The Dance of Death (Special Agent Pendergast Series #6)

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Two brothers. One a top FBI agent. The other a brilliant, twisted criminal. An undying hatred between them. Now, a perfect crime. And the ultimate challenge: stop me if you can.
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The Always Reliable Team Of Preston And Child Revisit Special Fbi Agent Aloysius Pendergast, Last Seen In 2004'S Brimstone, And Others From Past Bestsellers (Relic; The Cabinet Of ... Curiosities) In This Intriguing Thriller Set In And Around New York City And The Halls Of The Museum Of Natural History. Born A Misanthropic Loner But Driven Insane By Seeing His Parents Burned Alive When He Was A Teen, Aloysius's Madman Brother, Diogenes, Has Begun Murdering Aloysius's Friends. Good Stuff, And There's More To Come, As The Novel's Last Lines Make Clear. Read more Show Less

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New York 2005 Trade paperback First edition. Advance Reading Copy New. No dust jacket as issued. Signed by author. Advance Reading Copy of the sixth novel in the Pendergast ... series. SIGNED by both Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child on the title page. in new unread condition. Glued binding. Paper over boards. With dust jacket. 451 p. Audience: General/trade. Read more Show Less

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The Dance of Death (Special Agent Pendergast Series #6)

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Overview

Two brothers. One a top FBI agent. The other a brilliant, twisted criminal. An undying hatred between them. Now, a perfect crime. And the ultimate challenge: stop me if you can.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Pendergast's diabolical brother Diogenes is hell-bent on destroying him. The murder of several people close to the FBI agent make it painfully clear to him that this is no slight case of sibling rivalry. Unfortunately, the feds are convinced that Pendergast himself was involved with the killings; to neutralize Diogenes, he must go underground, aided only by his old buddy NYPD Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta. Intense action; plot surprises.
Publishers Weekly
The always reliable team of Preston and Child revisit Special FBI Agent Aloysius Pendergast, last seen in 2004's Brimstone, and others from past bestsellers (Relic; The Cabinet of Curiosities) in this intriguing thriller set in and around New York City and the halls of the Museum of Natural History. Born a misanthropic loner but driven insane by seeing his parents burned alive when he was a teen, Aloysius's madman brother, Diogenes, has begun murdering Aloysius's friends. Aloysius begs old friend Lt. Vincent D'Agosta to help him defeat his brother, and Vincent does his best while the brothers spar and others die. There are a number of subplots, one involving an ATM robber and flasher known as the Dangler and another focusing on the museum's exhibition of sacred masks, but these fade away as the deadly duel between the brothers takes center stage. Think Sherlock Holmes locked in a death struggle with his smarter brother, Mycroft. Like Brimstone, this novel doesn't end so much as simply pause while the authors work on the next installment. While it's not as good as some of their earlier efforts, it's still pretty darn good. Agents, Eric Simonoff at Janklow & Nesbit and Matthew Snyder at CAA. Major ad/promo, 10-city author tour. (June 7) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Preston and Child put a twist on the biblical story of Cain and Abel in this sequel to Brimstone. Summoned to a mysterious meeting, police officer Vincent D'Agosta hopes to discover that his friend, FBI agent Pendergast, somehow survived the events chronicled in the aforementioned title. Instead, Vincent receives a letter that Pendergast asked to be delivered in the event of his death. In this cryptic missive, Pendergast begs for help in stopping his brother, Diogenes, from committing the perfect crime, which will probably occur in two days. But Diogenes has already started his crime spree, methodically murdering people close to his dead brother. Now Vincent must not only stop a genius from murdering again but also protect himself and his friends on the hit list. A rare second book in a trilogy that actually improves on the first; fans and newcomers alike will relish the numerous twists and relentless plot line. Add this to your mandatory reading list. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 2/15/05; see interview with the authors on p. 106.]-Jeff Ayers, Seattle P.L. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780446576970
  • Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
  • Publication date: 6/7/2005
  • Series: Special Agent Pendergast Series , #6
  • Pages: 464
  • Product dimensions: 5.90 (w) x 9.30 (h) x 1.60 (d)

Meet the Author

Douglas Preston
The thrillers of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child "stand head and shoulders above their rivals" (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child's Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number-one box office hit movie. They are coauthors of the famed Pendergast series and their recent novels include Fever Dream, Cold Vengeance, Two Graves, and Gideon's Corpse. Preston's acclaimed nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a movie starring George Clooney. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published five novels of his own, including the huge bestseller Deep Storm.
Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a monthly "strangely entertaining note" from the authors, at their website, www.PrestonChild.com. The authors welcome visitors to their alarmingly active Facebook page, where they post regularly.

Biography

Douglas Preston was born in 1956 in Cambridge, MA, was raised in nearby Wellesley (where, by his own admission, he and his brothers were the scourge of the neighborhood!), and graduated from Pomona College in California with a degree in English literature.

Preston's first job was as a writer for the American Museum of Natural History in New York -- an eight year stint that led to the publication of his first book, Dinosaurs in the Attic and introduced him to his future writing partner, Lincoln Child, then working as an editor at St. Martin's Press. The two men bonded, as they worked closely together on the book. As the project neared completion, Preston treated Child to a private midnight tour of the museum, an excursion that proved fateful. As Preston tells it, "...in the darkened Hall of Late Dinosaurs, under a looming T. Rex, Child turned to [me] and said: 'This would make the perfect setting for a thriller!'" Their first collaborative effort, Relic, would not be published until 1995, by which time Preston had picked up stakes and moved to Santa Fe to pursue a full-time writing career.

In addition to writing novels (The Codex, Tyrannosaur Canyon) and nonfiction books on the American Southwest (Cities of Gold, Ribbons of Time), Preston has collaborated with Lincoln Child on several post-Relic thrillers. While not strictly a series, the books share characters and events, and the stories all take place in the same universe. The authors refer to this phenomenon as "The Preston-Child Pangea."

Preston divides his time between New Mexico and Maine, while Child lives in New Jersey -- a situation that necessitates a lot of long-distance communication. But their partnership (facilitated by phone, fax, and email) is remarkably productive and thoroughly egalitarian: They shape their plots through a series of discussions; Child sends an outline of a set of chapters; Preston writes the first draft of those chapters, which is subsequently rewritten by Child; and in this way the novel is edited back and forth until both authors are happy. They attribute the relatively seamless surface of their books to the fact that "[a]ll four hands have found their way into practically every sentence, at one time or another."

In between, Preston remains busy. He is a regular contributor to magazines like National Geographic, The New Yorker, Natural History, Smithsonian, Harper's, and Travel & Leisure, and he continues with varied solo literary projects. Which is not to say his partnership with Lincoln Child is over. Fans of the bestselling Preston-Child thrillers can be assured there are bigger and better adventures to come.

Good To Know

Douglas Preston counts among his ancestors the poet Emily Dickinson, the newspaperman Horace Greeley, and the infamous murderer and opium addict Amasa Greenough.

His brother is Richard Preston, the bestselling author of The Hot Zone, The Cobra Event, The Wild Trees, and other novels and nonfiction narratives.

Preston is an expert horseman and a member of the Long Riders Guild.

He is also a National Geographic Society Fellow, has traveled extensively around the world, and contributes archaeological articles to many magazines.

In our interview, Preston shared some fun and fascinating personal anecdotes.

"My first job was washing dishes in the basement of a nursing home for $2.10 an hour, and I learned as much about the value of hard work there as I ever did later."

"I need to write in a small room -- the smaller the better. I can't write in a big room where someone might sneak up behind my back."

"My hobbies are mountain biking, horseback riding and packing, canoeing and kayaking, hiking, camping, cooking, and skiing."

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Read an Excerpt

one

DEWAYNE MICHAELS SAT in the second row of the lecture hall, staring at the professor with what he hoped passed for interest. His eyelids were so heavy they felt as if lead sinkers had been sewn to them. His head pounded in rhythm with his heart and his tongue tasted like something had curled up and died on it. He’d arrived late, only to find the huge hall packed and just one seat available: second row center, smack-dab in front of the lectern.

Just great.

Dewayne was majoring in electrical engineering. He’d elected this class for the same reason engineering students had done so for three decades—it was a gimme. “English Literature—A Humanist Perspective” had always been a course you could breeze through and barely crack a book. The usual professor, a fossilized old turd named Mayhew, droned on like a hypnotist, hardly ever looking up from his forty-year-old lecture notes, his voice perfectly pitched for sleeping. The old fart never even changed his exams, and copies were all over Dewayne’s dorm. Just his luck, then, that—for this one semester—a certain renowned Dr. Torrance Hamilton was teaching the course. It was as if Eric Clapton had agreed to play the junior prom, the way they fawned over Hamilton.

Dewayne shifted disconsolately. His butt had already fallen asleep in the cold plastic seat. He glanced to his left, to his right. All around, students—upperclassmen, mostly—were typing notes, running microcassette recorders, hanging on the professor’s every word. It was the first time ever the course had been filled to capacity. Not an engineering student in sight.

What a crock.

Dewayne reminded himself he still had a week to drop the course. But he needed this credit and it was still possible Professor Hamilton was an easy grader. Hell, all these students wouldn’t have shown up on a Saturday morning if they thought they were going to get reamed out . . . would they?

In the meantime, front and center, Dewayne figured he’d better make an effort to look awake.

Hamilton walked back and forth on the podium, his deep voice ringing. He was like a gray lion, his hair swept back in a mane, dressed in a snazzy charcoal suit instead of the usual threadbare set of tweeds. He had an unusual accent, not local to New Orleans, certainly not Yankee. Didn’t exactly sound English, either. A teaching assistant sat in a chair behind the professor, assiduously taking notes.

“And so,” Dr. Hamilton was saying, “today we’re looking at Eliot’s The Waste Land—the poem that packaged the twentieth century in all its alienation and emptiness. One of the greatest poems ever written.”

The Waste Land. Dewayne remembered now. What a title. He hadn’t bothered to read it, of course. Why should he? It was a poem, not a damn novel: he could read it right now, in class.

He picked up the book of T. S. Eliot’s poems—he’d borrowed it from a friend, no use wasting good money on something he’d never look at again—and opened it. There, next to the title page, was a photo of the man himself: a real weenie, tiny little granny glasses, lips pursed like he had two feet of broomstick shoved up his ass. Dewayne snorted and began turning pages. Waste Land, Waste Land . . . here it was.

Oh, shit. This was no limerick. The son of a bitch went on for page after page.

“The first lines are by now so well known that it’s hard for us to imagine the sensation—the shock—that people felt upon first reading it in The Dial in 1922. This was not what people considered poetry. It was, rather, a kind of anti-poem. The persona of the poet was obliterated. To whom belong these grim and disturbing thoughts? There is, of course, the famously bitter allusion to Chaucer in the opening line. But there is much more going on here. Reflect on the opening images: ‘lilacs out of the dead land,’ ‘dull roots,’ ‘forgetful snow.’ No other poet in the history of the world, my friends, ever wrote about spring in quite this way before.”

Dewayne flipped to the end of the poem, found it contained over four hundred lines. Oh, no. No . . .

“It’s intriguing that Eliot chose lilacs in the second line, rather than poppies, which would have been a more traditional choice at the time. Poppies were then growing in an abundance Europe hadn’t seen for centuries, due to the numberless putrefying corpses from the Great War. But more important, the poppy—with its connotations of narcotic sleep—seems the better fit to Eliot’s imagery. So why did Eliot choose lilacs? Let’s take a look at Eliot’s use of allusion, here most likely involving Whitman’s ‘When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.’”

Oh, my God, it was like a nightmare: here he was in the front of the class and not understanding a word the professor was saying. Who’d have thought you could write four hundred lines of poetry on a freaking waste land? Speaking of wasted, his head felt like it was packed full of ball bearings. Served him right for hanging out until four last night, doing shots of citron Grey Goose.

He realized the class around him had gone still, and that the voice from behind the lectern had fallen silent. Glancing up at Dr. Hamilton, he noticed the professor was standing motionless, a strange expression on his face. Elegant or not, the old fellow looked as if he’d just dropped a steaming loaf in his drawers. His face had gone strangely slack. As Dewayne watched, Hamilton slowly withdrew a handkerchief, carefully patted his forehead, then folded the handkerchief neatly and returned it to his pocket. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon me,” he said as he reached for a glass of water on the lectern, took a small sip. “As I was saying, let’s look at the meter Eliot employs in this first section of the poem. His free verse is aggressively enjambed: the only stopped lines are those that finish his sentences. Note also the heavy stressing of verbs: breeding, mixing, stirring. It’s like the ominous, isolated beat of a drum; it’s ugly; it shatters the meaning of the phrase; it creates a sense of disquietude. It announces to us that something’s going to happen in this poem, and that it won’t be pretty.”

The curiosity that had stirred in Dewayne during the unexpected pause faded away. The oddly stricken look had left the professor’s face as quickly as it came, and his features—though still pale—had lost their ashen quality.

Dewayne returned his attention to the book. He could quickly scan the poem, figure out what the damn thing meant. He glanced at the title, then moved his eye down to the epigram, or epigraph, or whatever you called it.

He stopped. What the hell was this? Nam Sibyllam quidem . . . Whatever it was, it wasn’t English. And there, buried in the middle of it, some weird-ass squiggles that weren’t even part of the normal alphabet. He glanced at the explanatory notes at the bottom of the page and found the first bit was Latin, the second Greek. Next came the dedication: For Ezra Pound, il miglior fabbro. The notes said that last bit was Italian.

Latin, Greek, Italian. And the frigging poem hadn’t even started yet. What next, hieroglyphics?

It was a nightmare.

He scanned the first page, then the second. Gibberish, plain and simple. “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” What was that supposed to mean? His eye fell on the next line. Frisch weht der Wind . . .

Abruptly, Dewayne closed the book, feeling sick. That did it. Only thirty lines into the poem and already five damn languages. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d go down to the registrar and drop this turkey.

He sat back, head pounding. Now that the decision was made, he wondered how he was going to make it through the next forty minutes without climbing the walls. If only there’d been a seat up in the back, where he could slip out unseen . . .

Up at the podium, the professor was droning on. “All that being said, then, let’s move on to an examination of—”

Suddenly, Hamilton stopped once again.

“Excuse me.” His face went slack again. He looked—what? Confused? Flustered? No: he looked scared.

Dewayne sat up, suddenly interested.

The professor’s hand fluttered up to his handkerchief, fumbled it out, then dropped it as he tried to bring it to his forehead. He looked around vaguely, hand still fluttering about, as if to ward off a fly. The hand sought out his face, began touching it lightly, like a blind person. The trembling fingers palpated his lips, eyes, nose, hair, then swatted the air again.

The lecture hall had gone still. The teaching assistant in the seat behind the professor put down his pen, a concerned look on his face. What’s going on? Dewayne wondered. Heart attack?

The professor took a small, lurching step forward, bumping into the podium. And now his other hand flew to his face, feeling it all over, only harder now, pushing, stretching the skin, pulling down the lower lip, giving himself a few light slaps.

The professor suddenly stopped and scanned the room. “Is there something wrong with my face?”

Dead silence.

Slowly, very slowly, Dr. Hamilton relaxed. He took a shaky breath, then another, and gradually his features relaxed. He cleared his throat.

“As I was saying—”

Dewayne saw the fingers of one hand come back to life again, twitching, trembling. The hand returned to his face, the fingers plucking, plucking the skin.

This was too weird.

“I—” the professor began, but the hand interfered with his speech. His mouth opened and closed, emitting nothing more than a wheeze. Another shuffled step, like a robot, bumping into the podium.

“What are these things?” he asked, his voice cracking.

God, now he was pulling at his skin, eyelids stretched grotesquely, both hands scrabbling—then a long, uneven scratch from a fingernail, and a line of blood appeared on one cheek.

A ripple coursed through the classroom, like an uneasy sigh.

“Is there something wrong, Professor?” the T.A. said.

“I . . . asked . . . a question.” The professor growled it out, almost against his will, his voice muffled and distorted by the hands pulling at his face.

Another lurching step, and then he let out a sudden scream: “My face! Why will no one tell me what’s wrong with my face!”

More deathly silence.

The fingers were digging in, the fist now pounding at the nose, which cracked faintly.

“Get them off me! They’re eating into my face!”

Oh, shit: blood was now gushing from the nostrils, splashing down on the white shirt and charcoal suit. The fingers were like claws on the face, ripping, tearing; and now one finger hooked up and—Dewayne saw with utter horror—worked itself into one eye socket.

“Out! Get them out!”

There was a sharp, rotating motion that reminded Dewayne of the scooping of ice cream, and suddenly the globe of the eye bulged out, grotesquely large, jittering, staring directly at Dewayne from an impossible angle.

Screams echoed across the lecture hall. Students in the front row recoiled. The T.A. jumped from his seat and ran up to Hamilton, who violently shrugged him off.

Dewayne found himself rooted to his seat, his mind a blank, his limbs paralyzed.

Professor Hamilton now took a mechanical step, and another, ripping at his face, tearing out clumps of hair, staggering as if he might fall directly on top of Dewayne.

“A doctor!” the T.A. screamed. “Get a doctor!”

The spell was broken. There was a sudden commotion, everyone rising at once, the sound of falling books, a loud hubbub of panicked voices.

“My face!” the professor shrieked over the din. “Where is it?

Chaos took over, students running for the door, some crying. Others rushed forward, toward the stricken professor, jumping onto the podium, trying to stop his murderous self-assault. The professor lashed out at them blindly, making a high-pitched, keening sound, his face a mask of red. Someone forcing his way down the row trod hard on Dewayne’s foot. Drops of flying blood had spattered Dewayne’s face: he could feel their warmth on his skin. Yet still he did not move. He found himself unable to take his eyes off the professor, unable to escape this nightmare.

The students had wrestled the professor to the surface of the podium and were now sliding about in his blood, trying to hold down his thrashing arms and bucking body. As Dewayne watched, the professor threw them off with demonic strength, grabbed the cup of water, smashed it against the podium, and—screaming—began to work the shards into his own neck, twisting and scooping, as if trying to dig something out.

And then, quite suddenly, Dewayne found he could move. He scrambled to his feet, skidded, ran along the row of seats to the aisle, and began sprinting up the stairs toward the back exit of the lecture hall. All he could think about was getting away from the unexplainable horror of what he’d just witnessed. As he shot out the door and dashed full speed down the corridor beyond, one phrase kept echoing in his mind, over and over and over:

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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Table of Contents

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 215 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(134)

4 Star

(56)

3 Star

(18)

2 Star

(5)

1 Star

(2)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 216 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 25, 2010

    My favorite of the Pendergast series

    This is my favorite book in the FBI Agent Pendergast series! Most of the Preston/Child books are stand alone, that is you can read just one without missing out on much -- however, this book is the second in what is informally called the Diogenese Trillogy and I would recommend reading Brimstone first. It's a great stand alone read, but would be better enjoyed the knowing the background information (about Diogenese) given in Brimstone.

    - A lot of suspense, I held my breath through half of it.
    - The characters are very well developed and believable.
    -

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 20, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    Best Of The Pendergast Mysteries

    Reading Dance Of Death the second installment of the Diogenes trilogy is just like watching The Empire Strikes Back. Both are the best of their series and doesn't disappoint. I agree that Brimstone should be read first but its not mandatory.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 17, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Wow........!

    All I'm sayin'....the Special Angent Pengergast series leaves me totally exhausted. I don't know how Preston and Child think of all the twists, turns and white knuckle page turning, but I'm ready for the next book. This book shows the more "human" side of Pengergast - and remind me to never go to a Pendergast family reunion.....well written - intense - during the end of the day at work, I just start thinking I have to get home and finish this book........I'm envious of the authors' well honed writing skills....

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 21, 2008

    highly recommended

    This was a great read. It was pretty fast paced with different twists and turns.Can hardly wait to read the next book in the series. I highly recommend this book and others written by these authors.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 14, 2013

    This was my second favorite book in the Pendergast Series. ( The

    This was my second favorite book in the Pendergast Series. ( The Cabinet of Curiosities is my first ) Superb writing & an amazing plot. Plenty of twists & turns that kept me on the edge of my seat. It's a great stand alone novel but I would suggest reading Brimstone first if you want more background on Agent Pendergast's brother Diogenes. I'm obsessed with these books and I absolutely plan to read them all !! I love Agent Pendergast !!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 21, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Another Great Pendergast Tale!

    I really enjoyed this book as well as most of the prior works of the authors. This book ties together all the previous works involving Special Agent Pendergast by bringing together all the characters that survived those stories. When we last saw Pendergast he was walled up and running out of oxygen. The authors gave clues at the end of the book that he got out as they describe digging and a possible break in the wall.

    In Dance of Death, Pendergast is presumed dead and policeman Vincent D'Agosta has gone back to live with his girfriend, police captain Hayward. In the meantime a couple of mysterious deaths occur involving a college professor who gets poisoned by a rare spider venom and another man who is force to jump out of a window only to be hanged by a noose around his neck.

    As each murder occurs the one thing is clear, all the victims were friends of Pendergast. Additionally, there is DNA and other evidence to link Pendergast to the crime.

    Pendergast, having escaped his prison and in hiding (to avoid capture by the police) is trying to capture the killer before all his friends are wiped out. Pendergast is the only one who konws the killer is his evil brother Diogenes who had faked his own death 20 years earlier. Therefore, nobody believes it is anyone but Pendergast who is commiting the murders.

    With tons tension throughout the book, this is probably one of the authors' best books. This is the second book where the authors mention someone reading The Ice Limit III so you wonder if there will ever be a follow-up to that book. Though the Ice Limit did not involve Pendergast there is a scene in Dance of Death in which Pendergast and D'Agosta are at a scientific place that guarentees success (like the company in The Ice Limit) and there is a picture on the wall of an oil tanker with a blond haired woman captain (like The Ice Limit).

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 13, 2008

    So cool

    I picked up this book when looking for something new and different. I was not aware at the time that this was the second in a trilogy, but soon found it to have perfectly stable legs it could stand on. The characters are awesomely diverse and the plot is relentless in its twists and turns. I'm definitely going back to pick up Brimstone(the first in the trilogy) and Book of the Dead, Pendergast is one of my favorite book characters and he'll no doubt be yours too.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 23, 2014

    A GOOD BOOK - EVERYONE SHOULD READ.

    THE PRESTON/CHILD COMBO MAKES FOR GREAT READING.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2013

    Shadows bio

    Name:Shadow Age:19 Gender:boy Partner:none Status:single Apperance:tall skinny tan skin ruby eyes kinda long jet black hair Weapon form: a jet black blade with a white stripe down the middle Loves:haunted houses

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 21, 2013

    Taylor Bio

    Name-Taylor
    <P>
    Age-18
    <P>
    Gender-Male
    <P>
    Look-6"2' Ash blonde hair,dark blue eyes,thin.
    <P>
    Wears-Hoodies,skinny jeans,ad hightops.
    <P>
    Personality-Nice,quiet,outcast.
    <P>
    Status-I dont really care at this point.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 21, 2013

    Zero

    All are unknown except for appearence. Appearence: rotten corpse. Is thin.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 26, 2013

    Sm

    Im gonna go ttyl bye sexy ladies

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 8, 2013

    Excellent story. Keep on writing.

    Excellent story. Keep on writing.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 28, 2013

    Connir

    Probs

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 19, 2013

    Ryan to Lacy

    Hello?

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 7, 2013

    Aero

    To those who want it hard, go to 'naughy bits' result 20 k?

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 7, 2013

    Yue Ooc

    Yeeess?

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 7, 2013

    Faithie the Vamp.

    From Spongebob???.........

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 8, 2013

    Yue? Aka 007

    I dont know.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 7, 2013

    Kat

    Walked up to Faithie"I disagree. I suppose yoir gonna say1D is better"

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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