Zusatztext Mesmerizing . . . a wonderful web of dark-side mythology. San Francisco Chronicle With The Queen of the Damned! Anne Rice has created universes within universes! traveling back in time as far as ancient! pre-pyramidic Egypt and journeying from the frozen mountain peaks of Nepal to the crowded! sweating streets of southern Florida. Los Angeles Times Imaginative . . . intelligently written . . . This is popular fiction of the highest order. USA Today A tour de force. The Boston Globe Informationen zum Autor Anne Rice is the author of thirty-two books. She lives in Palm Desert, California. Klappentext In a feat of virtuoso storytelling, Anne Rice unleashes Akasha, the queen of the damned, who has risen from a six-thousand-year sleep to let loose the powers of the night. Akasha has a marvelously devious plan to "save" mankind and destroy the vampire Lestat-in this extraordinarily sensual novel of the complex, erotic, electrifying world of the undead. Praise for The Queen of the Damned "Mesmerizing . . . a wonderful web of dark-side mythology."-San Francisco Chronicle "With The Queen of the Damned, Anne Rice has created universes within universes, traveling back in time as far as ancient, pre-pyramidic Egypt and journeying from the frozen mountain peaks of Nepal to the crowded, sweating streets of southern Florida."-Los Angeles Times "Imaginative . . . intelligently written . . . This is popular fiction of the highest order."-USA Today "A tour de force."-The Boston GlobeI THE LEGEND OF THE TWINS Tell it in rhythmic continuity. Detail by detail the living creatures. Tell it as must, the rhythm solid in the shape. Woman. Arms lifted. Shadow eater. STAN RICE from "Elegy" Whiteboy (1976) "CALL HER FOR ME, " HE SAID. "TELL HER I HAVE had the strangest dreams, that they were about the twins. You must call her!" His daughter didn't want to do it. She watched him fumble with the book. His hands were his enemies now, he often said. At ninety-one, he could scarcely hold a pencil or turn a page. "Daddy," she said, "that woman's probably dead." Everybody he had known was dead. He'd outlived his colleagues; he'd outlived his brothers and sisters, and even two of his children. In a tragic way, he had outlived the twins, because no one read his book now. No one cared about "the legend of the twins." "No, you call her," he said. "You must call her. You tell her that I dreamed of the twins. I saw them in the dream."" "Why would she want to know that, Daddy?" His daughter took the little address book and paged through it slowly. Dad all these people, long dead. The men who had worked with her father on so many expeditions, the editors and photographers who had worked with him on his book. Even his enemies who had said his life was wasted, that his research had come to nothing; even the most scurrilous, who had accused him of doctoring pictures and lying about the caves, which her father had never done. Why should she be still alive, the woman who had financed his long-ago expeditions, the rich woman who had sent so much money for so many years? "You must ask her to come! Tell her it's very important. I must describe to her what I've seen." To come? All the way to Rio de Janeiro because an old man had had strange dreams? His daughter found the page, and yes, there was the name and the number. And the date beside it, only two years old. "She lives in Bangkok, Daddy." What time was it in Bangkok? She had no idea. "She'll come to me. I know she will." He closed his eyes and settled back onto the pillow. He was small now, shrunken. But when he opened his eyes, there was her ...

ldquo;Mesmerizing . . . a wonderful web of dark-side mythology.”—San Francisco Chronicle
 
“With The Queen of the Damned, Anne Rice has created universes within universes, traveling back in time as far as ancient, pre-pyramidic Egypt and journeying from the frozen mountain peaks of Nepal to the crowded, sweating streets of southern Florida.”—Los Angeles Times
 
“Imaginative . . . intelligently written . . . This is popular fiction of the highest order.”—USA Today
 
“A tour de force.”—The Boston Globe

Autorentext
Anne Rice is the author of thirty-two books. She lives in Palm Desert, California.

Klappentext

In a feat of virtuoso storytelling, Anne Rice unleashes Akasha, the queen of the damned, who has risen from a six-thousand-year sleep to let loose the powers of the night. Akasha has a marvelously devious plan to "save" mankind and destroy the vampire Lestat-in this extraordinarily sensual novel of the complex, erotic, electrifying world of the undead.

Praise for The Queen of the Damned

"Mesmerizing . . . a wonderful web of dark-side mythology."-San Francisco Chronicle

"With The Queen of the Damned, Anne Rice has created universes within universes, traveling back in time as far as ancient, pre-pyramidic Egypt and journeying from the frozen mountain peaks of Nepal to the crowded, sweating streets of southern Florida."-Los Angeles Times

"Imaginative . . . intelligently written . . . This is popular fiction of the highest order."-USA Today

"A tour de force."-The Boston Globe

Leseprobe
I

THE LEGEND OF THE TWINS

Tell it
in rhythmic
continuity.
Detail by detail
the living creatures.
Tell it
as must, the rhythm
solid in the shape.
Woman. Arms lifted. Shadow eater.

STAN RICE
from "Elegy"
Whiteboy (1976)

"CALL HER FOR ME, " HE SAID. "TELL HER I HAVE had the strangest dreams, that they were about the twins. You must call her!"

His daughter didn't want to do it. She watched him fumble with the book. His hands were his enemies now, he often said. At ninety-one, he could scarcely hold a pencil or turn a page.

"Daddy," she said, "that woman's probably dead."

Everybody he had known was dead. He'd outlived his colleagues; he'd outlived his brothers and sisters, and even two of his children. In a tragic way, he had outlived the twins, because no one read his book now. No one cared about "the legend of the twins."

"No, you call her," he said. "You must call her. You tell her that I dreamed of the twins. I saw them in the dream.""

"Why would she want to know that, Daddy?"

His daughter took the little address book and paged through it slowly. Dad all these people, long dead. The men who had worked with her father on so many expeditions, the editors and photographers who had worked with him on his book. Even his enemies who had said his life was wasted, that his research had come to nothing; even the most scurrilous, who had accused him of doctoring pictures and lying about the caves, which her father had never done.

Why should she be still alive, the woman who had financed his long-ago expeditions, the rich woman who had sent so much money for so many years?

"You must ask her to come! Tell her it's very important. I must describe to her what I've seen."

To come? All the way to Rio de Janeiro because an old man had had strange dreams? His daughter found the page, and yes, there was the name and the number. And the date beside it, only two years old.

"She lives in Bangkok, Daddy." What time was it in Bangkok? She had no idea.

"She'll come to me. I know she will."

He closed his eyes and settled back onto the pillow. He was small now, shrunken. But when he opened his eyes, there was her father looking at her, in spite of the shriveling yellowed skin, the dark spots on the backs of his wrinkled hands, the bald head.

He appeared to be listening to the music now, the soft singing of the Vampire Lestat, coming from her room She would turn it down if it kept him awake. She wasn't much for American rock singers, but this one she'd rather liked.

"Tell her I must speak to her!" he said suddenly, as though…