- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
Dexter Morgan has always lived a happy homicidal life. He keeps his dark urges in check by adhering to one steadfast rule ...
Dexter Morgan has always lived a happy homicidal life. He keeps his dark urges in check by adhering to one steadfast rule . . . he only kills very bad people. But now Dexter is experiencing some major life changes—don’t we all?—and they’re mostly wrapped up in the eight-pound curiosity that is his newborn daughter. Family bliss is cut short, however, when 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 so much as cannibals. And, most disturbing . . . these people have decided they would really like to eat Dexter.
Jeff Lindsay’s bestselling, dark, ironic, and oftentimes laugh-out-loud hilarious novels about the lovable serial killer with no soul (but a redeeming desire to kill only people who deserve it) have gained a legion of fans and assumed a place in our culture.
"Lindsay's fifth thriller featuring Dexter Morgan (after Dexter by Design) brilliantly combines suspense and gallows humor....Readers will look forward to seeing the further impact of fatherhood on Lindsay's highly original protagonist in the next installment." --Publishers Weekly (starred)
From the Hardcover edition.
Fatherly affection, empathy, guilt—could everyone's favorite law-enforcement sociopath (Dexter by Design, 2009, etc.) be turning soft?
As he gawps at his newborn daughter Lily Anne, Dexter Morgan feels a rush of unfamiliar feelings and familiarly satirical thoughts about how sappy this all is—that is before he's snatched away from the hospital by a hurry call from Sgt. Deborah Morgan, his adopted sister. Ransom Everglades student Samantha Aldovar has disappeared, leaving behind only an enormous blood spatter that Dexter soon establishes isn't even her type. While Dexter and Debs sweat to figure out whether the crime scene points to kidnapping or murder, other complications sprout up. The Miami-Dade PD can't ask Tyler Spanos, Samantha's best bud, about her whereabouts because she's gone missing too. In fact, as a grisly discovery in the Everglades soon confirms, Tyler's been killed and eaten at a hideous private barbecue—presumably by the self-styled Vlad, né Robert Acosta, the spoiled son of untouchable county commissioner Joe Acosta, and the rest of the cannibal crew who assemble at that exclusive South Beach club, Fang. What can Dexter do to make Miami safe once more for normal killers like himself? And, saddled as he now is with a sense that he's "Dexter 2.0," made over by a sincere desire to stay on the straight and narrow, will he have the gumption to do it?
Have no fear: All those tender feelings don't keep Dexter from breaking into a walk-in refrigerator, attacking a pirate ship and preventing Debs from turning into a late-night snack. Ghoulish fun for like-minded souls.
This part of the hospital seems like foreign country to me. There is no sense of the battlefield here, no surgical teams in gore-stained scrubs trading witty remarks about missing body parts, no steely-eyed administrators with their clipboards, no herds of old drunks in wheelchairs, and above all, no flocks of wide-eyed sheep huddled together in fear at what might come out of the double steel doors. There is no stench of blood, antiseptic, and terror; the smells here are kinder, homier. Even the colors are different: softer, more pastel, without the drab, battleship utilitarianism of the walls in other parts of the building. There are, in fact, none of the sights and sounds and dreadful smells I have come to associate with hospitals, none at all. There is only the crowd of moon-eyed men standing at the big window, and to my infinite surprise, I am one of them.
We stand together, happily pressed up to the glass and cheerfully making space for any newcomer. White, black, brown; Latin, African-American, Asian-American, Creole—it doesn't matter. We are all brothers. No one sneers or frowns; no one seems to care about getting an accidental nudge in the ribs now and again, and no one, wonder of all, seems to harbor any violent thoughts about any of the others. Not even me. Instead, we all cluster at the glass, looking at the miraculous commonplace in the next room.
Are these human beings? Can this really be the Miami I have always lived in? Or has some strange physics experiment in an underground supercollider sent us all to live in Bizarro World, where everyone is kind and tolerant and happy all the time?
Where is the joyfully homicidal crowd of yesteryear? Where are the well-armed, juiced-up, half-crazed, ready-to-kill friends of my youth? Has all this changed, vanished, washed away forever in the light from yonder window?
What fantastic vision beyond the glass has taken a hallway filled with normal, wicked, face-breaking, neck-snapping humans and turned them into a clot of bland and drooling happy-wappys?
Unbelieving, I look again, and there it is. There it still is. Four neat rows of pink and brown, tiny wiggling creatures, so small and prunish and useless—and yet it is they who have turned this crowd of healthy, kill-crazy humans into a half-melted splotch of dribbling helplessness. And beyond this mighty feat of magic, even more absurd and dramatic and unbelievable, one of those tiny pink lumps has taken our Dark Dabbler, Dexter the Decidedly Dreadful, and made him, too, into a thing of quiet and contemplative chin spittle. And there it lies, waving its toes at the strip lights, utterly unaware of the miracle it has performed—unaware, indeed, even of the very toes it wiggles, for it is the absolute Avatar of Unaware—and yet, look what it has done in all its unthinking, unknowing wigglehood. Look at it there, the small, wet, sour-smelling marvel that has changed everything.
Three small and very ordinary syllables. Sounds with no real meaning—and yet strung together and attached to the tiny lump of flesh that squirms there on its pedestal, it has performed the mightiest of magical feats. It has turned Dexter Dead for Decades into something with a heart that beats and pumps true life, something that almost feels, that so very nearly resembles a human being—
There: It waves one small and mighty hand and that New Thing inside Dexter waves back. Something turns over and surges upward into the chest cavity, bounces off the ribs and attacks the facial muscles, which now spread into a spontaneous and unpracticed smile. Heavens above, was that really an emotion? Have I fallen so far, so fast?
Yes, apparently I have. There it goes again.
"Your first?" says a voice beside me, and I glance to my left—quickly, so as not to miss a single second of the spectacle on the far side of the window. A stocky Latin man stands there in jeans and a clean work shirt with Manny stitched over the pocket.
"Yes," I say, and he nods.
"I got three," he says, and smiles. "I don't get tired of it, either."
"No," I say, looking back at Lily Anne. "How could you?" She is moving her other hand now—and now both at the same time! What a remarkable child.
"Two boys," he says, shaking his head, and adds, "and at last, a girl." And I can tell from the tone of his voice that this thought makes him smile and I sneak another glance at him; sure enough, his face is stretched into an expression of happy pride that is nearly as stupid-looking as my own. "Boys can be so dumb," he says. "I really wanted a girl this time, and . . ." His smile stretches even wider and we stand together for several minutes in companionable silence, contemplating our bright and beautiful girls beyond the glass.
Lily Anne Morgan. Dexter's DNA, living and moving on through time to another generation, and more, into the far-flung future, a day beyond imagination—taking the very essence of all that is me and moving it forward past the clock-fingered reach of death, sprinting into tomorrow wrapped in Dexter's chromosomes—and looking very good doing it. Or so it seems to her loopy father.
Everything has changed. A world with Lily Anne Morgan in it is so completely unknown: prettier, cleaner, neater edges, brighter colors. Things taste better now, even the Snickers bar and cup of vending machine coffee, all I have had for twenty-four hours. The candy bar's flavor was far more subtle than I had known before, and the coffee tasted of hope. Poetry flows into my icy cold brain and trickles down to my fingertips, because all is new and wonderful now. And far beyond the taste of the coffee is the taste of life itself. Now it is something to nurture, protect, and delight in. And the thought comes from far out beyond bizarre that perhaps life is no longer something to feed on in the terrible dark frenzy of joy that has defined me until this new apocalyptic moment. Maybe Dexter's world should die now, and a new world of pink delight will spring from the ashes. And the old and terrible need to slash the sheep and scatter the bones, to spin through the wicked night like a thresher, to seed the moonlight with the tidy leftovers of Dexter's Dark Desiring? Maybe it's time to let it go, time to let it drain away until it is all gone, vanished utterly.
Lily Anne is here and I want to be different.
I want to be better than what I have been.
I want to hold her. I want to sit her on my lap and read her Christopher Robin and Dr. Seuss. I want to brush her hair and teach her about toothpaste and put Band-Aids on her knees. I want to hug her in the sunset in a room full of puppies while the band plays "Happy Birthday," and watch her grow up into wonderful beautiful cancer-curing symphony-writing adulthood, and to do that I cannot be who I have always been—and that is fine with me, because I realize one more important thing.
I don't want to be Dark Dexter anymore.
The thought is not so much a shock as a completion. I have lived my life moving in one direction and now I am there. I don't need to do those things anymore. No regrets, but no longer necessary. Now there is Lily Anne and she trumps all that other dancing in the dark. It is time to move on, time to evolve! Time to leave Old Devil Dexter behind in the dust. That part of me is complete, and now—
Now there is one small and very sour note singing in the choir of Dexter's happiness. Something is not quite right. Somewhere nearby some small gleam of the old wicked life flashes through the rosy glow of the new and a dry rattle of scales grates across the new melody.
Someone is watching me.
The thought comes as a silky whisper only one step removed from a chuckle. The Dark Passenger, as ever, is amused at the timing as well as the sentiment—but there is truth in the warning, too, and I turn very casual-careful, smile now stitched in place in the old fake way, and I scan the hallway behind me: first to the left, toward the vending machines. An old man, his shirt tucked into pants pulled much too high, leans against the soda machine with his eyes closed. A nurse walks by without seeing him.
I turn and look to the right, down to where the hallway ends in a "T" that goes one way to a row of rooms and the other way to the elevators. And there it is, as plain as a blip on any radar screen, or what is left of the blip, because someone is going around the corner toward the elevators, and all I can see is half his back as he scuttles away. Tan pants, a greenish plaid shirt, and the bottom of one athletic shoe, and he is gone, and he does not leave any explanation at all of why he was watching me, but I know that he was, and this is confirmed by the cheesy smirk I feel oozing from the Passenger, as if to say, Oh, really, we're leaving what behind?
I know of no reason in this world, or any other, why anyone would be interested in little old me. My conscience is as clean and empty as it can possibly be—which means, of course, that I have always tidied up carefully, and in any case, my conscience has the same hard reality as a unicorn.
But someone very definitely was watching me and this is oh-so-more-than-slightly bothersome, because I can think of no wholesome and happy reason why anyone would want to watch Dull-as-Dishwater Dexter, and I must now think that whatever threatens Dexter might also be a danger to Lily Anne—and this is not a thing that I can allow.
And of course the Passenger finds this highly amusing: that moments ago I was sniffing the bright buds of spring and forswearing the way of all flesh, and now I am once again up on point and eager to slay—but this is different. This is not recreational homicide. This is protecting Lily Anne, and even after these very first moments of life, I will quite happily rip the veins out of anything that comes near her, and it is with this comforting thought that I stroll to the corner of the hall and glance toward the elevator.
But there is nothing there. The hallway is empty.
I have only a few seconds to stare, barely enough time to enjoy my own slack-jawed silence, and my cell phone begins to vibrate on my hip. I draw it from its holster and glance at the number; it is Sergeant Deborah, my own adopted flesh and blood, my cop sister, no doubt calling to coo over the arrival of Lily Anne and offer me sibling best wishes. So I answer the phone.
"Hi," I say.
"Dexter," she says. "We got a shit-storm and I need you. Get down here right away."
"I'm not on duty right now," I say. "I'm on paternity leave." But before I can reassure her that Lily Anne is fine and beautiful and Rita is in a deep sleep down the hall, she gives me an address and hangs up.
I went back and said good-bye to Lily Anne. She waved her toes, rather fondly, I thought, but she didn't say anything.
The address Deborah gave me was in an old part of Coconut Grove, which meant there were no high-rises or guard booths. The houses were small and eccentric, and all the trees and bushes spread up and out into an overgrown riot of green that hid almost everything except the actual road. The street itself was small and darkened by the canopy of overhanging banyans, and there was barely room for me to steer my car through the dozen or so official vehicles that had already arrived and claimed all the parking spots. I managed to find a crevice beside a sprawling bamboo plant about a block away; I wedged my car in and took the long hike back, lugging my blood-spatter kit. It seemed much heavier than usual, but perhaps it was just that being so far from Lily Anne sapped my strength.
The house was modest and mostly hidden by plant life. It had a flat, tilted roof of the kind that had been "modern" forty years ago, and there was a strange and twisted chunk of metal out front that was probably supposed to be a sculpture of some kind. It stood in a pool of water, and a fountain squirted up next to it. Altogether it was the very picture of Old Coconut Grove.
I noticed that several of the cars parked in front looked rather federal motor pool-ish, and sure enough, when I got inside there were a couple of gray suits in among the blue uniforms and pastel guayaberas of the home team. They were all milling about in clusters, a kind of colloidal motion made up of groups—some doing question and answer, some forensics, and others just staring around for something important to do to justify the expense of driving over here and standing at a crime scene.
Deborah was in a group that could best be described as confrontational, which was no surprise to those who know her and love her. She was facing two of the suits, one of them a female FBI agent I knew, Special Agent Brenda Recht. My nemesis, Sergeant Doakes, had sicced her on me when an attempted kidnapping of my stepkids, Cody and Astor, had gone down. Even filled with the good sergeant's helpful paranoia she had not managed to prove anything against me, but she had been deeply suspicious, and I was not looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with her.
Standing beside her was a man I can only describe as a generic fed, with a gray suit and white shirt and shiny black shoes. They were both facing my sister, Sergeant Deborah, and another man I didn't know. He was blond, about six feet tall, muscular, and absurdly good-looking in a rugged, masculine way, as if God had taken Brad Pitt and decided to make him really handsome. He was staring off to the side at a floor lamp while Deborah snarled something forceful at Special Agent Recht. As I approached, Deborah glanced up and caught my eye, turned back to Special Agent Recht, and said, "Now keep your goddamned wingtips out of my crime scene! I have real work to do," and she turned away and took my arm, saying, "Over here. Take a look at this."
Posted September 8, 2010
To say I am a fan of these novels is an understatement. I just love the writing style of Jeff Lindsay and am just amazed at the characters he has created with this story. The entire experience for me, from front cover to the back of the novel, just flat out rocks. The cover is eye catching and very colorful, for someone as simple minded as me this is a plus. I can watch a fire or an aquarium for hours; this is almost as good.
Let me just ask this question, have you read any of the Dexter series? I offer no spoilers but below the post you will find all the covers from the novels in the series; each one is as good as the other. I don't hesitate to suggest trying one or all of them if you haven't. Just click on the cover tab and enjoy. But I digress. Here is a little bit about Dexter is Delicious:
"Dexter Morgan has always lived a happy homicidal life. He keeps his dark urges in check by adhering to one steadfast rule . . . he only kills very bad people. But now Dexter is experiencing some major life changes-don't we all?-and they're mostly wrapped up in the eight-pound curiosity that is his newborn daughter. Family bliss is cut short, however, when 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 so much as cannibals. And, most disturbing . . . these people have decided they would really like to eat Dexter."
Humor, action, endearing characters, and too much fun are all between the covers of this novel. I am consistently amazed at how Jeff Lindsay can get me to become emotionally connected to a serial killer and laugh the entire way. His narrative is unique, engaging and additive. Can one call what Dexter is going through duplicity, bipolar disorder or just flat out fun, who cares? I for one certainly do not. I find that the wait between novels is far too long, but hey, I feel that way about most of my favorite authors anyway. The wait was worth it; the ride was fun and all too quick, and by novels end I was wanting oh so much more. That is what next year is all about. Give Dexter and company a try, you wouldn't be disappointed by the way you killed the time; it is all good time, ha-ha .Please pass the duct tape, rope and the fillet knife if you would.
What are you reading today? Check us out and become our friend on Facebook & Linkedin. Go to Goodreads and become our friend there and suggest books for us to read and post on. You can also follow us on Twitter, and the Gelati's Scoop Facebook Fan Page. Did you know you can shop directly on Amazon by clicking the Gelati's Store Tab on our blog? Thanks for stopping by today; We will see you tomorrow. Have a great day.
2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 1, 2010
We find Dexter contemplating daddyhood with the birth of his daughter, Lily Anne. As he calls up bright, happy visions of himself reading his Dear Daughter fairytales and driving her to ballet lessons, Dexter decides to exile his Dark Passenger to permanent oblivion and embrace his budding human soul. But, the eternal struggle between the moon and the sun is fraught with peril. And condiments. The kind favored by cannibals with vampire fangs. Throw in the announced visit of an unwelcome character from his past and Desperately Dim-witted Dexter finds himself facing a similar fate as those who he himself has so gleefully dispatched to the riptides off Miami's glittering shores.
And that's what makes this book so maddening. It's hard to swallow that a serial killer with the kind of razor sharp self-preservation skills that have allowed him to kill with relative impunity for most of his life would find himself three steps behind others of his own kind. In this and in the last book, Dexter by Design, Dexter ignores every warning, every clue every "don't-go-in-there" moment flashing before him in neon glow. And for that reason, there a few surprises in the story. Even the ending is predictable. And, oh, how he does go on. And on. And on. His constant prattering starts to grate and one almost begins to hope someone will put him out of his indecisiveness soon.
I loved the first two books in this series. I can but hope that in the next book, the old Dexter will be back and he'll once again be worthy of his adversaries.
1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 31, 2014
Posted February 21, 2014
Posted April 7, 2013
I wanted to like this book, as I had liked all the ones before it ... but like the Television Show, the concept is starting to show it's age. To say any more would ruin the book, but I don't WANT Dexter to be a good guy.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 9, 2012
I had to admit, I was worried about Dexter's choices thru this book. I wont say anymore about that, except THANK YOU!!!!
The plot was truly unrealistic, but honestly it made for good, fun reading. I really did enjoy it.
Please write more as I am onto book 6 now and season 7 of the Showtime series is almost over ... What will I do without Dexter????
One thing is for sure ... I'm never play chomping on my kids arm ... ever!!! Just in case hahaha
Posted November 18, 2012
I really enjoyed this one. With the girls that wanted to be eaten. And all the other weird stuff that the Dexter series lets you know thats out theirWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 28, 2012
Dexter is Delicious is by far the best novel in the 'Dexter' series since book #2. Better than book #6 as well. I found this installment to be highly entertaining and I reccomend it to anyone who is a fan of Dexter. The plot was exciting and did not feel rushed or crunched for time like 'Dexter by Design' and 'Double Dexter' did (although I enjoyed both very much). I grant thy novel five stars.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 8, 2012
It has been said that the birth of your first child is the kind of event that shapes the rest of your life. Your priorities shift as you learn to put the newborn's needs before your own, and the whole worlds seems like a much brighter place to live in. For Miami's local serial killer, Dexter Morgan, the birth of a young daughter ignites emotions he never new he possessed and threatens to disrupt his "Dark Passenger".
As the novel opens, Dexter is, surprisingly, in a state of blissful awe, following the birth of his daughter. Readers of the previous installments will recall that, while Dexter originally got involved with his wife Rita in an attempt to hide who he really is, he has found that he actually cares for her and her two children, both of whom seem to harbor "Dark Passengers" of their own. As he recognizes that he is responsible for the well-being of his family, Dexter vows to end his homicidal acts of vengeance.
Unfortunately for Dexter, he is called to help investigate the disappearance of a high school girl who seems to be caught up with a group of people who think they are vampires. When the body of another teenage girl is discovered, Dexter realizes that is dealing with full blown cannibals. As he races to help save the kidnapped teen, Dexter must face his own demons and choose between the perfect family life and the darkness inside of him.
This is the fifth novel in the popular series by Jeff Lindsay, and this was the best book in the series by a long shot. While the previous installments all contained snappy dialogue, a fascinating main character, and fast pacing, they all left me feeling as if they had ended too soon, without a proper conclusion. In this novel, Lindsay manages to keep all of the things that worked in the other ones, while adding a renewed depth to the characters and the mystery that drives the story to a satisfying conclusion. As with the other novels, the bright Florida setting provides the perfect backdrop to juxtapose this truly dark tale. For the first time, Lindsay allotted some time to develop the characters outside of the Dexter Morgan Family arc, and this made them be something more that simply plot points. I really enjoyed this novel, and I look forward to reading the next book in this fascinating series.
Posted February 27, 2012
I loved this book! I have not read any other Dexter books or the show (I do not have premium cable channels), but I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. Even without any prior knowledge of the series, I was not confused by the plot. If you pay attention, then everything is explained, even if only briefly. This book is obviously part if a series, but the books are, relatively, self contained.
The best part of this book was Dexter's dark sense of humor and the way he uses alliteration to describe himself and his emotions (i.e. Dark Dexter, Dex-Daddy, etc.). The humor in contrast to the darkness made this book fun to read, and quick to finish. And, come on, who does not want to read about teen vampire cannibals? It just goes to show that we live in a mad mad mad world.
I will need to go back and read the rest of the Dexter book series now. Many people that know me have suggested that I read or watch Dexter. I am glad that I read this book! I pass on the recommendation if you are into: police procedurals, dark humor, and serial killers that work as a blood spatter analysts during their "day-job," then this book is for you.
Posted February 14, 2012
Posted January 22, 2012
Posted January 12, 2012
I enjoy the book better. Never know when the chanel stations desides that there wont be more seasons.
I feel for the characters, but I still find Rita to stupid. And Debora too. I like the humor and all the made-up words that Lindsay use they kinda stick to you.
Overall love it.
Posted January 5, 2012
Posted January 3, 2012
Continues to be a strong series with the most unlikely protagonist around. Can you root for a serial killer as he does his best to make sense of the "normal" world and mesh (mostly) with its social demands? I can. The more Dexter the better.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 18, 2011
It is similar to the TV series, yet enough different that I want both. It's not like anything else out there.
Read the whole series and look forward to the next one. It's a mystery, and comedy combined.
Posted September 27, 2011
After I finished this book...I calmly closed it and placed it on my desk...I raised my hands and starting clapping! This was my favorite, so far, of all 5 books. Don't get me wrong, I have thoroughly enjoyed each book, but this one turned me into a fidgety maniac! I could not wait to see what happens. So there was a lot of slamming the book closed, squealing, then reopening to continue reading! lol I loved it! I can not believe I have to wait 21 days to get my next Dexter fix!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 26, 2011
Posted August 19, 2011
Posted May 23, 2011
In comparison to the previous works, this novel seemed rushed and hastily thrown together. The plot was idiotic, inane drivel and far below what was one has come To expect of Dexters calibre. I am an avid reader and normally not one to rave about a television adaptation since in most cases it rarely surpasses the books but in this case I can honestly say that Clyde Phillips and Daniel Cerrone have dine a much better job of expanding Dexter as a storyline than his creator Jeff Lindsay and for even better insight look for the webisodes of Dexter the Early Cuts on Showtimes website or You Tube
0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.