Drawing Blood

Drawing Blood

Poppy Z. Brite

Language: English

Pages: 259

ISBN: 0440214920

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Escaping from his North Carolina home after his father murders their family and commits suicide, Trevor McGee returns to confront the past, and finds himself haunted by the same demons that drove his father to insanity.

The Puppeteers Of Palem

Wrath of the Bloodeye (Wardstone Chronicles / Last Apprentice, Book 5)

Little Comic Shop of Horrors (Give Yourself Goosebumps, Book 17)

Asylum

The Golem

Penpal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

huge raw nerve. Zach’s heartbeat throbbed deep in his guts. Light poured out of the vortex, sparkling, swarming. Beyond that vortex was Birdland. If he was ever going to be with Zach again, he had to go there now. Trevor let himself go. “Trev? Trevor?! GODDAMMIT, TREVOR!!!” Zach punched the pillow beside Trevor’s head. Trevor didn’t move or seem to hear. Zach had felt Trevor’s back arching, Trevor’s come welling into his palm and dripping between his ringers, and he had nearly come too. But

exaggerated now; those honey-colored eyes were like chips of topaz set in a ruined mosaic. His lips twitched as he leaned toward Zach. He stroked Zach’s thigh with a disintegrating hand. “Oh,” he whispered, “just come over here and let’s fuck . . .” Then he was the person before that. And then he was the person before that. And then she was the person before that. And they just kept changing, and they just got worse . . . Zach shoved himself out of his seat and stumbled backward down the row.

door, pushed it shut behind him. The sidewalk was bright and dazzling, and he realized he was about as stoned as he could be. But he knew his rights. If they didn’t have a warrant, he didn’t have to let them in the store. “I’m doing inventory,” he explained, “and there’s stuff piled up everywhere. I can’t have a bunch of people walking around knocking my stacks over. You wanna ask me something out here?” “Your name?” “Terry Buckett. I own this place.” The other agent, Schulman, reached into

and secondhand treasures, Kinsey stood woolgathering for the better part of an hour in his own clean comforting kitchen. Hank Williams’s nasal twang poured out of the car speakers as raw and potent as moonshine spiked with honey. Zach pondered it as he drove. It should not have been a remarkable voice; it was nothing but a po’bucker whine straight from the backwoods of Alabama. But there was something golden and tragic in it, some lost soul that fell to its knees and sobbed every time Hank

Raleigh with Momma one day. He brought his sketchbook and sat in a corner of the big airy studio that smelled of paint thinner and charcoal dust. Momma stood gracefully naked on a wooden podium at the front of the room, joking with the students when she took her breaks. Some of them laughed at him, bent over his sketchbook so quiet and serious. Their laughter faltered when they saw the likenesses he had produced of them during the class period: the stringy-haired girl whose granny glasses pinched

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