Nightsiders

Начало книги

The boy watched the wounded kitten as it struggled gamely through the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden, then followed patiently on all fours. He paused for a moment to lick the blood from his fingers. It tasted good, like the memory of something special on his tongue. He had not eaten properly in days—his thin, undernourished body was testament to that—and any food, even this meagre feast, was to be savored.

The girl sat on the porch, her legs swinging as she rocked back and forth, back and forth in the wicker rocker, watching the boy; enjoying the hunt. She turned toward the house, to the powdery light that filtered through the wooden shutters—one of which had been destroyed when the boy had first grabbed the kitten—and smiled. On her thin, pale face, the expression looked venal.

The man and woman were inside, doing things on the kitchen floor. Noisy things. Soft and hard and ugly-moist things the girl didn’t really like to see but couldn’t stop herself from watching whenever the opportunity presented itself. She was interested in a way that made her feel detached, and it set her apart from the others. The man often told her she was too sharp for her own good, but that only made the girl think of a knife blade. And of cutting.

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