Anne Rice - Lasher (Mayfair Witches, Book 2)

I AM LASHER,

he said gently, as if trying to protect her from the coarseness of his words. I am Lasher and I am in the flesh, and have come again, my beautiful one, my Mayfair Witch. Lovely enunciation, careful yet so rapid. Flesh and blood now, yes, a man, yes, again, and needing you, my beauty. Cut me and I bleed. Kiss me and you quicken my passion. Learn for yourself.

At the center of Anne Rices brilliant new novel, the beautiful Rowan Mayfair, queen of the coven, must flee from the darkly brutal yet irresistible demon known as Lasher. With a dreamlike power, this wickedly seductive entity draws us through twilight paths, telling a chillingly hypnotic tale of spiritual aspirations and passion.

A powerful, primitive storyThis irresistible novel interweaves themes from almost all of her other works, including The Vampire Chronicles, at the same time that it plunges us back into the world of the Mayfair witches. Her ectoplasmic creatures serve as distorted, shimmering mirrors that show us the unique value of human life.

Playboy

AwesomeA story of life and death and the constant struggle humanity faces.

Nashville Banner

Rice soars to new heights. [She] is so good that one gets so deeply entangled in the Mayfair family history and with Lasher himself that once you have finished this novel, youll suffer withdrawal pains.

The West Coast Review of Books

Rices monsters do not come in black and white; they are not so easy to label abhorrent. Witches are the core of this Hew Orleans family. But they ride a Stygian ferry through the centuries, with Lasher at the helm as he lures, bribes and threatens family members. LASHER satisfies.

Milwaukee Journal

CompellingAnother vast, transcontinental saga of witchcraft and demonismEmbedded in this antique demonism is a contemporary tale of incest and family abuse that achieves resonance.

Publishers Weekly

UnforgettableAstonishingExtravagantly plotted, brimming with emotion and sensation, Anne Rices new novel, LASHER, plunges us again into her special world of the occult, picking up once more the terrifying theme introduced in The Witching Hour.It would be impossible to capture Miss Rices deeply erotic tale in a few paragraphs, for it is woven of countless threads, embellished with stunning detail and invention, and painstaking in its progress through centuries of time.

Anniston Star

Rice skillfully weaves ancient legend and modern life as the Mayfairs battle the timeless Lasher. [This novel] careens through time and place, taking readers from sultry present-day New Orleans to the chilly ancient highlands of Scotland.

Copley News Service

Rice at her best.

Kirkus Reviews

BY ANNE RICE

Interview with the Vampire

The Feast of All Saints

Cry to Heaven

The Vampire Lestat

The Queen of the Damned

The Mummy

The Witching Hour

The Tale of the Body Thief

Lasher

Taltos

Memnoch the Devil

Servant of the Bones

Violin

Pandora

The Vampire Armand

Vittorio, The Vampire

Merrick

Blood and Gold

Blackwood Farm

Blood Canticle

Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

Christ the Lord: Road to Cana

Called Out of Darkness: A Spiritual Confession

Angel Time

FOR THESE WITH LOVE

Stan Rice,
Christopher Rice and
John Preston

Vicky Wilson,
with thanks always
for her courage,
her vision, her soul

My godmother and aunt,
Patricia OBrien Harberson,
the lady with the loving heart,
who carried me to church

AND

in memory of
Alice Allen Daviau,
my mothers sister,
who gave me so very much

The sow came in with the saddle.
The little pig rocked the cradle.
The dish jumped over the table
To see the pot swallow the ladle.
The spit that stood behind the door
Threw the pudding-stick on the floor.
Odsplut! said the gridiron,
Cant you agree?
Im the head constable,
Bring them to me!

MOTHER GOOSE

I N THE BEGINNING was the voice of Father.

Emaleth! whispering close to her mothers belly while her mother slept. And then singing to her, the long songs of the past. Songs of the Glen of Donnelaith and of the castle, and of where they would sometime come together, and how she would be born knowing all that Father knew. It is our way, he said to her in the fast language, which others could not understand.

To others it sounded like humming, or whistling. It was their secret tongue, for they could hear syllables which ran too fast for the others to grasp. They could sing out to each other. Emaleth could almost do it, almost speak

Emaleth, my darling, Emaleth, my daughter, Emaleth, my mate. Father was waiting for her. She had to grow fast and grow strong for Father. When the time came, Mother had to help her. She had to drink Mothers milk.

Mother slept. Mother cried. Mother dreamed. Mother was sick. And when Father and Mother quarreled, the world trembled. Emaleth knew dread.

But Father always came after, singing to her, reminding her that the words of his song were too rapid for Mother to comprehend. The melody made Emaleth feel as if the tiny round world in which she lived had expanded and she was floating in a place without limits, pushed hither and thither by Fathers song.

Father said poetry which was beautiful, especially words that rhyme. Rhymes made a thrill pass through Emaleth. She stretched her legs and her arms, and turned her head this way and that, it felt so good, the rhymes.

Mother didnt talk to Emaleth. Mother wasnt supposed to know that Emaleth was there. Emaleth was tiny, said Father, but perfectly formed. Emaleth already had her long hair.

But when Mother talked, Emaleth understood her; when Mother wrote, Emaleth saw the words. Emaleth heard Mothers frequent whisper. She knew that Mother was afraid. Sometimes she saw Mothers dreams. She saw the face of Michael. She saw fighting. She saw Fathers face as Mother saw it and it made Mother sad.

Father loved Mother, but Mother made him fiercely angry, and when he struck Mother, Mother suffered, even falling, and Emaleth screamed, or tried to scream. But Father always came after, while Mother slept, and said Emaleth must not fear. That they would come together in the circle of stones at Donnelaith, and then he told stories to her of the old days, when all the beautiful ones had lived on an island, and it was Paradise, before the others and the little people had come.

Sad and sorrowful the weakness of humans and the tragedy of the little people, and is it not better that all be driven from the Earth?

I tell you the things I know now. And things that were told to me, he said. And Emaleth saw the circle of stones, and the tall figure of Father as he was now, strumming the strings of the harp. Everyone was dancing. She saw the little people hiding in the shadows, spiteful and angry. She did not like them, she did not want them to steal down into the town. They loathe us instinctively, said Father, of the little people. How can they not? But they do not matter now. They are only a lingering from dreams which failed to come true.

Now is the hour. The hour for Emaleth and Father.