Dead Men's Boots (Felix Castor 3) by MIKE CAREY

By MIKE CAREY

Chances are you'll imagine that supporting a friend's widow to forestall a attorney from stealing her husband's corpse could be the strangest factor in your To Do record. yet lifestyles isn't that straightforward for Felix Castor. A brutal homicide in King's pass bears all of the hallmarks of a long-dead American serial killer, and it takes extra sturdy experience than Castor possesses to not get entangled. he is additionally battling a felony conflict over the physique - if now not the soul - of his possessed good friend, Rafi, and cannot shake the sensation that his 3 difficulties may be comparable. With the aid of the succubus Juliet and paranoid zombie data-fence Nicky Heath, Castor simply may have an opportunity of becoming the items jointly sooner than anyone drops him down a boost shaft or rips his throat out. Or no longer. . .

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Sample text

Packer and the Donners and those soccer players had a world ahead of them. Dabney eyeballed Karl’s twitching face, sensing his thought process. ” Dabney asked, his voice neutral. “It’s a quote I remember because it seemed so fucked-up at the time. Now, I don’t know how I feel about it. The kid was talking about how they’d cooked their teammates. ’ It’s animal nature to survive. Man’s an animal. To survive, folks adapt. ” Karl doubled over and puked up the jerky. When he finished retching he remained bent over, hands gripping his knees to keep from toppling over, thick ropes of bilious saliva drooping from his twitching lower lip.

Alan implored. He’d raced up the stairs and now pounded on the door of 4A. This was excitement no one needed or wanted, least of all him, but he couldn’t just sit in his apartment and pretend it hadn’t happened. He’d heard the howl from the alley and had looked down in time to see Mike’s head come off, a sight he hoped Ellen had been spared from her vantage point, but probably not. He’d looked up from the alley’s floor and seen Ellen perched at her windowsill, eyes like saucers swimming in roomy sockets.

The hours had to be filled with something, so why not a little domestic turbulence? Sex took too much energy, and besides they were both so thin and kindlinglike it just wasn’t fun any more. Bones ricocheting off bones, loose skin flapping around, bad smells. But it also passed some time and sometimes that was enough. They’d read all their books and magazines. Neither had any talent worth pursuing. Mike had been into photography, but that was no longer an option. She wrote bad poetry back in the day, but now why bother?

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