Start your review of Bleeding Violet Write a review Shelves: rubbish , young-adult , urban-fantasy , I have no idea how the hell to classify this book. This book is just a hot mess despite its gorgeous cover art. This town is overrun with evil creatures, magical doors that are I have no idea how the hell to classify this book. This town is overrun with evil creatures, magical doors that are like folds in space. You can go through a door and end up on the other side of town or on the other side of the world, or on a different world altogether. Then you have the Mortmaine, a group of people who fight these creatures and protect the town but only if it benefits the whole town
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So she runs away to Portero, Texas, in search of a new home. But Portero is a stranger town than Hanna expects. As she tries to make a place for herself, she discovers dark secrets that would terrify any normal soul. And when a crazy girl meets an even crazier town, only two things are certain: Anything can happen and no one is safe. I felt odd too, standing in the town where my mother lived.
I had to fish my penlight from my pack to see the numbers; streetlights were scarce, and the sky bulged with low, sooty clouds instead of helpful moonlight. Portero sat in a part of East Texas right on the tip of the Piney Woods; wild tangles of ancient pine and oak twisted throughout the town. But here on Lamartine, the trees had been tamed, corralled behind ornamental fences and yoked with tire swings.
Where are the slaughterhouses? The oil oozing from every pore of the land? His grim tone unnerved me as it always did when he spoke of my mother. I never imagined she would live in such a place. How had I gotten so close? A few short feet later, I was better than close—I was there: None of the other houses nestled chummily near hers; even her garage was unattached.
Her mailbox was strictly utilitarian, and the fence that circled her property was chin high and unfriendly. I ignored him and crept through the unfriendly gate and up the porch steps.
I sat for a long time, catching my breath. I sat and I breathed. I breathed and I sat— Stop stalling, Hanna. My hands knotted over my stomach, over the swarm of butterflies warring within.
I gazed at the dark length of the front door, consumed with what was on the other side of it. How many times have I told you? Now, stop being silly and go introduce yourself. I am being silly. The force of the word rattled my brain.
As badly as you. Nine times out of ten, I awoke on my own, naturally, even without an alarm clock, but if I was awoken before I was ready, things could get? Just let yourself in.
I crouched on the porch, the wood unkind to my bare knees, and folded back the welcome mat. A stubby bronze key glinted in the glow of my penlight. A spare key. I unlocked the door and slipped inside.
A red metallic floor lamp with spotlights stuck all over it stood in the center of the room. One of the spotlights beamed coldly—as though my mother had known I was coming and had left the light on for me. Aside from the red chrysanthemums in a translucent vase above the sham fireplace, and the red throw pillow gracing the single chair near the floor lamp, the entire living room was unrelievedly blue-white.
Modern, the same style Poppa had liked— Still likes. My hopes began to rise again. I slipped the spare key into the pocket of my dress as I traveled down a short hallway, my French heels clicking musically against the blond wood floor. I put my ear to each of the three doors in the hall, until a slow, deep breathing sighed into my head from behind door number three.
I stood with my head to the door, trying to match my breath to hers, until my ear began to sting from the pressure. I regarded the door thoughtfully.
Fingered the brass knob. No, I told you. Poppa was adamant. You need to entice her out of bed. I stole into the kitchen and turned on the light near the swinging door. The kitchen, like the living room, was blue-white, with a single lipstick-red dining chair providing the only color, aside from me in my violet dress. I dumped my purple bag by the red chair and went exploring, and after I learned where she kept the plates, the French bread, and the artisanal cheese, I decided to make grilled-cheese sandwiches.
I took no especial pains to be quiet—I wanted her company. My grandma Annikki once told me that anyone who looked on the face of God would instantly fall over dead.
Looking at my mother—for the first time ever—I wondered if it was because God was beautiful. I had the same hourglass figure, the same hazel skin, the same turbulence of tight, skinny curls; but while my curls were a capricious brown, hers were shadow black.
Island-girl hair. Poppa whispered admiringly. I averted my eyes and presented the sandwiches, like an offering. Her mouth was expressive, naturally rosy, and mean.
Just like mine. Our lips turned down at the corners and made us look spoiled. Her oil black eyes raked me in a discomfiting sweep. Not for years. In the middle of the night. Did he crack? Last year. After a time, Rosalee stalked past me and stood before the picture window. It was soft, yellowed with the years. On one side was a photo of Fountain Square, somewhere here in Portero.
She settled herself against the window, her back to the lowering sky. Maybe all three. No to all three. For eight years I recited them to myself before I went to sleep, like a lullaby. Poppa had warned me what to expect if I tried. My aunt Ulla. Exactly like hers.
I admired the sight of our naked feet, settled so closely together, golden against the icy sheen of the kitchen tile. I figured I did. Poppa told me I did. And here I am, tallish and brunette and brown as sugar. Just like you. And I did belong to them, but I belong to you, too. I want to know about you. Poppa warned.
But it was.