My Dead Body: A Novel by Charlie Huston

By Charlie Huston

No one LIVES ceaselessly. now not EVEN A VAMPYRE.

Just ask Joe Pitt. After exposing the key resource of blood for 1/2 Manhattan’s Vampyres, he’s certainly a lifeless guy jogging. He’s been a punching bag and a bullet magnet for each Vampyre extended family in big apple, Brooklyn, and the Bronx, let alone a personal eye, an enforcer, an exile, and a vigilante, yet now he’s only a aim with legs.

For a yr he’s sloshed round the subway tunnels and sewers, tapping the veins of the misplaced, whereas above flooring a Vampyre civil warfare threatens to tug the Clans into the daylight as soon as and for all. What’s it gonna take to dig him up? simply the quest for a lacking lady who’s wearing a child that simply may be the future of Vampyre-kind. no longer that Joe cares all that a lot approximately future and such. What he cares approximately is that his ex-girl Evie wishes him to take the gig. What’s the danger? one other flip enjoying pigeon in a taking pictures gallery. What’s the present? probably one shot of his personal. What’s he aiming for? not anything a lot. simply the entire evil on the center of his global.

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Elle est très abandonnée, très sûre de moi. Pourtant elle cherche quelque chose, elle tient absolument à ce que nous entrions dans une cour, une cour de commissariat quelconque qu'elle explore rapidement. * Lequel fait face à la maison dont il vient d'être question, ceci toujours pour les amateurs de solutions faciles. (N. d. ) Nous nous faisons servir dehors par le marchand de vins... (p. 81). « Ce n'est pas là... Mais, dis-moi, pourquoi dois-tu aller en prison ? Qu'auras-tu fait ? Moi aussi j'ai été en prison.

Partout on lui a offert des salaires dérisoires. Il est arrivé aussi qu'avant de lui donner réponse on la regardât à deux fois. Un patron boulanger qui lui promettait dix-sept francs par jour, après avoir de nouveau levé les yeux sur elle, s'est repris : dix-sept ou dix-huit. Très enjouée : « Je lui ai dit : dix-sept, oui ; dix-huit, non. » Nous voici, au hasard de nos pas, rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière. Autour de nous on se hâte, c'est l'heure de dîner. Comme je veux prendre congé d'elle, elle demande qui m'attend.

J'ouvre, en m'éveillant, une lettre d'Aragon, venant d'Italie et accompagnant la reproduction photographique du détail central d'un tableau d'Uccello que je ne connaissais pas. Ce tableau a pour titre : La Profanation de l'Hostie *. Vers la fin de la journée, qui s'est passée sans autre incident, je me rends au bar habituel («À la Nouvelle France ») où j'attends vainement Nadja. Je redoute plus que jamais sa disparition. Ma seule ressource est d'essayer de découvrir où elle habite, non loin du Théâtre des Arts.

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