House of Hunger

Informationen zum Autor Alexis Henderson Klappentext WANTED - Bloodmaid of exceptional taste . Must have a keen proclivity for life's finer pleasures. Girls of weak will need not apply. A young woman is drawn into the upper echelons of a society where blood is power in this dark and enthralling Gothic novel from the author of The Year of the Witching . Marion Shaw has been raised in the slums, where want and deprivation are all she know. Despite longing to leave the city and its miseries, she has no real hope of escape until the day she spots a peculiar listing in the newspaper seeking a bloodmaid. Though she knows little about the far northwhere wealthy nobles live in luxury and drink the blood of those in their serviceMarion applies to the position. In a matter of days, she finds herself the newest bloodmaid at the notorious House of Hunger. There, Marion is swept into a world of dark debauchery. At the center of it all is Countess Lisavet. The countess, who presides over this hedonistic court, is loved and feared in equal measure. She takes a special interest in Marion. Lisavet is magnetic, and Marion is eager to please her new mistress. But when she discovers that the ancient walls of the House of Hunger hide even older secrets, Marion is thrust into a vicious game of cat and mouse. She'll need to learn the rules of her new homeand fastor its halls will soon become her grave. Leseprobe 1 To bleed is to be. -Vanessa, First Bloodmaid of the House of Hunger Before she was first bled, when she still had the name her parents gave her, Marion Shaw was a maid at a townhouse in the South of Prane. On that morning-the morning she would later come to identify as the beginning of her second life-she knelt on the hard wood floor of the parlor, sleeves rolled up to her bony elbows, a scrub brush in her hand. Across the room, in an upholstered armchair, Lady Gertrude sat, watching her work. She was a shrewd woman, blue-eyed with silver hair and a pinched aristocratic nose, spattered with age spots and freckles. While other nobles preferred to leave their maids to their labor, Lady Gertrude preferred instead to preside over them, watching with a falcon's eye as if to ensure that her help earned every penny she paid them. "You missed a spot," she sneered, seizing her cane to point at a minuscule stain on the floorboards. Marion batted a dark curl out of her eye. She did what little she could to mind her tone. "I'll be more careful, milady." "You ought to be. There's girls more handsome and less sluggish than you who'd be happy to have your position," she said, and she bit down on a brittle tea cookie, spitting crumbs when she spoke again. "You've grown slow . . . and lazy. I can see it in your eyes. The little light there was in them has long gone out, and now you expect to drag yourself through my halls on your hands and knees like a common drunk. With your hair unkempt and your apron stained-" "Rest assured this floor will be spotless by the time I'm through with it," said Marion, cutting her short. She could feel the rage pooling in the pit of her belly like bile. "You have my word." At this, Lady Gertrude merely frowned, the slack skin of her brow wrinkling like fabric. Marion couldn't help but think that she was rather lonely. Long widowed, without children of her own, or companions or family to speak of, she had no means of social stimulation apart from Sunday mass. Thus, every day she followed Marion from room to room, watching her scrub the floors and polish the silver, sometimes (if her health allowed it) going so far as to trail after her into the kitchens, where she'd remain until her aching knees drove her back to the comfort of her parlor. Marion polished the floor until she could see her own reflection in it-wide-set eyes gaping back at her, a firm nose and fu...

Autorentext

Alexis Henderson

Klappentext

WANTED - Bloodmaid of exceptional taste. *Must have a keen proclivity for life’s finer pleasures. Girls of weak will need not apply.
*
A young woman is drawn into the upper echelons of a society where blood is power in this dark and enthralling Gothic novel from the author of The Year of the Witching.

Marion Shaw has been raised in the slums, where want and deprivation are all she know. Despite longing to leave the city and its miseries, she has no real hope of escape until the day she spots a peculiar listing in the newspaper seeking a bloodmaid.

Though she knows little about the far north—where wealthy nobles live in luxury and drink the blood of those in their service—Marion applies to the position. In a matter of days, she finds herself the newest bloodmaid at the notorious House of Hunger. There, Marion is swept into a world of dark debauchery. At the center of it all is Countess Lisavet.

The countess, who presides over this hedonistic court, is loved and feared in equal measure. She takes a special interest in Marion. Lisavet is magnetic, and Marion is eager to please her new mistress. But when she discovers that the ancient walls of the House of Hunger hide even older secrets, Marion is thrust into a vicious game of cat and mouse. She’ll need to learn the rules of her new home—and fast—or its halls will soon become her grave.

Leseprobe
1

To bleed is to be.

-Vanessa, First Bloodmaid of the House of Hunger

Before she was first bled, when she still had the name her parents gave her, Marion Shaw was a maid at a townhouse in the South of Prane. On that morning-the morning she would later come to identify as the beginning of her second life-she knelt on the hard wood floor of the parlor, sleeves rolled up to her bony elbows, a scrub brush in her hand.

Across the room, in an upholstered armchair, Lady Gertrude sat, watching her work. She was a shrewd woman, blue-eyed with silver hair and a pinched aristocratic nose, spattered with age spots and freckles. While other nobles preferred to leave their maids to their labor, Lady Gertrude preferred instead to preside over them, watching with a falcon's eye as if to ensure that her help earned every penny she paid them.

"You missed a spot," she sneered, seizing her cane to point at a minuscule stain on the floorboards.

Marion batted a dark curl out of her eye. She did what little she could to mind her tone. "I'll be more careful, milady."

"You ought to be. There's girls more handsome and less sluggish than you who'd be happy to have your position," she said, and she bit down on a brittle tea cookie, spitting crumbs when she spoke again. "You've grown slow . . . and lazy. I can see it in your eyes. The little light there was in them has long gone out, and now you expect to drag yourself through my halls on your hands and knees like a common drunk. With your hair unkempt and your apron stained-"

"Rest assured this floor will be spotless by the time I'm through with it," said Marion, cutting her short. She could feel the rage pooling in the pit of her belly like bile. "You have my word."

At this, Lady Gertrude merely frowned, the slack skin of her brow wrinkling like fabric. Marion couldn't help but think that she was rather lonely. Long widowed, without children of her own, or companions or family to speak of, she had no means of social stimulation apart from Sunday mass. Thus, every day she followed Marion from room to room, watching her scrub the floors and polish the silver, sometimes (if her health allowed it) going so far as to trail after her into the kitchens, where she'd remain until her aching knees drove her back to the comfort of her parlor.

Marion polished the floor until she could see her own reflection in it-wide-set eyes gaping back at her, a firm nose and full lips slightly parted, tongue tucked behind her teeth, skin a deep tawny, hair a mess of curls. She frowned at herself just as the church bells rang twelve. With a ragged sigh, Marion p…