By Anne Rice
"STARTLING . . . FIENDISH . . . MEMNOCH'S story IS COMPELLING."--New York day-by-day News"Like Interview with the Vampire, Memnoch has a half-maddened, fever-pitch depth. . . . Narrated by way of Rice's such a lot adored personality, the vampire Lestat, Memnoch tells a story as outdated as Scripture's legends and as smooth as state-of-the-art non secular strife."--Rolling Stone"SENSUAL . . . daring, FAST-PACED."--USA Today"Rice has penned an bold with regards to this long-running sequence. . . . enthusiasts will without doubt eat this."--The Washington put up ebook World"MEMNOCH THE satan bargains PASSAGES OF POETIC BRILLIANCE."--Playboy"[MEMNOCH] is one among Rice's so much interesting and sympathetic characters to this point. . . . Rice ups the ante, taking Lestat the place few writers have ventured: into heaven and hell itself. She includes it off in best form."--The Seattle occasions
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Additional resources for Memnoch the Devil (Vampire Chronicles, No 5)
Sample text
He was all over pleasing to me, but it was the mind, really. To hell with his Asian beauty and all that, even his vanity which made him glow for fifty feet in all directions. It was the mind, the mind that was locked onto the statue, and had for one merciful moment let thoughts of Dora go. He reached for another one of the little halogen spots and clamped his hand over the hot metal and directed it hill on the demon's wing, the wing I could best see, and I too saw the perfection he was thinking about, the Baroque love of detail; no.
He slipped the gun in the holster again, almost as if he wasn't even think ing about it, and he did go up on tiptoe, trying to get eye level with this appalling graven image. Feathered wings. I could see that now. Not reptilian, feathered. But the face, classical, robust, the long nose, the chin .. yet there was a ferocity in the profile. And why was the statue black? Maybe it was only St. Michael pushing devils into hell, angry righteous. No, the hair was too rank and tangled for that. Armour, breastplate, and then of course I saw the most telling details.
Mortals rushed through doorways beneath awnings; cabbies blew their horns in fury at hulking, slow limousines. On and on I walked. I kicked at the sludge and I hated myself. I could smell him and hated this too. But in a way, the feast had been so divine that it was just to require this aftermath, this cleaning up. " All right, this time Lestat was being a good vampire. He was cleaning up after himself. I was almost to the Village when I found another perfect place, a huge warehouse, seemingly abandoned, its upper floors filled with the pretty sparkle of broken windows.
