![]() ![]() And those bones are placed on a New Orleans altar – the city is home to unpredictable, languorous and dangerous Louis, and evokes Anne Rice, while the constantly-throbbing atmosphere of transformative, transgressive and violent sex reminds you of Clive Barker. James and his abandoned whistle, but with a fashion goth sensation-addict standing in for a repressed academic on a golfing holiday. ![]() The story is a lovely nest of bones, artfully arranged. A little nastiness I could keep in my pocket while I worked to save up money for a one-way air ticket. I read this story in 1996, in a tiny slip of a book I bought for 60p and that I guarantee I read while travelling to my first office job on a bus. Endless magic – forever love and immortality. Eventually, amidst the pale bones and stolen bottles of absinthe, they discover a talent and a desire for magic, which leads them to a special grave, and the sordid promise of a singular artefact. ![]() Howard and Louis are disaffected, questing sociopaths – looking for fulfillment in sex, violence, drugs and grave robbery. ![]()
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