Читать онлайн «Mongrels»
Автор Стивен Джонс
Published by Harper
An imprint of HarperCollins
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Harper
Copyright © Stephen Graham Jones 2016
Stephen Graham Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008182427
Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008182441
Version: 2016-04-18
Eventually I went to America.
There no one believes in werewolves.
—JAMES BLISH
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress
Chapter 2: The Heaven of Werewolves
Chapter 3: American Ninja
Chapter 4: The Truth About Werewolves
Chapter 5: Billy the Kid
Chapter 6: Werewolves on the Moon
Chapter 7: The Lone Ranger
Chapter 8: How to Recognize a Werewolf
Chapter 9: Layla
Chapter 10: Here There Be Werewolves
Chapter 11: Bark at the Moon
Chapter 12: Year of the Wolf
Chapter 13: Sad Eyes
Chapter 14: The Werewolf of Alcatraz
Chapter 15: The Sheep Look Up
Chapter 16: Never Say Werewolf
Chapter 17: The Mark of the Beast
Chapter 18: Wolf Like Me
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Stephen Graham Jones
About the Publisher
My grandfather used to tell me he was a werewolf.
He’d rope my aunt Libby and uncle Darren in, try to get them to nod about him twenty years ago, halfway up a windmill, slashing at the rain with his claws. Him dropping down to all fours to race the train on the downhill out of Booneville, and beating it. Him running ahead of a countryside full of Arkansas villagers, a live chicken flapping between his jaws, his eyes wet with the thrill of it all. The moon was always full in his stories, and right behind him like a spotlight.
