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 Posted: Thu Mar 13, 2008 3:19 pm
This is for anyone looking for a new book to read. There is no specific order to the titles here. All books listed here are real and can be bought at local book store. Under the titles you will find an excerpt from the first chapter. Feel free to browse all you like, and I hope you find something new and interesting.
Disclaimer: I don't own the stories, I am making no money off the stories, this is just a little peek.
If you would like to add to the list of stories please follow the rules.
Rules
1. Have title of book, the author, and it's publication year.
2. Please start with the first chapter.
3. Please no more then the first or second page of a book.
Thank you and enjoy!
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Posted: Thu Mar 13, 2008 3:21 pm
Interview with the Vampire
By: Anne Rice
1976
“I see…” said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room towards the window. For a long time he stood there against the dim light from Divisadero Street and the passing beams of traffic. The boy could see the furnishings of the room more clearly now, the round oak table, the chairs. A wash basin hung on one wall with a mirror. He set his brief case on the table and waited. “But how much tape do you have with you?” asked the vampire, turning now so the boy could see his profile. “Enough for the story of a life?”
“Sure, if it’s a good life.” Sometimes I interview as many as three or four people a night if I’m lucky. But it has to be a good story. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”
“Admirably fair,” the vampire answered.” I would like to tell you the story of my life, then. I would like to do that very much.”
“Great,” said the boy. And quickly he removed the small tape recorder from his brief case, making a check of the cassette and batteries. “I’m really anxious to hear why you believe this, why you…”
“No,” said the vampire abruptly. “We can’t begin that way. Is your equipment ready?”
“yes,” said the boy.
“Then sit down. I’m going to turn on the overhead light.”
“But I thought vampires didn’t like light,” said the boy.
“If you think the dark adds more atmosphere…” But then he stopped. The vampire was watching him with his back to the window. The boy could make out nothing of his face now, and something about the still figure there distracted him. He started to say something again but he said nothing. And then he sighed with relief when the vampire moved towards the table and reached for the overhead cord. At once the room was flooded with a harsh yellow light. And the boy, staring up at the vampire, could not repress a gasp. His fingers danced backwards on the table to grasp the edge. “Dear God!” he whispered, and then he gazed, speechless, at the vampire.
The vampire was utterly white and smooth, as if he were sculpted from bleached bone, and his face was as seemingly inanimate as a statue, except for two brilliant green eyes that looked down at the boy intently like flames in a skull. But then the vampire smiled almost wistfully, and the smooth white substance of his face moved with the infinitely flexible but minimal lines of a cartoon. “Do you see?” he asked softly.
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Posted: Thu Mar 13, 2008 3:26 pm
Guilty Pleasures
By: Laurell K. Hamilton
1993
Willie McCoy had been a jerk before he died. His being dead didn’t change that. He sat across from me, wearing a loud plaid sport jacket. The polyester pants were primary Caryola green. His short, black hair was slicked back from his thin, triangular face. He had always reminded me of a bit player in a gangster movie. The kind that sells information, runs errands, and is expendable. Oh course now that Willie was a vampire the expendable part didn’t count anymore. But he was still selling information and running errands. No, death hadn’t changed him much But just in case, I avoided looking directly into his eyes. It was standard policy for dealing with vampires. He was a slime bucket, but now he was an undead slime bucket. It was a new category for me.
We sat in the quite air-conditioned hush of my office. The powder blue walls, which Bert, my boss, thought would be soothing, made the room feel cold.
“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
“Damn, you aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”
I looked directly at his for a moment. His eyes were still brown. He caught me looking, and I looked down at my desk.
Willie laughed, a wheezing snicker of a sound. The laugh hadn’t changed. “Geez, I love it. You’re afraid of me.”
“Not afraid, just cautious.”
“You don’t have to admit it. I can smell the fear on you, almost like somethin’ touching my face, my brain. You’re afraid of me, ‘cause I’m a vampire?”
I shrugged; what could I say? How do you lie to someone who can smell your fear? “Why are you here, Willie?”
“Geez, I wish I had a smoke.” The skin began to jump at the corner of his mouth.
“I didn’t think vampires had nervous twitches.”
His hand went up, almost touched it. He smiled, flashing fangs. “Some things don’t change.”
I wanted to ask him, what does change? How does it feel to be dead? I knew other vampires, but Willie was the first I had known before and after death. It was a peculiar feeling. “What do you want?”
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Posted: Thu Mar 13, 2008 4:48 pm
Inkheart
By: Cornelia Funke
2003
Rain fell that night, a fine, whispering rain. Many years later, Maggie had only to close here eyes and she could still hear it, like tiny fingers tapping on the windowpane. A dog barked somewhere in the darkness, and however often she tossed and turned Maggie couldn’t get to sleep. The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing it’s cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages. “I’m sure it must be very comfortable sleeping with a hard, rectangular thing like that under your head,” her father had teased the first time he found a book under her pillow. “Go, on, admit it, the book whispers its story to you at night.”
“Sometimes, yes,” Maggie had said. “But it only works for children.” Which made Mo tweak her nose. Mo. Maggie had never called her father anything else.
That night—when so much began and so many things changed forever—Maggie had one of her favorite books under her pillow, and since the rain wouldn’t let her sleep she sat up, rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes, and took it out. It’s pages rustled promisingly when she opened it. Maggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on whether or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her. But she needed light. She had a box of matches hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. Mo had forbidden her to light candles at night. He didn’t like fire. “Fire devours books,” he always said, but she was twelve years old, she surely could be trusted to keep an eye on a couple of candle flames. Maggie loved to read by candlelight. She had five candlesticks on the windowsill, and she was just holding the lighted match to one of the black wicks when she heard footsteps outside. She blew out the match in alarm—oh, how well she remembered it, even many years later—and knelt to look out the window, which was wet with rain. Then she saw him.
The rain cast a kind of pallor on the darkness, and the stranger was little more then a shadow. Only his face gleamed white as he looked up at Maggie. His hair clung to his wet forehead. The rain was falling on him, but6 he ignored it. He stood there motionless, arms crossed over his chest as if it might at least warm him a little. And he kept staring out at the house.
I must go and wake Mo, thought Maggie. But she stayed put, her heart thudding, and went on gazing out into the night as if the stranger’s stillness had infected her. Suddenly, he turned his head, and Maggie felt as if he were looking straight into her eyes. She shot off the bed so fast the open book fell to the floor, and she ran barefoot out into the dark corridor. This was the end of May, but it was chilly in the old house.
There was still a light on in Mo’s room. He often stayed up reading late into the night. Maggie had inherited her love of books from her father. When she took refuge from a bad dream with him, nothing could lull her to sleep better then Mo’s calm breathing beside her and the sound of pages turning. Nothing chased nightmares away faster then the rustle of painted paper.
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Posted: Thu Mar 13, 2008 7:39 pm
Shadow Game
By: Christine Feehan
2003
Captain Ryland Miller leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes in utter weariness. He could ignore the pain in his head, the knives shredding his skull. He could ignore the cage he was in. He could even ignore the fact that sooner or later, he was going to slip up and his enemies would kill him. But he could not ignore the guilt and anger and frustration rising like a tidal wave in him as his men suffered the consequences of his decisions.
Kaden, I can’t reach Russell Cowlings. Can you?
He had talked his men into the experiment that had landed them all in the laboratory cages in which they now resided. Good men. Loyal men. Men who had wanted to serve their country and people.
We all made the decision. Kaden responded to his emotions, the words buzzing inside Ryland’s mind. No one has managed to raise Russell.
Ryland swore softly aloud as he swept a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the pain speaking telepathically with his men cost him. The telepathic link between them had grown stronger as they all worked to build it, but only a few of them could sustain it for any length of time. Ryland had to supply the bridge, and his brain, over time, balked at the enormity of such a burden.
Don’t touch the sleeping pills they gave you Suspect any medication. He glanced at the small white pill lying in plain sight on his end table. He’d like a lab analysis of the contents. Why hadn’t Crowlings listened to him? Had Crowlings accepted the sleeping pill in the hope of a brief respite? He had to get the men out. We have no choice, we was treat this situation as if we were behind enemy lines. Ryland took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He on longer felt like he had a choice. He had already lost too many men. His decision would brand them as traitors, deserters, but it was the only way to save their lives. He had to find a way for his men to break out of the laboratory.
The colonel has betrayed us. We have no other choice but to escape. Gather information and support one another as best you can. Wait for my word.
He became aware of the disturbance around him, the dark waves of intense dislike bordering on hatred preceding the group nearing the cage where he was kept.
Someone is approaching…Ryland abruptly cut off telepathic communication to those of his men he could reach. He remained motionless in the center of his cell, his every sense flaring out to identify the approaching individuals.
It was a small group this time: Dr. Peter Whitney, Colonel Higgens, and a small security guard. It amused Ryland that Whitney and Higgens insisted on an armed guard accompanying them despite the fact that he was locked behind both bars and a thick glass barrier. He was careful to keep his features expressionless as they neared his cage.
Ryland lifted his head, his steel gray eyes as cold as ice. Menacing. He didn’t try and hide the danger he represented. They had created him, they had betrayed him, and he wanted them to be afraid. There was tremendous satisfaction in knowing they were…and that they had reason to be.
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Posted: Mon Mar 24, 2008 11:52 pm
Angelzfury Interview with the VampireBy: Anne Rice1976“I see…” said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room towards the window. For a long time he stood there against the dim light from Divisadero Street and the passing beams of traffic. The boy could see the furnishings of the room more clearly now, the round oak table, the chairs. A wash basin hung on one wall with a mirror. He set his brief case on the table and waited. “But how much tape do you have with you?” asked the vampire, turning now so the boy could see his profile. “Enough for the story of a life?” “Sure, if it’s a good life.” Sometimes I interview as many as three or four people a night if I’m lucky. But it has to be a good story. That’s only fair, isn’t it?” “Admirably fair,” the vampire answered.” I would like to tell you the story of my life, then. I would like to do that very much.” “Great,” said the boy. And quickly he removed the small tape recorder from his brief case, making a check of the cassette and batteries. “I’m really anxious to hear why you believe this, why you…” “No,” said the vampire abruptly. “We can’t begin that way. Is your equipment ready?” “yes,” said the boy. “Then sit down. I’m going to turn on the overhead light.” “But I thought vampires didn’t like light,” said the boy. “If you think the dark adds more atmosphere…” But then he stopped. The vampire was watching him with his back to the window. The boy could make out nothing of his face now, and something about the still figure there distracted him. He started to say something again but he said nothing. And then he sighed with relief when the vampire moved towards the table and reached for the overhead cord. At once the room was flooded with a harsh yellow light. And the boy, staring up at the vampire, could not repress a gasp. His fingers danced backwards on the table to grasp the edge. “Dear God!” he whispered, and then he gazed, speechless, at the vampire. The vampire was utterly white and smooth, as if he were sculpted from bleached bone, and his face was as seemingly inanimate as a statue, except for two brilliant green eyes that looked down at the boy intently like flames in a skull. But then the vampire smiled almost wistfully, and the smooth white substance of his face moved with the infinitely flexible but minimal lines of a cartoon. “Do you see?” he asked softly. You know.......I could never really get into this book...
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Posted: Tue Mar 25, 2008 10:58 pm
Series: The Dresden Files
Book 1: Strom Front
Author: Jim Butcher
Published: 2000
I heard the Mailman approach my office door, half an hour earlier then usual. He didn’t sound right. His footsteps fell more heavily, jauntily, and he whistled. A new guy. He whistled his way to my office door, then fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed.
Then he knocked.
I winced. My mail comes through the mail slot unless it’s registered. I get a really limited selection of registered mail, and it’s never good news. I got up out of my office chair and opened the door.
The new mailman, who looked like a basketball with arms and legs and a sunburned, balding head, was chuckling at the sign on the door glass. He glanced at me and hooked a thumb towards the sign. “You’re kidding, right?”
I read the sign (people change it occasionally), and shook my head. “No, I’m serious. Can I have my mail, please.”
“So, uh. Like parties, shows, stuff like that?” He looked past me, as though he expected to see a white tiger, or possibly some skimpily clad assistants prancing around my one-room office. I signed, not in the mood to get mocked again, and reached for the mail he held in his hand. “No, not like that. I don’t do parties.”
He held on to it, his head tilted curiously. “So what? Some kind of fortune-teller? Cards and crystal balls and things?”
“No,” I told him. “I’m not a psychic.” I tugged at the mail.
He held on to it. “What are you then?”
“What’s the sign on the door say?”
“It says ‘Harry Dresden. Wizard.’”
“That’s me,” I confirmed.
“An actual Wizard?” he asked, grinning, as though I should let him in on the joke. “Spells and potions? Demons and incantations? Subtle and quick to anger?”
“Not so subtle.” I jerked the mail out of his hand and looked pointed at his clipboard. “Can I sign for my mail please.”
Then new mailman’s grin vanished, replaced with scowl. He passed over the clipboard to let me sign for the mail (another late notice from my landlord), and said, “You’re a nut. That’s what you are.” He took his clipboard back, and said, “You have a nice day, sir.”
I watched him go.
“Typical,” I muttered and shut the door.
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Posted: Wed Apr 02, 2008 9:37 pm
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Posted: Tue Apr 22, 2008 8:49 pm
warriorgirl17 Series: The Dresden Files Book 1: Strom Front Author: Jim Butcher Published: 2000 I heard the Mailman approach my office door, half an hour earlier then usual. He didn’t sound right. His footsteps fell more heavily, jauntily, and he whistled. A new guy. He whistled his way to my office door, then fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed. Then he knocked. I winced. My mail comes through the mail slot unless it’s registered. I get a really limited selection of registered mail, and it’s never good news. I got up out of my office chair and opened the door. The new mailman, who looked like a basketball with arms and legs and a sunburned, balding head, was chuckling at the sign on the door glass. He glanced at me and hooked a thumb towards the sign. “You’re kidding, right?” I read the sign (people change it occasionally), and shook my head. “No, I’m serious. Can I have my mail, please.” “So, uh. Like parties, shows, stuff like that?” He looked past me, as though he expected to see a white tiger, or possibly some skimpily clad assistants prancing around my one-room office. I signed, not in the mood to get mocked again, and reached for the mail he held in his hand. “No, not like that. I don’t do parties.” He held on to it, his head tilted curiously. “So what? Some kind of fortune-teller? Cards and crystal balls and things?” “No,” I told him. “I’m not a psychic.” I tugged at the mail. He held on to it. “What are you then?” “What’s the sign on the door say?” “It says ‘Harry Dresden. Wizard.’” “That’s me,” I confirmed. “An actual Wizard?” he asked, grinning, as though I should let him in on the joke. “Spells and potions? Demons and incantations? Subtle and quick to anger?” “Not so subtle.” I jerked the mail out of his hand and looked pointed at his clipboard. “Can I sign for my mail please.” Then new mailman’s grin vanished, replaced with scowl. He passed over the clipboard to let me sign for the mail (another late notice from my landlord), and said, “You’re a nut. That’s what you are.” He took his clipboard back, and said, “You have a nice day, sir.” I watched him go. “Typical,” I muttered and shut the door. Good, but the best Dresden, thus far is Dead Beat.
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Posted: Wed Apr 23, 2008 11:22 pm
Dead beat was a good one, so was blood rites
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Posted: Mon Jun 09, 2008 5:43 pm
Witch Way
By: MaryJanice Davidson
Published 2007
Prologue
Tucker Goodman did not take his hat off, a whipping offense if anyone else dared try it. He pointed a long, bony finger at the witch in the blocks and said, in a voice trembling with rage and age, “You are an unnatural thing, cast out by the devil to live among good people—“
“Good people,” the witch said, craning (and failing) to look at him, “like the Swanaons? You know perfectly well the last three littluns born on that farm weren’t got on the missus, but instead, the eldest daughter. Not to mention—“
“Liar!” Farmer Swanson was on his feet, his face purpling, while Mrs. Swanson just huddled deeper into the bench and cried softly into her handkerchief. “That thing filled my girls’ heads with lies!”
“Silence, Farmer Swanson!” Silence reigned, as the witch knew it would. There was no reasoning with a mob. Unless you were the leader of the mob.
“I think we can all agree—“
“That you’re a cranky old man who likes having marital congress with fifteen-year-olds to keep the evil spirits away.” The witch laughed. “—that since you were sent here, there has been naught but wickedness afoot.”
“Except for all the children I cured of the waxing disease,” the witch pointed out helpfully. No one said anything. The witch wasn’t surprised. Say just the wrong thing at the wrong time, and things like guilt or innocence didn’t matter. Defend a witch, and you’d be burned alive, too. Just a handy scapegoat to roast and dance about. That’s all they really wanted. “You will die in agony, yet cleansed in fire.”
“Terrific,” the witch muttered.
“And in penance for your evil deeds, your children and your children’s children, down through the ages, will be persecuted and hunted until you share your powers with your greatest enemy.”
“I see no logic in that order of things,” the witch commented. “Why not just kill me and get it over with?”
“Because you keep coming back,” Goodman said, clearly exasperated. “My great-great-grandfather told me all about you. You bring your mischief to the town and have your fun and then are burned and show up in another town a few years later.”
“I like to keep busy.”
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Posted: Sun Jun 22, 2008 10:45 pm
Jude
By: Kate Morgenroth
2004
The police arrived, then the paramedics, then the police photographer, and after that Jude lost track. There were so many officers and technicians and medical personal that they spilled out of the small kitchen and into the hallway beyond. They knew what to do with the body lying on the kitchen floor. They knew how to secure the area to preserve evidence. They knew the procedure cold. But no one knew exactly how to handle Jude.
Jude sat in the darkened living room staring at the television. He was aware of what they must be thinking. What kind of kid sat watching TV when his father was lying dead in the next room? That’s what they were saying in the kitchen. He knew the smart thing would’ve been to act like they expected him to. He should have cried or something.
They had taken his statement, then one of the policemen-the youngest, the one who couldn’t pass the buck-was assigned to stay with him in the living room. The policeman didn’t sit. He chose to stand, like a guard, near the doorway.
Jude could feel the officer glance at him every once and a while, but he kept his eyes carefully focused on the television-so he didn’t notice another figure in the doorway until he heard someone clear his throat.
When Jude looked up, he saw a man in a suit. The suit was the tip-off. Detectiv, Jude thought. The man jerked his head at the young policeman, and the officer beat a quick retreat down the hall. Then he looked back at Jude and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jude replied.
The detective seemed to take the brief acknowledgment as an invitation, and he crossed the room to stand beside the couch. He glanced over at the muted television. “What are you watching?”
Jude shrugged. “Crap.”
“It’s all crap,” the man said. “But I watch it anyway,” he added. “Mind if I sit?”
Jude shifted slightly to make room. The detective sat on the end where the springs where broken, and he sagged almost to the ground. He grunted but didn’t comment on it. At that level Jude could see that he was balding at the crown. They sat without talking. Jude pretended to be staring at the screen, but he was really watching the man next to him out of the corner of his eye. Just as Jude thought the man was about to speak, a sharp voice echoed down the hallway.
“Where the hell are you, Burwell?”
Another an appeared in the doorway of the living room. This man was as thin and sharp as his voice-except for his face, which had the drooping, wrinkled look of a hound dog.
“I thought we were doing the walk-through first,” he said to Burwell. His eyes slid over to Jude.
“Is this the kid?” he continued, without waiting for an answer to his first question.
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Posted: Fri Jul 25, 2008 5:57 pm
Nightlife
By: Rob Thurman
2006
People…they do the craziest s**t.
Yeah, I know. It’s not the most elegant observation. But considering I was making it with a knife blade buried in my stomach, kudos to me. Although I had to say it didn’t hurt as much as I would’ve expected. In fact it didn’t even hurt at all. It just felt cold…cold and numb, like I had a bellyful of ice water.
It was the touch of a much warmer liquid on my fingers that let me know differently. It was blood. My blood. I tightened my hand over the one that held the knife handle. The blood covered both are hands, his and mine. He had actually done it…stabbed me. Not that that was the crazy part. It wasn’t, not by a long shot. No, the crazy part, the howling-at-the-moon madness bit was that he had tried so hard to avoid it. But wasn’t that my brother all over? Honest, loyal, all but rolling in integrity. Too good for his own good. But, hell, in the end, to good for my good as well.
“Well,” I said ruefully. “Look at that.” Then my knees buckled and I dropped to them, sliding off the blade as easy as you please. There was the kiss of metal and then only gaping emptiness as I fell. Letting go of his hand, I covered the wound in my abdomen. It was strange, how the blood was so war, while I felt all but frozen. I looked up into eyes the same color as mine, pale gray as a winter sky. Curling up the side of my mouth, I gave him a half smile.
“My mistake. I guess you have the balls after all. Good for you, big brother.”
The blade dropped from his hand to clatter on the floor with the metallic, ringing pearl of a bell.
“What? No souvenir?” I asked curiously. The words cam out slurred and thick, heavy and fading. Like me. Fading and fading fast. A morning mist disappearing in the rising sun. A broken bird plunging from the sky. A scuttling dark thing fleeing the light of day. s**t I should have been writing some of this down. Dying really brought out the poet in me.
I heard the gate close, a thunderous and oddly final sound that threatened to bring the building down. The walls shook with a peculiar rippling effect that rose from floor to ceiling, and plaster and metal began dropping like rain .If you had to go, might as well go out with a bang. “Better run, Chicken Little. The sky’s falling.” Fairy-tale words with a predator bite. They weren’t deep, not meaningful, but they had teeth. And like any good predator I wanted to go out with the sweet taste of blood in my mouth.
Naturally he didn’t run. Heroes don’t do that. And apparently neither do brothers. He gripped me and I was flung over a shoulder in a fireman’s carry before I could even take a swing at him. Of course that was making the assumption I had enough life left in me to make a fist. As assumptions went, they didn’t come much bigger. Then he was running, jolting me up and down. Behind us I could see the monsters boiling in frustration, rushing at where the gate hung, impenetrable. This time it was closed for good and they knew it. To a one very narrow, pointed face turned in out direction, every molten-lava eye seething with bloodlust and a poisonous, black hatred. Like an ocean wave they came after us, a riptide of murderous intent. Monsters, they didn’t handle disappointment well. I should know.
I was one.
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Posted: Sun Jul 27, 2008 11:30 pm
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Posted: Wed Aug 27, 2008 4:09 pm
Twlight is a really good book.
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