Dexter Is Delicious: Dexter Morgan (5)
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The “Dexter” phenomenon—in bookstores, on TV screens, and in the hearts of millions of fans worldwide—continues with his most delectable dish to date.
Dexter Morgan’s neatly organized life as a blood spatter analyst for the Miami Police, devoted husband and father, and killer of only those who deserve it is turned upside down by the arrival of his new daughter, Lily Anne. Feeling surprisingly sunny and loving, he’s trying to suppress the influence of his Dark Passenger—the voice inside who guides his homicidal urges. But Dexter is summoned to investigate the disappearance of a seventeen-year-old girl who has been running with a bizarre group of goths who fancy themselves to be vampires. As Dexter gets closer to the truth of what happened to the missing girl, he realizes they are not really vampires, but cannibals. And most disturbing, these people have their eyes on Dexter . . . and their mouths are watering.
sweat was already soaking my back and rolling off my face as I opened the back door and knelt down to look. Yes, a garbage bag. But how? How did it get here, on the floor in the backseat, when all the others had gone carefully into the trunk, and then— And then a car pulled into the slot next to mine and after a bright stab of total panic I took a deep and calming breath. This was not a problem, not for me. Whoever it was, I would simply give them a cheerful hello and they would be off and into
my spine. ELEVEN IT WAS A FRETFUL NIGHT FOR ME, WITH PATCHES OF SLEEP separated by deep bogs of restless wakefulness. I felt assailed by something I could only think of as nameless dread, a terrible lurking thing egged on by a voiceless unease from the Passenger, who seemed for once to be absolutely uncertain, just as flummoxed as I was. I might possibly have flogged this beast into its cage and found a few hours of blissful unconsciousness—but then, there was also Lily Anne. Dear,
focus like she’d been slapped and I saw the familiar sight of her jaw muscles working. “I don’t care if he’s Jesus,” she snarled, and it was very good to see the old venom return. She got out of the car and began to stride up the sidewalk to the front door. I got out and followed, catching up to her just as she pushed the doorbell. There was no response, and she shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot. Just as she reached a hand up to ring a second time, the door swung open, and a short,
sample. We had several vials of antiserum in the lab, so it was only a matter of adding my sample to one of them and swirling the two together in a test tube. I had just finished when my cell phone began to chime. For a brief, irrational moment, I thought it might be Lily Anne calling, but reality reared its ugly head in the form of my sister, Deborah. Not that her head is actually ugly, but she is very demanding. “What have you got,” she demanded. “I think I may have dysentery from the
taste?” And we pull the duct tape from his lips; he is too far gone into true pain to notice the rip of the sticky tape coming off, but he breathes in deep and slow and his eyes find mine. “How did she taste?” we say again, and he nods with that final acceptance of what must be. “She tasted great,” he says in a raspy voice that knows there is no time left for anything but very final truth. “Better than the others. It was … fun.…” He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again that