Season of the Witch - Natasha Mostert.pdf - książki o wampirach - chomciomania

Season of the Witch

Natasha Mostert

Raves for Season of the Witch

"This is compelling and original storytelling: a mesmerizing blend of alchemy and sexuality. Prepare to

be seduced by it."

—Mo Hayder, author of The Devil of Nanking

"[A] spellbinding tale of magic and seduction… a feverish tale that's goth SF at its finest."

— Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"Black cats, snakes, spiders, mystical signs and symbols, and dangerous sex are skillfully stirred

together in this brain-squeezing thriller… Mostert manages it all quite impressively, concocting an

intellectual puzzler that will keep the reader hooked, and guessing, until the final page."

— Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"Filled with sexy romance and chilling twists… [a] seductive thriller." — Harper's Bazaar

"A glamorous web of… lovely, dangerous women who play with magic, alchemy, African masks,

tarantulas, potions, and above all, the lost art of memory." — MORE magazine

"Mostert creates a taut, sexy thriller from disparate sci-fi and fantasy elements."

— Entertainment Weekly

"Intriguing gothic thriller… suspense, an atmosphere fraught with eroticism, and compelling

characters. Fans of Anne Rice and Joyce Carol Oates should appreciate Mostert's take on mysticism,

magic, and the ancient art of memory."

— Booklist

"Saturated in beauty, with wonderful observations, insights, and eroticism… a bewitching book."

—Ian Watson, author of The Jonah Kit

" Eyes Wide Shut meets film noir murder mystery… Love!"

— Marie Claire

"Intelligently conceived, well-crafted, intricately plotted… the mystery of the two alluring sisters is

compelling… mind-bending."

— The Charlotte Observer

"Dazzlingly clever and original… One can only marvel at the author's own witchlike power to enchant

her audience."

— Daily Mail (UK)

"This heady fiction doesn't so much push at the edges of the genre as ride roughshod over them."

— The Observer (UK)

"Mostert has taken a blend of alchemy, the art of memory, mysticism, and high magic and created a

page-turner."

— Time Out (UK)

"Fair witch project with a touch of beguiling feminine charm." —Daily Express (UK)

"Part thriller, fantasy, love story, and mystery… balances all of these elements with a sensual and

brilliant voice."

—Blogcritics

"By far the best novel I have read this season… an incredible, unique book." —BookLoons

"Mostert is an amazing writer with the ability to lead you into her characters' minds and give the plot

enough twists and turns to keep up the anticipation and tension throughout." —Romance Junkies

"Vividly and evocatively written… enthralled me right to the end."

— The Times (UK)

ALSO BY NATASHA MOSTERT

The Midnight Side

The Other Side of Silence

Windwalker

New American Library

Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New

York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England

Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin

Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11

Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

New Delhi - no 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,

New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England

Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in

a Dutton edition.

First New American Library Printing, March 2008 109876543 2 1

ISBN: 0451223357

MARCA REGISTRADA LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR.

Set in Granjon Designed by Carla Bolte & Spring Hoteling

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means

(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of

both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher's note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or

third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without

the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized

electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

- FOR CARL -

pint-sized warrior

PROLOGUE

He was at peace: his brain no longer blooming like a crimson flower.

Slowly he opened his eyes. Above him, a black sky shimmering with stars. A pregnant

moon entangled in the spreading branches of a tree.

Vaguely he realized he was on his back, floating on water. A swimming pool. Every now

and then he would move his legs and hands to stay afloat. But the movements were

instinctive and he was hardly aware of them.

A violin was singing, the sound drifting into the night air. It came from the house, which

stood tall and dark to the right of him. The windows were blank and no light shone

through the tiny leaded panes. The steep walls leaned forward; the peaked roof was

angled crazily.

His thoughts were disoriented and his skull was soft from the pain, which had exploded

inside his brain like a vicious sun. But as he looked at the house, he could still remember

what was hidden behind those thick walls.

And how could he not? For months on end he had explored that house with all the

passion of a man exploring the body of a long-lost lover. He had walked down the

winding corridors, climbed the spiral staircases, entered the enchanted rooms and halls.

It was all there—locked away inside his damaged brain—every minute detail.

The green room with its phosphorescent lilies. The ballroom of the dancing butterflies.

The room of masks where the light from an invisible sun turned a spider's web to gold.

Wonderful rooms. Rooms rilled with loveliness.

But inside that house were also rooms smelling of decay and malaise. Tiny rooms where

the walls were damp and diseased, where, if he stretched out his hand, he could touch

the unblinking eyes growing from the ceiling; eyes whose clouded gaze followed his

antlike procession through a tilting labyrinth of images and thoughts.

He knew their order. The order of places, the order of things. He had followed the rules

perfectly. Why then, his mind a spent bulb, his body so heavy, was he finding it

increasingly difficult to stay afloat?

A wind had sprung up. He felt its dusty breath against the wetness of his skin and he

wondered if the fat moon might topple from the tree.

He was becoming tired. His neck muscles were straining. He should try to swim for the

side of the pool, but the one half of his body felt paralyzed. It was all he could do to

move his arms and legs slightly to keep from sinking. Below him was a watery

blackness. And he realized he was no longer at peace but horribly afraid.

But then the darkness was split by a warm beam of light. Someone had switched on a

lamp inside the house. He wanted to cry out but the muscles in his throat refused to

work. The light was coming from behind the French doors with their inserts of stained

glass carefully fitted together in the shape of an emblem. Monas

Hieroglyphica . See, he still remembered…

A shadow appeared behind the glowing lozenges of red, green and purple glass. For a

moment it hovered, motionless.

The shadow moved. The doors opened.

She stepped out into the garden and her footfall made no sound. As she walked toward

him, he thought he could smell her perfume.

His heart lifted joyously. She had known he was out here all along. Of course, she did.

And now she had come to save him. No longer any need to be afraid. But hurry, he

thought. Please hurry.

She was still wearing the mask. It covered her eyes. Her hair was concealed by the hood

of her cape. On her shoulder perched the crow. Black as coal. Even in the uncertain light

he was able to see the sheen on the bird's wings.

Sinking down to her knees at the very edge of the pool, she leaned over and looked

squarely into his face. A wash of yellow light fell across her shoulder. Around her neck

she was wearing a thin chain, and from it dangled a charm in the shape of the letter M. It

gleamed against the white of her skin.

From inside the house, the sound of the violin was much clearer now and he recognized

the music. "Andante Cantabile." Tchaikovsky's String Quartet no. 1, opus 11. The

ecstatic notes struck a fugitive chord of memory. The last time he had listened to this

piece of music there was a fire burning in the hearth, a bowl of drooping apricot roses on

the dark wooden table and next to it three glasses with red wine waiting on a silver tray.

He was sinking. His feet pale finless fish paddling sluggishly. He couldn't keep this up

much longer. But she would help him. She would pull him to safety. With difficulty he

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