Prince Lestat

Zusatztext "Bloody marvelous." Time Rice allows [her vampires] to do what they do best: wreak havoc and evoke terror. All while impeccably dressed. The Washington Post Reminds us just how immense and rich . . . Rice's universe of poetic! morally questioning vampires is. Elle Rice never lost touch with the exuberant! often witty! and always fearless voice of irrepressible vampire Lestat de Lioncourt. BookPage Good! old-fashioned fanged fun. Kirkus Reviews The thinking-person's vampire story. . . . Reads like a house on fire. Bookreporter No one does what Anne Rice does . . . . Fun! sexy! and irresistible. January magazine Irrepressively seductive. Next magazine Informationen zum Autor ANNE RICE is the author of thirty-seven books. She died in 2021. Klappentext THE VAMPIRE WORLD IS IN CRISIS . . . Old vampires, roused from deep slumber in the earth, are doing the bidding of a Voice commanding that they indiscriminately burn their kin in cities across the globe, from Paris to Mumbai, Hong Kong to San Francisco. Left with little time to spare, a host of familiar characters including Louis de Pointe du Lac, Armand, and even the vampire Lestat, must embark on a journey to discover who-or what-is driving this mysterious being. The Voice Years ago, I heard him. He'd been babbling. It was after Queen Akasha had been destroyed and the mute red-­haired twin, Mekare, had become the Queen of the Damned. I'd witnessed all that­the brutal death of Akasha in the moment when we all thought we would die, too, along with her. It was after I'd switched bodies with a mortal man and come back into my own powerful vampiric body­having rejected the old dream of being human again. It was after I'd been to Heaven and Hell with a spirit called Memnoch, and come back to Earth a wounded explorer with no appetite anymore for knowledge, truth, beauty. Defeated, I'd lain for years on the floor of a chapel in New Orleans in an old convent building, oblivious to the ever-­shifting crowd of immortals around me­hearing them, wanting to respond, yet somehow never managing to meet a glance, answer a question, acknowledge a kiss or a whisper of affection. And that's when I first heard the Voice. Masculine, insistent, inside my brain..... Hear me, come to me. And he'd say that over and over again, night after night, until it was noise. . . . The Voice rumbled and bellowed and whispered whenever I was there, rolling their names around in a stew of invective and rumination and demand. One evening, the Voice said, Beauty is what drove it, don't you see? It was the mystery of Beauty. A year later, I was walking along the sands of South Beach in Miami when he broke that one on me again. For the moment, the mavericks and rogues had been leaving me alone. They were afraid of me, afraid of all the old ones. But not enough. Drove what, dear Voice? I asked. I felt it was only fair to give him a few minutes before shutting him down. You cannot conceive of the magnitude of this mystery. He spoke in a confidential whisper. You cannot conceive of this complexity. He was saying these words as if he'd just discovered them. He wept. I swear it. He wept. It was an awful sound. I don't glory in any being's pain, not even the pain of my most sadistic enemies, and here was the Voice weeping. I was hunting, thirsting though I didn't need to drink, at the mercy of the craving, the deep agonizing lust for heated, pumping human blood. I found a young victim, female, irresistible in her combination of filthy soul and gorgeous body, white throat so tender. I had her in the fragrant darkened bedroom of her own lodgings, lights of the city beyond the windows, having come over the roof...

"Bloody marvelous." —*Time

*“Rice allows [her vampires] to do what they do best: wreak havoc and evoke terror. All while impeccably dressed.” —*The Washington Post 

•  “Reminds us just how immense and rich . . . Rice’s universe of poetic, morally questioning vampires is.” —Elle
   
  “Rice never lost touch with the exuberant, often witty, and always fearless voice of irrepressible vampire Lestat de Lioncourt.” —*BookPage
• “Good, old-fashioned fanged fun.” —*Kirkus Reviews
• “The thinking-person’s vampire story. . . . Reads like a house on fire.” —*Bookreporter

“No one does what Anne Rice does . . . . Fun, sexy, and irresistible.” —January* magazine
* 
“Irrepressively seductive.” —Next* magazine

Auteur

ANNE RICE is the author of thirty-seven books. She died in 2021.

Texte du rabat

THE VAMPIRE WORLD IS IN CRISIS . . . Old vampires, roused from deep slumber in the earth, are doing the bidding of a Voice commanding that they indiscriminately burn their kin in cities across the globe, from Paris to Mumbai, Hong Kong to San Francisco. Left with little time to spare, a host of familiar characters including Louis de Pointe du Lac, Armand, and even the vampire Lestat, must embark on a journey to discover who-or what-is driving this mysterious being.

Résumé

*NATIONAL BESTSELLER • “Rice allows [her vampires] to do what they do best: wreak havoc and evoke terror. All while impeccably dressed.” —*The Washington Post

The vampire world is in crisis ... Old vampires, roused from deep slumber in the earth, are doing the bidding of a Voice commanding that they indiscriminately burn their kin in cities across the globe, from Paris to Mumbai, Hong Kong to San Francisco. Left with little time to spare, a host of familiar characters including Louis de Pointe du Lac, Armand, and even the vampire Lestat, must embark on a journey to discover who—or what—is driving this mysterious being.

Échantillon de lecture
The Voice

Years ago, I heard him. He’d been babbling.

It was after Queen Akasha had been destroyed and the mute red-­haired twin, Mekare, had become “the Queen of the Damned.” I’d witnessed all that—­the brutal death of Akasha in the moment when we all thought we would die, too, along with her.

It was after I’d switched bodies with a mortal man and come back into my own powerful vampiric body—­having rejected the old dream of being human again.

It was after I’d been to Heaven and Hell with a spirit called Memnoch, and come back to Earth a wounded explorer with no appetite anymore for knowledge, truth, beauty.

Defeated, I’d lain for years on the floor of a chapel in New Orleans in an old convent building, oblivious to the ever-­shifting crowd of immortals around me—­hearing them, wanting to respond, yet somehow never managing to meet a glance, answer a question, acknowledge a kiss or a whisper of affection.

And that’s when I first heard the Voice. Masculine, insistent, inside my brain.....

“Hear me, come to me.” And he’d say that over and over again, night after night, until it was noise. . . .
 
The Voice rumbled and bellowed and whispered whenever I was there, rolling their names around in a stew of invective and rumination and demand. One evening, the Voice said, “Beauty is what drove it, don’t you see? It was the mystery of Beauty.”
 
A year later, I was walking along the sands of South Beach in Miami when he broke that one on me again. For the moment, the mavericks and rogues had been leaving me alone. They were afraid of me, afraid of all the old ones. But not enough.
 
“Drove what, dear Voice?” I asked. I felt it was only fair to give him a few minutes before shutting him down.
 
“You cannot conceive of the magnitude of this mystery.” He spoke in a confidential whisper. “You ca…