By Jeff Lindsay
Meet Dexter, a well mannered wolf in sheep’s garments . . . a monster who cringes on the web site of blood . . . a serial killer whose one golden rule makes him immensely likable: he purely kills undesirable people.
Dexter Morgan isn’t precisely the type of guy you’d carry domestic to mother. although he’s playful and has a superbly ironic humorousness, Dexter’s one personality flaw (his proclivity for homicide) might be off-putting. yet at center Dexter is the appropriate gentleman, supportive of his sister, Deb, a Miami cop, and purely in putting off those who quite deserve his distinctive stopover at. Dex is kind of handsome yet absolutely detached to (and, frankly, a section wondered through) the attentions paid to him via ladies. although he can’t stand the sight of blood, he works as a blood-spatter analyst for the Miami police division, a role that permits him to maintain tabs at the most recent crimes and maintain an eye fixed open for his subsequent quarry.
Dexter’s well-organized lifestyles is without warning disrupted whilst a moment, even more obvious serial killer looks in Miami. Dex is intrigued, even extremely joyful, via the truth that the opposite killer looks to have a mode akin to his personal. but he can’t support yet suppose that the mysterious new arrival isn't really in simple terms invading his turf, yet achieving out to him besides. This new killer looks doing greater than copying Dexter—he appears asserting, “Come out and play.” Dexter’s mystery existence makes for a lonely lifestyles . . . even a cute monster should be intrigued through the possibility of discovering a friend.
Introducing the most witty and unique narrators in years, Jeff Lindsay’s Darkly Dreaming Dexter is a clean, spectacular, and brilliantly completed novel that's guaranteed to obtain huge acclaim.
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Extra resources for Darkly Dreaming Dexter (Dexter, Book 1)
I sat down in my chair and didn't speak. Deb likes to unload on me. That's what family is for. ” “They're shutting me out,” she said. She opened my doughnut bag and looked inside. ” I said. ” She pulled the cruller out of the bag and savaged it. “I expect,” she said, mouth full, “to be in on this.
Yes, Harry, I certainly am. But you can learn to control that difference and use it constructively. All right, Harry. If you think I should. How? And he told me. There is no starry sky anywhere like the starry sky in South Florida when you are fourteen and camping out with Dad. Even if he's only your foster dad. And even if the sight of all those stars merely fills you with a kind of satisfaction, emotion being out of the question. You don't feel it. That's part of the reason you're here. The fire has died down and the stars are exceedingly bright and foster dear old dad has been quiet for some time, taking small sips on the old-fashioned hip flask he has pulled from the outside flap of his pack.
He wants to know. ” “Tell me,” Harry says. Oh for a moon, a good fat moon, something bigger to look at. I clutch another fistful of pine needles. My face is hot, as if Dad has asked me to talk about sex dreams. Which, in a way— “It, uh . . I kind of, you know, feel something,” I say. “Inside. Watching me. Maybe, um. Laughing? But not really a voice, just—” An eloquent teenaged shrug. But it seems to make sense to Harry. “And this something. ” High overhead a slow fat jet crawls by. “Not, um, doesn't make me,” I say.