Blood Lite 2
Pocket Books; Reprint Addition (Sept. 27, 2011)
“Tastes Like Chicken”
I became a detective after I ate Ms. Marple.
By all outward appearances, Max Goodman is like any other homicide detective. He loves his job, has one of the highest close rates, and lives within his means.
But Max has a secret. A big secret. One that could get him killed…if he weren’t already dead.
See Max is a ghoul. And if that weren’t bad enough, he has an eighty-year-old spirit living inside of his head. Her name is Ms. Mullens. She used to be his next-door neighbor, until he made the mistake of eating too much of her on his twelfth birthday. Now they’re stuck together…until Max falls apart, which if he has anything to say about it won’t be anytime soon. It’s an uneasy relationship that he puts up with, since without her, he wouldn’t solve a single murder.
Blood Lite 2
Another bestselling collection of original humorous Horror stories from the Horror Writer’s Association.
Look out, too, for stand-alone stories relating to existing series and characters of contributing authors, or stories which develop more fully characters who have only walk-on parts in those authors’ longer fiction.
Read an UNEDITED Excerpt of TASTES LIKE CHICKEN:
I became a detective after I ate Miss Marple.
Nobody tells you when you’re a fresh, prepubescent ghoul that you have to be careful about how much you eat. When you spend your twelfth birthday scooping handfuls of brain from the gaping skull of the next door neighbor (Miss Mullens, not Marple, but the effect was much the same) the unpleasant surprise is that your peculiar biochemistry will do its level best to amalgamate what you just fed it. In this case, cupfuls of frontal lobe, corpus callosum and snowflake-unique collections of synapses that led Miss Mullens to curse out loud with words like “poot” and “jiminy” and yet have internal dialogue like a motherfucking Stevedore, as I was to find out to my displeasure when her consciousness exploded into mine as I was lying in the attic replete about four hours later. That’s the thing about being a ghoul, there aren’t any manuals to follow.
She’d dressed me down, up, and sideways, blistering my consciousness with expletives until it felt bruised by the mental pummeling. That was twenty years ago. You’d think she’d let it go by now, but not Ms. Mullens. She lives for hating me.
We were on page ten of the New York Times, when the homicide call came in. Ms. Mullens insists we read the newspaper from cover to cover every day.
Even the obituaries?
Even the obituaries.
At first, I’d refused. I wanted to get my news from the internet. My resistance didn’t last long once Ms. Mullens discovered she could give me gas by triggering certain spots in my brain. Gas coming from a human can be eye-watering. Imagine what it’s like when your diet consists of fresh and rotting corpses. No amount of Febreze can combat the odor.
The phone rang again. I looked at the number and debated whether to ignore the call. It was my day off. I’d planned to finish reading the paper, then hit the cemetery later for a quick bite. I glanced back at the article. The headline read, ‘Billionaire Lawrence Koffman Makes Miraculous Recovery Thanks to New Swiss Treatment’. I scowled and shut the paper, then retrieved my voicemail.
I wasn’t done reading that article, Ms. Mullens’ disembodied voice said.
“You can finish it later. Time to go to work.”
I had no idea when I walked into the room I’d be staring at a severed ghoul’s hand. Sure, the ghoul could’ve left it behind. It was always possible. But no ghoul worth his salt willingly abandoned a perfectly viable limb, which meant we were looking for a dead ghoul.