Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Series #3)

Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Series #3)

by Dean Koontz

Paperback(Large Print)

$27.00 View All Available Formats & Editions


Loop me in, odd one. The words, spoken in the deep of night by a sleeping child, chill the young man watching over her. For this was a favorite phrase of Stormy Llewellyn, his lost love, and Stormy is dead, gone forever from this world. In the haunted halls of the isolated monastery where he had sought peace, Odd Thomas is stalking spirits of an infinitely darker nature. . . .Brother Odd.

Through two New York Times bestselling novels, Odd Thomas has established himself as one of the most beloved and unique fictional heroes of our time. Now, wielding all the power and magic of a master storyteller at the pinnacle of his craft, Dean Koontz follows Odd into a singular new world where he hopes to make a fresh beginning—but where he will meet an adversary as old and inexorable as time itself.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780739378519
Publisher: Diversified Publishing
Publication date: 03/27/2012
Series: Odd Thomas Series , #3
Edition description: Large Print
Pages: 464
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.20(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.


Newport Beach, California

Date of Birth:

July 9, 1945

Place of Birth:

Everett, Pennsylvania


B.S. (major in English), Shippensburg University, 1966

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Embraced by stone, steeped in silence, i sat at the high window as the third day of the week surrendered to the fourth. The river of night rolled on, indifferent to the calendar.

I hoped to witness that magical moment when the snow began to fall in earnest. Earlier the sky had shed a few flakes, then nothing more. The pending storm would not be rushed.

The room was illuminated only by a fat candle in an amber glass on the corner desk. Each time a draft found the flame, melting light buttered the limestone walls and waves of fluid shadows oiled the corners.

Most nights, I find lamplight too bright. And when I’m writing, the only glow is the computer screen, dialed down to gray text on a navy-blue field.

Without a silvering of light, the window did not reflect my face. I had a clear view of the night beyond the panes.

Living in a monastery, even as a guest rather than as a monk, you have more opportunities than you might have elsewhere to see the world as it is, instead of through the shadow that you cast upon it.

St. Bartholomew’s Abbey was surrounded by the vastness of the Sierra Nevada, on the California side of the border. The primeval forests that clothed the rising slopes were themselves cloaked in darkness.

From this third-floor window, I could see only part of the deep front yard and the blacktop lane that cleaved it. Four low lampposts with bell-shaped caps focused light in round pale pools.

The guesthouse is in the northwest wing of the abbey. The ground floor features parlors. Private rooms occupy the higher and the highest floors.

As I watched in anticipation of the storm, a whiteness that was not snow drifted across the yard, out of darkness, into lamplight.

The abbey has one dog, a 110-pound German-shepherd mix, perhaps part Labrador retriever. He is entirely white and moves with the grace of fog. His name is Boo.

My name is Odd Thomas. My dysfunctional parents claim a mistake was made on the birth certificate, that Todd was the wanted name. Yet they have never called me Todd.

In twenty-one years, I have not considered changing to Todd. The bizarre course of my life suggests that Odd is more suited to me, whether it was conferred by my parents with intention or by fate.

Below, Boo stopped in the middle of the pavement and gazed along the lane as it dwindled and descended into darkness.

Mountains are not entirely slopes. Sometimes the rising land takes a rest. The abbey stands on a high meadow, facing north.

Judging by his pricked ears and lifted head, Boo perceived a visitor approaching. He held his tail low.

I could not discern the state of his hackles, but his tense posture suggested that they were raised.

From dusk the driveway lamps burn until dawn ascends. The monks of St. Bart’s believe that night visitors, no matter how seldom they come,must be welcomed with light.

The dog stood motionless for a while, then shifted his attention toward the lawn to the right of the blacktop. His head lowered. His ears flattened against his skull.

For a moment, I could not see the cause of Boo’s alarm. Then . . . into view came a shape as elusive as a night shadow floating across black water. The figure passed near enough to one of the lampposts to be briefly revealed.

Even in daylight, this was a visitor of whom only the dog and I could have been aware.

I see dead people, spirits of the departed who, each for his own reason, will not move on from this world. Some are drawn to me for justice, if they were murdered, or for comfort, or for companionship; others seek me out for motives that I cannot always understand.

This complicates my life. I am not asking for your sympathy. We all have our problems, and yours seem as important to you as mine seem to me.

Perhaps you have a ninety-minute commute every morning, on freeways clogged with traffic, your progress hampered by impatient and incompetent motorists, some of them angry specimens with middle fingers muscular from frequent use. Imagine, however, how much more stressful your morning might be if in the passenger seat was a young man with a ghastly ax wound in his head and if in the backseat an elderly woman, strangled by her husband, sat pop-eyed and purple-faced.

The dead don’t talk. I don’t know why. And an ax-chopped spirit will not bleed on your upholstery.

Nevertheless, an entourage of the recently dead is disconcerting and generally not conducive to an upbeat mood.

The visitor on the lawn was not an ordinary ghost, maybe not a ghost at all. In addition to the lingering spirits of the dead, I see one other kind of supernatural entity. I call them bodachs.

They are ink-black, fluid in shape, with no more substance than shadows. Soundless, as big as an average man, they frequently slink like cats, low to the ground.

The one on the abbey lawn moved upright: black and featureless, yet suggestive of something half man, half wolf. Sleek, sinuous, and sinister.

The grass was not disturbed by its passage. Had it been crossing water, it would not have left a single ripple in its wake.

In the folklore of the British Isles, a bodach is a vile beast that slithers down chimneys at night and carries off children who misbehave. Rather like Inland Revenue agents.

What I see are neither bodachs nor tax collectors. They carry away neither misbehaving children nor adult miscreants. But I have seen them enter houses by chimneys–by keyholes, chinks in window frames, as protean as smoke–and I have no better name for them.

Their infrequent appearance is always reason for alarm. These creatures seem to be spiritual vampires with knowledge of the future. They are drawn to places where violence or fiery catastrophe is destined to erupt, as if they feed on human suffering.

Although he was a brave dog, with good reason to be brave, Boo shrank from the passing apparition. His black lips peeled back from his white fangs.

The phantom paused as if to taunt the dog. Bodachs seem to know that some animals can see them.

I don’t think they know that I can see them, too. If they did know, I believe that they would show me less mercy than mad mullahs show their victims when in a mood to behead and dismember.

At the sight of this one, my first impulse was to shrink from the window and seek communion with the dust bunnies under my bed. My second impulse was to pee.

Resisting both cowardice and the call of the bladder, I raced from my quarters into the hallway. The third floor of the guesthouse offers two small suites. The other currently had no occupant.

On the second floor, the glowering Russian was no doubt scowling in his sleep. The solid construction of the abbey would not translate my footfalls into his dreams.

The guesthouse has an enclosed spiral staircase, stone walls encircling granite steps. The treads alternate between black and white, making me think of harlequins and piano keys, and of a treacly old song by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder.

Although stone stairs are unforgiving and the black-and-white pattern can be disorienting, I plunged toward the ground floor, risking damage to the granite if I fell and struck it with my head.

Sixteen months ago, I lost what was most precious to me and found my world in ruins; nevertheless, I am not usually reckless. I have less to live for than I once did, but my life still has purpose, and I struggle to find meaning in the days.

Leaving the stairs in the condition that I found them, I hurried across the main parlor, where only a night lamp with a beaded shade relieved the gloom. I pushed through a heavy oak door with a stained-glass window, and saw my breath plume before me in the winter night.

The guesthouse cloister surrounds a courtyard with a reflecting pool and a white marble statue of St. Bartholomew. He is arguably the least known of the twelve apostles. Here depicted, a solemn St. Bartholomew stands with his right hand over his heart, left arm extended. In his upturned palm is what appears to be a pumpkin but might be a related variety of squash.

The symbolic meaning of the squash eludes me.

At this time of year, the pool was drained, and no scent of wet limestone rose from it, as in warmer days. I detected, instead, the faintest smell of ozone, as after lightning in a spring rain, and wondered about it, but kept moving.

I followed the colonnade to the door of the guesthouse receiving room, went inside, crossed that shadowy chamber, and returned to the December night through the front door of the abbey.

Our white shepherd mix, Boo, standing on the driveway, as I had last seen him from my third-floor window, turned his head to look at me as I descended the broad front steps. His stare was clear and blue, with none of the eerie eyeshine common to animals at night.

Without benefit of stars or moon, most of the expansive yard receded into murk. If a bodach lurked out there, I could not see it.

“Boo, where’s it gone?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. My life is strange but not so strange that it includes talking canines.

With wary purpose, however, the dog moved off the driveway, onto the yard. He headed east, past the formidable abbey, which appears almost to have been carved from a single great mass of rock, so tight are the mortar joints between its stones.

No wind ruffled the night, and darkness hung with folded wings.

Seared brown by winter, the trampled grass crunched underfoot. Boo moved with far greater stealth than I could manage.

Feeling watched, I looked up at the windows, but I didn’t see anyone, no light other than the faint flicker of the candle in my quarters, no pale face peering through a dark pane.

I had rushed out of the guest wing wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. December stropped its teeth on my bare arms.

We proceeded eastward alongside the church, which is part of the abbey, not a separate building.

A sanctuary lamp glows perpetually, but it isn’t sufficient to fire the colorful stained glass. Through window after window, that dim light seemed to watch us as though it were the single sullen eye of something in a bloody mood.

Having led me to the northeast corner of the building, Boo turned south, past the back of the church. We continued to the wing of the abbey that, on the first floor, contains the novitiate.

Not yet having taken their vows, the novices slept here. Of the five who were currently taking instruction, I liked and trusted four.

Suddenly Boo abandoned his cautious pace. He ran due east, away from the abbey, and I pursued him.

As the yard relented to the untamed meadow, grass lashed my knees. Soon the first heavy snow would compact these tall dry blades.

For a few hundred feet, the land sloped gently before leveling off, whereupon the knee-high grass became a mown lawn again. Before us in the gloom rose St. Bartholomew’s School.

In part the word school is a euphemism. These students are unwanted elsewhere, and the school is also their home, perhaps the only one that some of them will ever have.

This is the original abbey, internally remodeled but still an impressive pile of stone. The structure also houses the convent in which reside the nuns who teach the students and care for them.

Behind the former abbey, the forest bristled against the stormready sky, black boughs sheltering blind pathways that led far into the lonely dark.

Evidently tracking the bodach, the dog went up the broad steps to the front door of the school, and through.

Few doors in the abbey are ever locked. But for the protection of the students, the school is routinely secured.

Only the abbot, the mother superior, and I possess a universal key that allows admittance everywhere. No guest before me has been entrusted with such access.

I take no pride in their trust. It is a burden. In my pocket, the simple key sometimes feels like an iron fate drawn to a lodestone deep in the earth.

The key allows me quickly to seek Brother Constantine, the dead monk, when he manifests with a ringing of bells in one of the towers or with some other kind of cacophony elsewhere.

In Pico Mundo, the desert town in which I had lived for most of my time on earth, the spirits of many men and women linger. But here we have just Brother Constantine, who is no less disturbing than all of Pico Mundo’s dead combined, one ghost but one too many.

With a bodach on the prowl, Brother Constantine was the least of my worries.

Shivering, I used my key, and hinges squeaked, and I followed the dog into the school.

Two night-lights staved off total gloom in the reception lounge. Multiple arrangements of sofas and armchairs suggested a hotel lobby.

I hurried past the unmanned information desk and went through a swinging door into a corridor lighted by an emergency lamp and red EXIT signs.

On this ground floor were the classrooms, the rehabilitation clinic, the infirmary, the kitchen, and the communal dining room. Those sisters with a culinary gift were not yet preparing breakfast. Silence ruled these spaces, as it would for hours yet.

I climbed the south stairs and found Boo waiting for me on the second-floor landing. He remained in a solemn mood. His tail did not wag, and he did not grin in greeting.

Two long and two short hallways formed a rectangle, serving the student quarters. The residents roomed in pairs.

At the southeast and northwest junctions of the corridors were nurses’ stations, both of which I could see when I came out of the stairs in the southwest corner of the building.

At the northwest station, a nun sat at the counter, reading. From this distance, I could not identify her.

Besides, her face was half concealed by a wimple. These are not modern nuns who dress like meter maids. These sisters wear old-style habits that can make them seem as formidable as warriors in armor.

The southeast station was deserted. The nun on duty must have been making her rounds or tending to one of her charges.

When Boo padded away to the right, heading southeast, I followed without calling to the reading nun. By the time that I had taken three steps, she was out of my line of sight.

Many of the sisters have nursing degrees, but they strive to make the second floor feel more like a cozy dormitory than like a hospital. With Christmas twenty days away, the halls were hung with garlands of fake evergreen boughs and festooned with genuine tinsel.

In respect of the sleeping students, the lights had been dimmed. The tinsel glimmered only here and there, and mostly darkled into tremulous shadows.

The doors of some student rooms were closed, others ajar. They featured not just numbers but also names.

Halfway between the stairwell and the nurses’ station, Boo paused at Room 32, where the door was not fully closed. On block-lettered plaques were the names ANNAMARIE and JUSTINE.

This time I was close enough to Boo to see that indeed his hackles were raised.

The dog passed inside, but propriety made me hesitate. I ought to have asked a nun to accompany me into these students’ quarters.

But I wanted to avoid having to explain bodachs to her. More important, I didn’t want to risk being overheard by one of those malevolent spirits as I was talking about them.

Officially, only one person at the abbey and one at the convent know about my gift–if in fact it is a gift rather than a curse. Sister Angela, the mother superior, shares my secret, as does Father Bernard, the abbot.

Courtesy had required that they fully understand the troubled young man whom they would be welcoming as a long-term guest.

To assure Sister Angela and Abbot Bernard that I was neither a fraud nor a fool,Wyatt Porter, the chief of police in Pico Mundo, my hometown, shared with them the details of some murder cases with which I had assisted him.

Likewise, Father Sean Llewellyn vouched for me. He is the Catholic priest in Pico Mundo.

Father Llewellyn is also the uncle of Stormy Llewellyn, whom I had loved and lost. Whom I will forever cherish.

During the seven months I had lived in this mountain retreat, I’d shared the truth of my life with one other, Brother Knuckles, a monk. His real name is Salvatore, but we call him Knuckles more often than not.

Brother Knuckles would not have hesitated on the threshold of Room 32. He is a monk of action. In an instant he would have decided that the threat posed by the bodach trumped propriety. He would have rushed through the door as boldly as did the dog, although with less grace and with a lot more noise.

I pushed the door open wider, and went inside.

In the two hospital beds lay Annamarie, closest to the door, and Justine. Both were asleep.

On the wall behind each girl hung a lamp controlled by a switch at the end of a cord looped around the bed rail. It could provide various intensities of light.

Annamarie, who was ten years old but small for her age, had set her lamp low, as a night-light. She feared the dark.

Her wheelchair stood beside the bed. From one of the hand grips at the back of the chair hung a quilted, insulated jacket. From the other hand grip hung a woolen cap. On winter nights, she insisted that these garments be close at hand.

The girl slept with the top sheet clenched in her frail hands, as if ready to throw off the bedclothes. Her face was taut with an expression of concerned anticipation, less than anxiety, more than mere disquiet.

Although she slept soundly, she appeared to be prepared to flee at the slightest provocation.

One day each week, of her own accord, with eyes closed tight, Annamarie practiced piloting her battery-powered wheelchair to each of two elevators. One lay in the east wing, the other in the west.

In spite of her limitations and her suffering, she was a happy child. These preparations for flight were out of character.

Although she would not talk about it, she seemed to sense that a night of terror was coming, a hostile darkness through which she would need to find her way. She might be prescient.

The bodach, first glimpsed from my high window, had come here, but not alone. Three of them, silent wolflike shadows, were gathered around the second bed, in which Justine slept.

A single bodach signals impending violence that may be either near and probable or remote and less certain. If they appear in twos and threes, the danger is more immediate.

In my experience, when they appear in packs, the pending danger has become imminent peril, and the deaths of many people are days or hours away. Although the sight of three of them chilled me, I was grateful that they didn’t number thirty.

Trembling with evident excitement, the bodachs bent over Justine while she slept, as if studying her intently. As if feeding on her.

Customer Reviews

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Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Series #3) 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 406 reviews.
Linux More than 1 year ago
This book has indeed rendered me speechless. I even shed a few tears at one point. When you read it, you'll know the precise moment I speak of. By far, this is my favourite of the series! I read this one in one day because I just couldn't manage to put it down. Was eager to find out what the next page will reveal. I highly recommend reading these!
xoxo_leigh More than 1 year ago
It wasn't the plot that kept me reading but the likable, funny and well developed characters of Brother Knuckles and the mysterious, witty and unpredictable Rodion Romanovich. I really liked the fact that Koontz goes back to creating wonderful characters and dialog but sadly he didn't utilize Odd's ability to see the dead as much as I expected and enjoy. However, Odd Thomas still gives me enough promise and excitement that I'm eager to start book #4 hoping it will head back into the direction of Odd Thomas #1. He's just too likable of a character not to want to read more! xoxo_leigh
Bookman6977 More than 1 year ago
This is a really good read. So good befoe you know it your done. What would you do if you had a room where all you had to do is think of something and it appears? Add some Nuns and Munks a few ghosts with Odd right in the middle of it. You get............well a great story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Brother Odd is like a true sequel in comparison to the interludesque Forever Odd, and by each chapters end you wont be able to put it to rest. If your a fan of the first book or any of Koontzs' plethora of other offerings theres no dissapointment here if your looking for a deep story filled with revealing backstory and characters as well as writhing suspense and horror.
MinaHarkerMN More than 1 year ago
This book grabbed me right away. It's not a work of classic literature, but it does what it is supposed to do and it engages and entertains.
Veronica_ More than 1 year ago
Yet again Mr. Koontz shows us Odd's unwavering selflessness as he puts everyone else ahead of his own 'wants' r/e: his broken heart, his yearning for a little peace- or any semblance of normality in his life. As well as the other 'unsung heroes' we are introduced to in this portion of the 'Odd' series. The book is so descriptive (as is almost all of Mr. Koontz work) you get in and you'll be there till the "read" is finished.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved the first Odd Thomas book I read--so much so, that I visited the library to find another in the series. I don't think this one was the second, so perhaps it being a bit out of order made things a little less enjoyable. Odd Thomas is a wonderful, funny character, as is Rodion Romanovich, Brother Knuckles, and a few other key characters. In fact it was the characters and witty dialogue much more than the plot that kept me reading. I'm curious if others felt the same.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This chapter in the Odd Thomas collection is great. Once you pick it up you cannot put it down. It is packed with the twists and turns that we have came to expect from our friend Odd.
jpporter on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is the third installment of the Odd Thomas series, and it manages to distinguish itself substantially from the first two books (both of which I've reviewed on this site). For this story, Odd has taken up residence in a monastery in order to recuperate from his first two adventures. The monastery, however, is about to become the site of a major tragedy, and only Odd has the ability to see it coming, and to try to do something about it.What I liked most about this book is that it lightens up a little bit (the first two books struck me as extremely depressing), with a noteworthy return of some of the humor that made the first book - Odd Thomas stick out. And it finally seems that something nice happens for Odd.
julied on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Brother Odd is even more different from Dean Koontz's previous two books about Odd Thomas as it is set in a Catholic monastery. Given the setting there is much more scope for bringing in elements of theology, not that one would say theology is Koontz's goal. However, it is obvious that Odd Thomas is on an increasingly spiritual journey and retreating from the world to give himself time to think would seem to be the next step.It is too bad for Odd that murder, bodachs gathering around the children at the attached school, and a mysterious Russian librarian give him little time to meditate. The dialogue in this book can be really enjoyable, especially the sparring matches that Odd and the librarian have when Odd is trying to discover his true identity. Brother Odd is my favorite of the three books, especially when you consider the touches that are scattered throughout. My favorite of the Odd Thomas books.
scouthayduke on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I remember reading the other two in this series and thinking they were refreshing in that you had an essentially good main character, but in this one it's like they've made the character a little too self-congratulatory. I might also be trying to get a little too deep about a Dean Koontz book
readingrat on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This installment brings back the bodachs (which were strikingly absent in Forever Odd) and once again we have Odd racing against an unknown deadline to curtail an unknown tragedy. This is another wonderful Odd Thomas story, this time with a bit of a sci-fi bent.
cefeick on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Odd Thomas remains an engaging character, but this novel wasn't nearly as good as the original. The particular encounter with "evil" described here was not that scary or compelling to me as a seasoned reader of "horror" or suspense or whatever genre this falls under.I missed Odd's interactions with his old Pico Mundo friends. A few cameos are too short to make it worthwhile. I'd recommend the book if you enjoy the others in the "Odd" series, but it's not Koontz's best.
hairi on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Though it is a typical work of Koontz, the language dragged us too much sometimes we got lost, but I still love the sarcasm and the hillarious remarks made my Odd. The way he handled the situation was somewhat exciting I couldn't put the book down.
MrsLee on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Odd has chosen to live at a monastery for awhile as a guest. He needs a break from the constant stress of his special "gift." Life at the monastery is less "spirit-filled" in the sense that there is only one ghost hanging out there, however, it soon becomes apparent that something is not right.The pacing of these stories is grand, it is impossible to read them slowly. I enjoyed the character of the Russian, and Brother Knuckles, but there wasn't much investment in anyone else. Odd has a very wry sense of humor, which I enjoy, but I don't enjoy his foreshadowing in the stories, or his fake entries in his journal. Waste of my time. While the predicament of this tale was interesting, it seemed far-fetched and more a platform for the author's beliefs and theories than a plausible story. These stories suit my mood at the moment, but will not hold a place on my shelves or in my heart.
BobAvey on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Odd, And Then SomeBrother Odd begins well, the unusual setting contributing effectively to the mood as the hero, Odd Thomas, sits in the window of a dark monastery, watching the night, waiting to catch his first sight of snow. And Mr. Koontz doesn't disappoint the reader by allowing the Odd one to linger in peace for too long, robbing the story of conflict. As it should, the trouble starts right away.For me, however, as the book eased into the middle, the story became somewhat diluted, not enough for me to lose interest, but enough for me to wonder if Koontz had not lost his rhythm for a moment. He began to delve into the humor side of his writing style, something he typically does with a near genius touch, but here he tips the balance too far. I began to suspect he wasn't sure where he was going with the story at this point.Near the ending, the story again begins to build up steam, but the final action scene is rendered somewhat ineffective when the writer decides to do things a little differently. Throughout the book a mysterious character keeps both the reader and the hero on edge, wondering just what his true nature is. During the climactic scene, however, this character takes charge, overshadowing the hero. I'm surprised the editors did not catch this. Whether the day is saved, ruined or rendered indifferent, it should be the hero who effects this change.For me, after the climactic scene, my interest was revived as we are once again solidly with Odd Thomas as the story segues nicely into the next Odd adventure.- Bob Avey, author of Beneath a Buried House
slarsoncollins on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I love Odd Thomas. All of them. You should read them and love them too. :)
Scoshie on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
After the tragic loss of his girlfriend Stomey, our intrepid hero Odd decides he needs some quiet time away from all the spirits who want something fom him. Hiding out at St Bartholomews Abby Odd notices that there is seem to be a large number of bodachs congregating and it is up to him to find out why and how to stop whatever disaster they have planned.
sarradee on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I'm not sure what to think. Odd himself was the same sweet and endearing if loquacious character that he has been all along, but the storyline of the book didn't seem to fit in with the previous two. Koontz is moving more towards a supernatural horror type story arc than he started with in Odd Thomas, where even though Odd could "see dead people" and had some psychic abilities his enemies were all too human.It also seems like Koontz has future plans for Odd, the book isn't left on a cliffhanger but the door has definitely been left open.My favorite Odd quote from the book is:"I needed a weapon, but I had nothing except my universal key, a Kleenex, and insufficent martial-arts knowledge to make a deadly weapon of them."Which just made me laugh out loud when I got to it. :)
KevinJoseph on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Former short-order cook, communicator with restless spirits of the dead, and master of intuitive thinking Odd Thomas, treats us to the third installment of his memoirs in "Brother Odd." Having retreated to a secluded monastery to recover from the ordeals chronicled in "Odd Thomas" and "Forever Odd," our twenty-one-year-old hero finds his peaceful interlude interrupted by the ominous disappearance of one of the brothers and the coincident appearance of bodachs on the monastery grounds. Hovering about the quarters of certain disabled children in the monastery's orphanage, these violence-thirsty bodachs portend an unspeakable calamity within a handful of days. A brutal winter storm that cuts off communications with the outside world along with several suspicious characters, both natural and unnatural, give the novel a close-quarters mystery feel and generate a claustrophobic aura of suspense. Once again, Koontz dazzles with the beauty of his prose, originality of his metaphors, and uniquely-droll sense of humor. The verbal sparring between Odd and Ronan Romanovich, a fierce-looking Russian with a disconcerting interest in both poison and pastry baking who poses as a visiting guest to the monastery, cracked me up. And while many readers will unlock the basic mystery element of the novel early on, there remains plenty of suspense and intellectually-stimulating material (ranging from quantum physics to metaphysics) to keep the pages turning. I have enjoyed experiencing Odd Thomas's strange maturation from simple fry cook to a humble champion of the oppressed and find myself compelled to continue reading this Odd series of books until the author tires of writing them. -Kevin Joseph, author of "The Champion Maker"
TW_Spencer on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is a very good book but slow to start but when it heats you might get burned.
youthfulzombie on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Odd is better when his enemy is a little less supernatural, this storyline goes back to Koontz's old days of supernatural unexplainable evil.
madamemeow on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I loved all three of the Odd Thomas books by Koontz. This one was no different. All three books have totally different feels to them, but the general character of Odd remains eternal. This book was another page turner, start to finish, Koontz hasn't let his readers down!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It is easy to get swept away by these stories.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Odd Thomas is one of my favorite characters. I love that through or in spite of his brokenness, his light shines bright with love and grace.