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Zusatztext “Of all bestselling authors! Koontz may be the most underestimated by the literary establishment. Book after book! year after year! this author climbs to the top of the charts. Why? His readers know: because he is a master storyteller and a daring writer! and because! in his novels! he gives readers bright hope in a dark world.”— Publishers Weekly !starred review Informationen zum Autor Dean Koontz , the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Elsa, and the enduring spirit of their goldens, Trixie and Anna. Klappentext From the celebrated imagination of Dean Koontz comes a powerful reworking of one of the classic stories of all time. If you think you know the legend, you know only half the truth. The mystery, the myth, the terror, and the magic continue. . . . They are stronger, heal better, and think faster than any humans ever created-and they must be destroyed. Not even Victor Helios-once Frankenstein-can stop the engineered killers he's set loose on a reign of terror through modern-day New Orleans. Only the one-time "monster" Deucalion and his all-too-human partners, Detectives Carson O'Connor and Michael Maddison, stand in their way. But as the three race to uncover the true dimensions of an age-old conspiracy, they will discover that Victor's new, improved models have infiltrated every level of the city's society . . . and far beyond. Chapter One Having come to life in a thunderstorm, touched by some strange lightning that animated rather than incinerated, Deucalion had been born on a night of violence. A Bedlam symphony of his anguished cries, his maker's shrieks of triumph, the burr and buzz and crackle of arcane machinery echoed off the cold stone walls of the laboratory in the old windmill. When he woke to the world, Deucalion had been shackled to a table. This was the first indication that he had been created as a slave. Unlike God, Victor Frankenstein saw no value in giving his creations free will. Like all utopians, he preferred obedience to independent thought. That night, over two hundred years in the past, had set a theme of madness and violence that characterized Deucalion's life for years thereafter. Despair had fostered rage. In his rages, he had killed, and savagely. These many decades later, he had learned self-control. His pain and loneliness had taught him pity, whereafter he learned compassion. He had found his way to hope. Yet still, on certain nights, without immediate cause, anger overcomes him. For no rational reason, the anger swells into a tidal rage that threatens to sweep him beyond prudence, beyond discretion. This night in New Orleans, Deucalion walked an alleyway on the perimeter of the French Quarter, in a mood to murder. Shades of gray, of blue, of black were enlivened only by the crimson of his thoughts. The air was warm, humid, and alive with muffled jazz that the walls of the famous clubs could not entirely contain. In public, he stayed in shadows and used back streets, because his formidable size made him an object of interest. As did his face. From the darkness beside a Dumpster, a wrinkled rum-soaked raisin of a man stepped forth. "Peace in Jesus, brother." Although that greeting didn't suggest a mugger on the prowl, Deucalion turned toward the voice with the hope that the stranger would have a knife, a gun. Even in his rage, he needed justification for violence. The panhandler brandished nothing more dangerous than a dirty upturned palm and searing halitosis. "One dollar's all I need." "You can't get anything for a dollar," Deucalion said. "Bless you if you're generous, but a dollar's all I ask." Deucalion resisted the urge to seize the extended hand and snap it off at the wrist as though it were a dry st...