and down and around we were tossed un til eventually, wet through and dizzy as a child's top, we bobble d on the sea like the piece of flotsam we were and listened to th e engines fade. Steven sat up. Anyone overboard? he asked softly . We're both here, Holmes assured him. His voice was not complet ely level, and from the bow came the brief flash of Steven's teet h. Welcome to Palestine, he whispered, grinning ferociously. I groaned as I eased myself upright. My shoulder feels broken and-- oh, damn, I've lost a boot. How are you, Holmes? It was barely tw o weeks since a bomb had blown up just behind him as he stood ten ding a beehive, and although his abrasions were healing, his skin was far from whole. My back survives, Russell, and your footwea r is here. Holmes thrust the boot at me and I fumbled to take it, then bent and pulled it and the one I had managed to hold on to back over my sodden woollen stockings. Why don't they put more r unning lights on? I complained. Troop ship, explained Steven. St ill a bit nervous about submarines. There're rumours about that s ome of the German captains haven't heard the war's over yet. Or d on't want to hear. Quiet with the bailing now, he ordered. Taking the oars back in his hands, he turned us about and continued the steady pull to shore. The remaining mile passed without inciden t. Even with the added water on board, Steven worked the oars wit h a strong, smooth ease that would have put him on an eights team in Oxford. He glanced over his shoulder occasionally at the appr oaching shore, where we were to meet two gentlemen in the employ of His Majesty's government, Ali and Mahmoud Hazr. Other than the ir names, I hadn't a clue what awaited us here. Looking up from the bailing, I eventually decided that he was making for a spot m idway between a double light north of us and a slightly amber sin gle light to the south. Swells began to rise beneath the bow and the sound of breaking waves drew closer, until suddenly we were s kimming through the white foam of mild surf, and with a jar we cr unched onto the beach. Steven immediately shipped his oars, stoo d, and stepped over the prow of the little boat into the shallow water. Holmes grabbed his haversack and went next, jumping lightl y onto the coarse shingle. I followed, pausing for a moment on th e bow to squint through my salt-smeared spectacles at the dark sh ore. Steven put his hand up to help me, and as I shifted my eyes downward they registered with a shock two figures standing perfec tly still, thirty feet or so behind Holmes. Holmes, I hissed, th ere are two women behind you! Steven's hand on mine hesitated br iefly, then tugged again. Miss Russell, there'll be a patrol any minute. It's all right. I stepped cautiously into the water besi de him and moved up to where Holmes stood. Salaam aleikum, Steve n, came a voice from the night: accented, low, and by no means th at of a woman. Aleikum es-salaam, Ali. I hope you are well. Pra ise be to God, was the reply. I have a pair of pigeons for you. They could have landed at a more convenient time, Steven. Shall I take them away again? No, Steven. We accept delivery. Mahmoud regrets we cannot ask you to come and drink coffee, but at the m oment, it would not be wise. Maalesh, he added, using the all-pur pose Arabic expression that was a verbal shrug of the shoulders a t life's inequities and accidents. I thank Mahmoud, and will acc ept another time. Go with God, Ali. Allah watch your back, Steve n. Steven put his hip to the boat and shoved it out, then scramb led on board; his oars flashed briefly. Before he had cleared the breakwater, Holmes was hurrying me up the beach in the wake of t he two flowing black shapes. I stumbled when my boots left the sh ingle and hit a patch of paving stones, and then we were on a str eet, in what seemed to be a village or the outskirts of a town. For twenty breathless minutes our path was hindered by nothing mo re than uneven ground and the occasional barking mongrel, but abr uptly the two figures in front of us whirled around, swept us int o a filthy corner, and there we cowered, shivering in our damp cl othing, while two pairs of military boots trod slowly past and tw o torches illuminated various nooks and crannies, including ours. I froze when the light shone bright around the edges of the cloa ks that covered us, but the patrol must have seen only a pile of rubbish and rags, because the light played down our alley for onl y a brief instant, and went away, leaving us a pile of softly bre athing bodies. Some of us stank of garlic and goats. The footste ps faded around a corner, and we were caught up by our guides as rapidly as we had been pushed down in the first place, and swept off again down the road. This was the land my people had clung t o for more than three thousand years, I thought with irony: a squ alid, stinking village whose inhabitants were kept inside their c rumbling walls by the occupying British Expeditionary Forces. The streets of the Promised Land flowed not with milk and honey but with ordure, and the glories of Askalon and Asdod were faded inde ed. The third time we were pushed bodily into a corner and cover ed with the garlic- and sweat-impregnated robes of our companions (neither of them women, as close proximity had quickly made appa rent, despite the cheap scent one of them wore). I thought I shou ld suffocate with the combined stench of perfume and the nauseous weeks-old fish entrails and sweetly acrid decaying oranges that we knelt in. We were there a long, long time before the two men r emoved their hands from our shoulders and let us up. I staggered a few steps away and gagged, gulping huge cleansing lungfuls of s ea air and scrubbing at my nose in a vain attempt to remove the l ingering smell. Holmes laid a hand on my back, and I pulled mysel f together and followed the men. We covered perhaps six miles th at night, though barely three if measured in a direct line. We fr oze, we doubled back, we went in circles. Once we lost one of the dark robed figures, only to have him rejoin us, equally silently , some twenty minutes and one large circui, Bantam, 2000, 2.5, Bantam. Good. 4.18 x 1.06 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2004. 496 pages. Cover very worn. Text tanned<br>The dead don't talk. I don't know why. But they do try to communicate, with a short-ord er cook in a small desert town serving as their reluctant confida nt. Odd Thomas thinks of himself as an ordinary guy, if possessed of a certain measure of talent at the Pico Mundo Grill and raptu rously in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, Stormy Llewellyn. Maybe he has a gift, maybe it's a curse, Odd has never been sure, but he tries to do his best by the silent souls who s eek him out. Sometimes they want justice, and Odd's otherworldly tips to Pico Mundo's sympathetic police chief, Wyatt Porter, can solve a crime. Occasionally they can prevent one. But this time i t's different. n nA mysterious man comes to town with a voracious appetite, a filing cabinet stuffed with information on the world 's worst killers, and a pack of hyena-like shades following him w herever he goes. Who the man is and what he wants, not even Odd's deceased informants can tell him. His most ominous clue is a pag e ripped from a day-by-day calendar for August 15. n nToday is A ugust 14. n nIn less than twenty-four hours, Pico Mundo will awak en to a day of catastrophe. As evil coils under the searing deser t sun, Odd travels through the shifting prisms of his world, stru ggling to avert a looming cataclysm with the aid of his soul mate and an unlikely community of allies that includes the King of Ro ck 'n' Roll. His account of two shattering days when past and pre sent, fate and destiny converge is the stuff of our worst nightma res-and a testament by which to live: sanely if not safely, with courage, humor, and a full heart that even in the darkness must p ersevere. n nFrom the Hardcover edition. n nEditorial Reviews n n Review nOnce in a very great while, an author does everything rig ht-as Koontz has in this marvelous novel.... the story, like most great stories, runs on character-and here Koontz has created a h ero whose honest, humble voice will resonate with many.... This i s Koontz working at his pinnacle, providing terrific entertainmen t that deals seriously with some of the deepest themes of human e xistence: the nature of evil, the grip of fate and the power of l ove.-Publishers Weekly n nDean Koontz almost occupies a genre of his own. He is a master at building suspense and holding the read er spellbound.-Richmond Times-Dispatch n nDean Koontz is not just a master of our darkest dreams, but also a literary juggler.-The Times (London) n nOnce more Dean Koontz presents readers with a story and cast of characters guaranteed to entertain.-Tulsa World n nFrom the Hardcover edition. n nFrom the Inside Flap n?The dea d don't talk. I don't know why.? But they do try to communicate, with a short-order cook in a small desert town serving as their r eluctant confidant. Odd Thomas thinks of himself as an ordinary g uy, if possessed of a certain measure of talent at the Pico Mundo Grill and rapturously in love with the most beautiful girl in th e world, Stormy Llewellyn. Maybe he has a gift, maybe it?s a curs e, Odd has never been sure, but he tries to do his best by the si lent souls who seek him out. Sometimes they want justice, and Odd ?s otherworldly tips to Pico Mundo's sympathetic police chief, Wy att Porter, can solve a crime. Occasionally they can prevent one. But this time it's different. nA mysterious man comes to town wi th a voracious appetite, a filing cabinet stuffed with informatio n on the world's worst killers, and a pack of hyena-like shades f ollowing him wherever he goes. Who the man is and what he wants, not even Odd?s deceased informants can tell him. His most ominous clue is a page ripped from a day-by-day calendar for August 15. n nToday is August 14. n nIn less than twenty-four hours, Pico M undo will awaken to a day of catastrophe. As evil coils under the searing desert sun, Odd travels through the shifting prisms of h is world, struggling to avert a looming cataclysm with the aid of his soul mate and an unlikely community of allies that includes the King of Rock 'n' Roll. His account of two shattering days whe n past and present, fate and destiny converge is the stuff of our worst nightmares?and a testament by which to live: sanely if not safely, with courage, humor, and a full heart that even in the d arkness must persevere. n nFrom the Hardcover edition. n nAbout t he Author nDean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times best sellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of t heir golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California. n nFrom th e Hardcover edition. n nExcerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All r ights reserved. nChapter One n nMY NAME IS ODD THOMAS, THOUGH IN THIS AGE WHEN fame is the altar at which most people worship, I a m not sure why you should care who I am or that I exist. n nI am not a celebrity. I am not the child of a celebrity. I have never been married to, never been abused by, and never provided a kidne y for transplantation into any celebrity. Furthermore, I have no desire to be a celebrity. n nIn fact I am such a nonentity by the standards of our culture that People magazine not only will neve r feature a piece about me but might also reject my attempts to s ubscribe to their publication on the grounds that the black-hole gravity of my noncelebrity is powerful enough to suck their entir e enterprise into oblivion. n nI am twenty years old. To a world- wise adult, I am little more than a child. To any child, however, I'm old enough to be distrusted, to be excluded forever from the magical community of the short and beardless. n nConsequently, a demographics expert might conclude that my sole audience is othe r young men and women currently adrift between their twentieth an d twenty-first birthdays. n nIn truth, I have nothing to say to t hat narrow audience. In my experience, I don't care about most of the things that other twenty-year-old Americans care about. Exce pt survival, of course. n nI lead an unusual life. n nBy this I d o not mean that my life is better than yours. I'm sure that your life is filled with as much happiness, charm, wonder, and abiding fear as anyone could wish. Like me, you are human, after all, an d we know what a joy and terror that is. n nI mean only that my l ife is not typical. Peculiar things happen to me that don't happe n to other people with regularity, if ever. n nFor example, I wou ld never have written this memoir if I had not been commanded to do so by a four-hundred-pound man with six fingers on his left ha nd. n nHis name is P. Oswald Boone. Everyone calls him Little Ozz ie because his father, Big Ozzie, is still alive. n nLittle Ozzie has a cat named Terrible Chester. He loves that cat. In fact, if Terrible Chester were to use up his ninth life under the wheels of a Peterbilt, I am afraid that Little Ozzie's big heart would n ot survive the loss. n nPersonally, I do not have great affection for Terrible Chester because, for one thing, he has on several o ccasions peed on my shoes. n nHis reason for doing so, as explain ed by Ozzie, seems credible, but I am not convinced of his truthf ulness. I mean to say that I am suspicious of Terrible Chester's veracity, not Ozzie's. n nBesides, I simply cannot fully trust a cat who claims to be fifty-eight years old. Although photographic evidence exists to support this claim, I persist in believing th at it's bogus. n nFor reasons that will become obvious, this manu script cannot be published during my lifetime, and my effort will not be repaid with royalties while I'm alive. Little Ozzie sugge sts that I should leave my literary estate to the loving maintena nce of Terrible Chester, who, according to him, will outlive all of us. n nI will choose another charity. One that has not peed on me. n nAnyway, I'm not writing this for money. I am writing it t o save my sanity and to discover if I can convince myself that my life has purpose and meaning enough to justify continued existen ce. n nDon't worry: These ramblings will not be insufferably gloo my. P. Oswald Boone has sternly instructed me to keep the tone li ght. n nIf you don't keep it light, Ozzie said, I'll sit my four- hundred-pound ass on you, and that's not the way you want to die. n nOzzie is bragging. His ass, while grand enough, probably weig hs no more than a hundred and fifty pounds. The other two hundred fifty are distributed across the rest of his suffering skeleton. n nWhen at first I proved unable to keep the tone light, Ozzie s uggested that I be an unreliable narrator. It worked for Agatha C hristie in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, he said. n nIn that first -person mystery novel, the nice-guy narrator turns out to be the murderer of Roger Ackroyd, a fact he conceals from the reader unt il the end. n nUnderstand, I am not a murderer. I have done nothi ng evil that I am concealing from you. My unreliability as a narr ator has to do largely with the tense of certain verbs. n nDon't worry about it. You'll know the truth soon enough. n nAnyway, I'm getting ahead of my story. Little Ozzie and Terrible Chester do not enter the picture until after the cow explodes. n nThis story began on a Tuesday. n nFor you, that is the day after Monday. Fo r me, it is a day that, like the other six, brims with the potent ial for mystery, adventure, and terror. n nYou should not take th is to mean that my life is romantic and magical. Too much mystery is merely an annoyance. Too much adventure is exhausting. And a little terror goes a long way. n nWithout the help of an alarm cl ock, I woke that Tuesday morning at five, from a dream about dead bowling-alley employees. n nI never set the alarm because my int ernal clock is so reliable. If I wish to wake promptly at five, t hen before going to bed I tell myself three times that I must be awake sharply at 4:45. n nWhile reliable, my internal alarm clock for some reason runs fifteen minutes slow. I learned this years ago and have adjusted to the problem. n nThe dream about the dead bowling-alley employees has troubled my sleep once or twice a mo nth for three years. The details are not yet specific enough to a ct upon. I will have to wait and hope that clarification doesn't come to me too late. n nSo I woke at five, sat up in bed, and sai d, Spare me that I may serve, which is the morning prayer that my Granny Sugars taught me to say when I was little. n nPearl Sugar s was my mother's mother. If she had been my father's mother, my name would be Odd Sugars, further complicating my life. n nGranny Sugars believed in bargaining with God. She called Him that old rug merchant. n nBefore every poker game, she promised God to spr ead His holy word or to share her good fortune with orphans in re turn for a few unbeatable hands. Throughout her life, winnings fr om card games remained a significant source of income. n nBeing a hard-drinking woman with numerous interests in addition to poker , Granny Sugars didn't always spend as much time spreading God's word as she promised Him that she would. She believed that God ex pected to be conned more often than not and that He would be a go od sport about it. n nYou can con God and get away with it, Grann y said, if you do so with charm and wit. If you live your life wi th imagination and verve, God will play along just to see what ou trageously entertaining thing you'll do next. n nHe'll also cut y ou some slack if you're astonishingly stupid in an amusing fashio n. Granny claimed that this explains why uncountable millions of breathtakingly stupid people get along just fine in life. n nOf c ourse, in the process, you must never do harm to others in any se rious way, or you'll cease to amuse Him. Then payment comes due f or the promises you didn't keep. n nIn spite of drinking lumberja cks under the table, regularly winning at poker with stone-hearte d psychopaths who didn't like to lose, driving fast cars with utt er contempt for the laws of physics (but never while intoxicated) , and eating a diet rich in pork fat, Granny Sugars died peaceful ly in her sleep at the age of seventy-two. They found her with a nearly empty snifter of brandy on the nightstand, a book by her f avorite novelist turned to the last page, and a smile on her face . n nJudging by all available evidence, Granny and God understood each other pretty well. n nPleased to be alive that Tuesday morn ing, on the dark side of the dawn, I switched on my nightstand la mp and surveyed the chamber that served as my bedroom, living roo m, kitchen, and dining room. I never get out of bed until I know who, if anyone, is waiting for me. n nIf visitors either benign o r malevolent had spent part of the night watching me sleep, they had not lingered for a breakfast chat. Sometimes simply getting f rom bed to bathroom can take the charm out of a new day. n nOnly Elvis was there, wearing the lei of orchids, smiling, and pointin g one finger at me as if it were a cocked gun. n nAlthough I enjo y living above this particular two-car garage, and though I find my quarters cozy, Architectural Digest will not be seeking an exc lusive photo layout. If one of their glamour scouts saw my place, he'd probably note, with disdain, that the second word in the ma gazine's name is not, after all, Indigestion. n nThe life-size ca rdboard figure of Elvis, part of a theater-lobby display promotin g Blue Hawaii, was where I'd left it. Occasionally, it moves--or is moved--during the night. n nI showered with peach-scented soap and peach shampoo, which were given to me by Stormy Llewellyn. H er real first name is Bronwen, but she thinks that makes her soun d like an elf. n nMy real name actually is Odd. n nAccording to m y mother, this is an uncorrected birth-certificate error. Sometim es she says they intended to name me Todd. Other times she says i t was Dobb, after a Czechoslovakian uncle. n nMy father insists t hat they always intended to name me Odd, although he won't tell m e why. He notes that I don't have a Czechoslovakian uncle. n nMy mother vigorously asserts the existence of the uncle, though she refuses to explain why I've never met either him or her sister, C ymry, to whom he is supposedly married. n nAlthough my father ack nowledges the existence of Cymry, he is adamant that she has neve r married. He says that she is a freak, but what he means by this I don't know, for he will say no more. n nMy mother becomes infu riated at the suggestion that her sister is any kind of freak. Sh e calls Cymry a gift from God but otherwise remains uncommunicati ve on the subject. n nI find i, Bantam, 2004, 2.5, Grove Press. Paperback. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included., Grove Press, 2.5<

2000, ISBN: 0802136885

[EAN: 9780802136886], Usato, buono stato, [SC: 8.34], [PU: Grove Press], Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that… Mehr…

[EAN: 9780802136886], Usato, buono stato, [SC: 8.34], [PU: Grove Press], Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included., Books<

2000, ISBN: 9780802136886

Paperback, All pages and cover are intact. Possible slightly loose binding, minor highlighting and marginalia, cocked spine or torn dust jacket. Maybe an ex-library copy and not include t… Mehr…

Paperback, All pages and cover are intact. Possible slightly loose binding, minor highlighting and marginalia, cocked spine or torn dust jacket. Maybe an ex-library copy and not include the accompanying CDs, access codes or other supplemental materials., Usato, buono stato, [PU: Grove Press]<

2000, ISBN: 9780802136886

Paperback, Connecting readers with great books since 1972! Used books may not include companion materials, and may have some shelf wear or limited writing. We ship orders daily and Custom… Mehr…

Paperback, Connecting readers with great books since 1972! Used books may not include companion materials, and may have some shelf wear or limited writing. We ship orders daily and Customer Service is our top priority!, Usato, ottimo stato, [PU: Grove Press]<

2000, ISBN: 9780802136886

Paperback, Connecting readers with great books since 1972! Used books may not include companion materials, and may have some shelf wear or limited writing. We ship orders daily and Custom… Mehr…

Paperback, Connecting readers with great books since 1972! Used books may not include companion materials, and may have some shelf wear or limited writing. We ship orders daily and Customer Service is our top priority!, Usato, ottimo stato, [PU: Grove Press]<