By Glen Duncan
Glen Duncan provides a strong, horny re-creation of the werewolf legend, a riveting and sizeable thriller--with a profoundly human heart.
Jake Marlowe is the final werewolf. Now simply over 2 hundred years previous, Jake has an insatiable appreciation for sturdy scotch, books, and the pleasures of the flesh, with a voracious libido and a starvation for meat that drives him loopy every one complete moon. even if he's bodily fit, Jake has slipped right into a deep existential predicament, contemplating taking his personal existence and finishing a legend that has lived for millions of years. yet there are risky groups--one new, one ancient--with purposes in their personal for short of Jake very a lot alive.
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Extra resources for The Last Werewolf
Past that it was once too darkish for information. Jacqueline Delon, flanked via armed goons (ammo’d with what? wood bullets? ), seemed on the most sensible of the stairs in a faded gown to fulfill them. “What occurred? ” one of many vampires stated. The attribute boredom (a model of seen-it-all teenager tedium, forgivable, on the grounds that such a lot of of them have noticeable all of it) used to be lacking from his voice. “Come up,” Jacqueline acknowledged. “Just arise. We’ll speak. ” 4 of them went up the steps. The 5th, one of many women, stopped midway and grew to become. regarded at once at us. I felt Cloquet retaining his breath. Realised i used to be maintaining mine. considering that I couldn’t suppose her she shouldn’t, via rights, have the capacity to believe me. I’d left adequate distance among us. Even downwind her smell was once very moderate; mine will be imperceptible. yet there she stood, alert. The odour of Cloquet’s vomit, probably? Oh, for fuck’s sake: the blood from his wound. It’s the most obvious belongings you don’t examine. She hesitated, lifted her head, took her arms out of her wallet, took a leap forward and leaned into the darkness. “Mia, wake up the following. ” For a second her prolonged feel groped on the fringe of our charisma. Then it handed, neglected us, shrank again to its centre. She became and went fast up the stairs. 28 “NOW WHAT? ” CLOQUET stated. solid query. What i actually sought after used to be to lie down there at the delicate useless needles lower than the pines and permit myself waft right into a deep sleep, by some means. there has been profound convenience in it, that word, someway. “I’ll inform you something,” I acknowledged. “You’ll locate this tough to think, yet all I’m attempting to do is remain alive till the subsequent complete moon in order that a guy whose father I killed and ate 40 years in the past can minimize my werewolf head off or positioned a silver bullet in my werewolf center. ” Cloquet was once on his knees and elbows subsequent to me, it seems that a place that maximally relieved his butt, nuts and guts. “I don’t suppose well,” he stated. “I’ve misplaced loads of blood. ” “Hardly any. Don’t be a toddler. the following, have a toot. ” I passed him his coke tin. A pause. snorts. A businesslike groan of enjoyment. “C’est bon. Aie. C’est beau. Will they kill her? ” “Who is familiar with? They most likely won’t be ready to summon the considered necessary vim. ” “Vim? ” “Energy. ” “But what are we going to do? ” “Nothing. Watch and wait. And who the fuck are ‘we’? Starsky and Hutch? ” He chuckled, wheezily. The cocaine had cheered him. “In a way,” he stated, “I want you had fucked her. Then you’d be aware of. Then you’d recognize the elegant … Her asshole, for instance. It’s like a stern coquettish spoiled secretary operating for Himmler—” “Shut up, will you? i have to imagine. supply me a cigarette. ” the practical factor could were to damage Cloquet’s neck and slip away. Vampires sought after me alive—so what? It additional to the vocabulary of my crisis however the grammar remained unchanged. apart from Quinn’s e-book. The disgusting tale. Wild canines and lifeless our bodies and the iron style of historical reminiscence. Proximal enlightenment used to be a throbbing headache that wouldn’t subside. I cupped the Zippo, lit up, took a ferocious drag. The evidence remained, irrespective of how lengthy I stood there shuffling them: both the story’s actual or it’s fake.