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RELEASE DATE: October 9th 2012
GENRE: Dark Fantasy, YA 12+
LENGTH: 464 pages
PUBLISHER: Delacorte Books for Young Readers
Velveteen Monroe is dead. At 16, she was kidnapped and murdered by a madman named Bonesaw. But that's not the problem.
problem is she landed in purgatory. And while it's not a fiery inferno,
it's certainly no heaven. It's gray, ashen, and crumbling more and more
by the day, and everyone has a job to do. Which doesn't leave Velveteen
much time to do anything about what's really on her mind.
aches to deliver the bloody punishment her killer deserves. And she's
figured out just how to do it. She'll haunt him for the rest of his
It'll be brutal . . . and awesome.
But crossing the
divide between the living and the dead has devastating consequences.
Velveteen's obsessive haunting cracks the foundations of purgatory and
jeopardizes her very soul. A risk she's willing to take—except fate has
just given her reason to stick around: an unreasonably hot and
completely off-limits coworker.
Velveteen can't help herself when
it comes to breaking rules . . . or getting revenge. And she just might
be angry enough to take everyone down with her.
Thanks so much Daniel! We love you here at After Dark and wish you huge success with Velveteen!
CHAPTER 1 SNEAK PEAK!
When Velveteen Monroe pictured Bonesaw's house--and she
did, more often than could be considered healthy--blood striped the
paint a muddy reddish-brown, internal organs floated in jars of
formaldehyde, and great big taxidermy crows leered from branches that
twisted from the wall like palsied arms.
Velvet always did have a vivid imagination. It was part of her charm.
she'd never have guessed that the first thing to jump out at her in the
murderer's dank living room wouldn't be a human-bone coffee table
cluttered with the latest issues of Sociopath Weekly and Insanity Fair,
dog-eared and swollen with scribbled Post-its like her mom's Cooking
Light magazines, nor the killer himself, wild-eyed and clad in a
blood-spattered rubber apron, growling maniacally.
He wasn't there at all.
first thing Velvet noticed was a dangerously normal Kleenex cozy with
the words "Home Sweet Home" cross-stitched into its side. As if there
were anyone sweet dwelling in that boxy, bland farmhouse.
had dropped the ball on macabre creativity. It's like he never got the
text message. When a serial killer decorates his home, it's his duty to
opt for, at the very least, a moderately freaky and off-kilter, if not
deranged, design scheme.
Everybody knows that.
It's Psychopath 101.
couch and chairs were as sandy brown as the paint job and plainly
arranged rather than all backward or spotted with gore like you might
expect of a properly insane decorator. The carpet was clearance-sale
beige and just the slightest bit threadbare in a meandering path that
led to the old-fashioned swinging kitchen door. The only thing remotely
weird was an alabaster ashtray the size of a hubcap, with a half-eaten
peanut butter and jelly sandwich stubbed-out in the middle instead of a
Velvet's eyes lit on a giant TV--not one of those
LCDs, but the other kind, with the big tube in the back--teetering atop
a small chest. One of the stand's doors hung open just a crack, and
something twinkled from its murky depths like a lonely star. She reached
out and swung the door open on its squeaky hinges, half expecting to
see a knife collection of the variety sold on home shopping networks.
"Look at all of you." Velvet cocked an eyebrow as she peered inside. "Lined up like toy soldiers."
Bonesaw collected salt and pepper shakers. Lots and lots of them.
guys in sombreros, turtles with top hats and canes, and even a pair of
Oreos with bites taken out of them--though how delicious cookies were
related to salt and pepper was beyond Velvet.
"Correction," she mumbled. "Used to collect them."
snatched a pair of hideous cacti, the pickle color having faded into a
pale, sickly lime from age or, maybe, Bonesaw's relentless polishing.
She launched them across the room, where one shattered into a hundred
pieces and the other dug into the drywall, jutting from it like a
diseased tooth. A couple of cockeyed chickens were next to get the
fastball treatment, followed by the rest of the animal-shaped
dispensers. They exploded against the back of the front door, salting
and peppering the carpet with tiny shards of porcelain but no actual
salt and pepper.
The cabinet emptied, Velvet clamped her fingers
under the edge of the coffee table and heaved it forward onto its top,
sending the magazines flapping across the room and the giant ashtray
thudding to the floor. The peanut butter and jelly dropped away as the
mammoth disk of alabaster rolled off on its side, ridges beating a
rhythm across the thin pile of the carpet. It collided with the chest,
and the TV rocked precariously before settling back onto its base.
cocked her head to the side; black waves of hair fell over her shoulder
and cast a shadow across her face. She quickly tucked a lock behind her
ear and assessed the situation for maximum destruction. A slow grin
carved its way across her lips, as jagged as a jack-o'-lantern's.
"That won't do, will it?"
spun, kicking the chest with her full weight, and watched with glee as
the TV toppled to the floor with a bang. The screen exploded
satisfyingly, spraying the carpet with tiny splinters of TV glass that
twinkled like morning dew. The booming echoed through the small house
exquisitely, the sound defiling every normal-as-white-bread corner.
If you overlooked the vandalism, the house was the kind of place where anyone could have lived.
Even the killer of four high school girls from New Brompfel Heights, New Jersey.
crapload of crazy had all started the summer before Velvet's senior
year, when Misha Kohl hadn't shown up at home after getting wasted at a
kegger, but instead appeared eight days later in several different
ziplock freezer bags down by the river. The town had gone shit-bag crazy
over that. Curfews had been instated. Buddy-ups for the kids whose
houses didn't warrant bus stops. Cameras pointed at the playgrounds like
owls on the hunt for woodland scamperers.
Velvet had been pretty sure Bonesaw wasn't a scamperer.
cameras hadn't been about catching the serial killer anyway. They'd
been about parents pretending their teenage girls were playing on swing
sets rather than holing up in some sweaty basement, dodging boys' grabby
Despite an obvious love of
thick eyeliner, eighties Goth music, and giving her mother heart
palpitations, Velvet hadn't been particularly interested in the Bonesaw
case at the time. She would have, if pressed, admitted to a certain
fascination with sociopaths, and she had spent more than a few "library
enrichment" hours scouring the Encyclopedia of Tragedy and Mayhem, but a
few missing girls didn't really thrill her as much as you'd think.
Ted Bundy was kind of hot if you squinted really hard, but he wasn't
nearly as extraordinary-looking as his "survivors" always claimed on
those History Channel psycho-killer shows. Velvet's interests didn't
have anything to do with romanticizing psychotic personalities, anyway.
What intrigued her was the whole disconnectedness-from-emotions "thing"
that unites all true sociopaths, like they're part of a Moose lodge or a
fantasy football league. She'd been accused of the same behavior on
more than one occasion (the disconnectedness, not participating in a
ridiculous pretend sports thing). Whether she was guilty of having the
symptoms was debatable. Lord knows the counselors at her school were
happy to discuss what they termed her "oppositional defiance" at every
parent conference ever.
Great book to get you in the mood for Halloween! It's gritty, gory and the detail in which this story is told really pulls you into Purgatory. Even if your not a YA reader this book is a must, highly Recommend! Also I suggest checking out Daniels YOUTUBE channel, very entertaining and his Adult series called The Amanda Feral Series! A favorite of mine, Love it!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STALK DANIEL MARKS HERE
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