Writ in Water

Mostert Natasha

Description

Special Box Set of Three of Natasha Mostert's suspense novels, including SEASON OF THE WITCH, winner of the World Book Day, Book to Talk About Award. SEASON OF THE WITCH: Gabriel Blackstone is a cool, hip, thoroughly twenty-first century Londoner. A computer hacker by trade, he is also a remote viewer: able to 'slam a ride' through the minds of others. But he uses his gift only reluctantly -- until he is contacted by an ex-lover who begs him to find her step-son, last seen months earlier in a mysterious house in Chelsea. Gabriel becomes increasingly bewitched by the house, and by its owners, the beautiful and mysterious Monk sisters. But even as he falls in love, he knows that one of them is a killer. But which one? "a brain-squeezing thriller" Kirkus (starred review) THE MIDNIGHT SIDE: Natasha Mostert's critically acclaimed debut thriller starts with a phone call from a dead woman and keeps the reader guessing until the end. "Bedtime reading for the brave" The Times (London) WINDWALKER: A story of murder, redemption and eternal love, WINDWALKER will keep you on the edge of your seat - and break your heart. "Hauntingly elegant" Booklist

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Portable Magic Ltd.
• Date de parution: 02 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781909965263
• Langue: English

Extrait

WRIT IN WATER. THREE NOVELS OF SUSPENSE. SPECIAL BOX SET. Copyright 2014 by Natasha Mostert. First edition published by Portable Magic Ltd, 2014. Jacket design by Asha Hossain.
SEASON OF THE WITCH. Copyright 2007, 2013 by Natasha Mostert. First published in the United Kingdom by Transworld/Bantam in 2007. First published in the United States by Penguin/Dutton in 2007. Portable Magic Edition, 2013. Photograph of woman Martin Hooper
THE MIDNIGHT SIDE. Copyright 2000, 2013 by Natasha Mostert. First published in the United Kingdom by Hodder Stoughton in 2000. First published in the United States by Harper Collins in 2001. Portable Magic Edition, 2013. Lyrics from Brilliant Disguise by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright 1987 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). Reprinted by permission. Photographer / Denis Cohadon / Trevillion Images.
WINDWALKER. Copyright 2005, 2013 by Natasha Mostert. First edition published by Tor, Tom Doherty Associates (USA). Second, revised edition: Portable Magic, 2013. Jacket design by Stefan Coetzee/Asha Hossain; Photograph Zachar Rise; Photograph of Skeleton Coast Wreck Trygve Roberts.
The books in this volume are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Author photograph by Mark Andreani. Natasha Mostert
ISBN 978-1-909965-26-3
www.natashamostert.com www.portablemagic.com
EBOOKS IN THIS VOLUME

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Begin reading SEASON OF THE WITCH
Begin reading THE MIDNIGHT SIDE
Begin reading WINDWALKER
About the Author Contact Natasha


PRAISE FOR SEASON OF THE WITCH
This woman will haunt your days and keep you awake at night -Mo Hayder
Dazzlingly clever and original one can only marvel at the author s own witch-like power to enchant her audience - Daily Mail (London)
Black cats, snakes, spiders, mystical signs and symbols and dangerous sex are skilfully stirred together in this brain-squeezing thriller - Kirkus (starred review)
Vividly and evocatively written enthralled me right to the end - The Times (London)
This heady fiction doesn t so much push at the edges of the genre as ride roughshod over them - Observer (London)
Fans of Anne Rice and Joyce Carol Oates should appreciate Mostert s take on mysticism, magic, and the ancient art of memory - Booklist
Saturated in beauty, with wonderful observations, insights and eroticism a bewitching book -Ian Watson, author of the screen story for A1
This spellbinding tale of magic and seduction from Mostert shows that the unfettered pursuit of arcane enlightenment can sometimes come at too high a price. Goth SF at its finest - Publishers Weekly (starred review)
For Carl, pint-sized warrior

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title page
Praise for SEASON OF THE WITCH
Dedication
Prologue
HOUSE OF A MILLION DOORS Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 Chapter 13 | Chapter 14
ENCHANTED SUMMER Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 Chapter 19
SHADOWS Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 Chapter 24
THE PORTAL Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 Chapter 45 | Chapter 46
Epilogue
Author s Note Acknowledgements Novels by Natasha Mostert
Preview of Natasha Mostert s D ARK P RAYER

PROLOGUE
H e was at peace: his brain no longer blooming like a crimson flower.
Slowly he opened his eyes. Above him, a black sky shimmering with stars. A pregnant moon entangled in the spreading branches of a tree.
Vaguely he realised he was on his back, floating on water. A swimming pool. Every now and then he would move his legs and hands to stay afloat. But the movements were instinctive and he was hardly aware of them.
A violin was singing, the sound drifting into the night air. It came from the house, which stood tall and dark to his right. The windows were blank and no light shone through the tiny leaded panes. The steep walls leaned forward; the peaked roof was angled crazily.
His thoughts were disoriented and his skull was soft from the pain, which had exploded inside his brain like a vicious sun. But as he looked at the house, he could still remember what was hidden behind those thick walls.
And how could he not? For months on end he had explored that house with all the passion of a man exploring the body of a long-lost lover. He had walked down the winding corridors, climbed the spiral staircases, entered the enchanted rooms and halls. It was all there-locked away inside his damaged brain-every minute detail.
The green room with its phosphorescent lilies. The ballroom of the dancing butterflies. The room of masks where the light from an invisible sun turned a spider s web to gold. Wonderful rooms. Rooms filled with loveliness.
But inside that house were also rooms smelling of decay and malaise. Tiny rooms where the walls were damp and diseased; where, if he stretched out his hand, he could touch the unblinking eyes growing from the ceiling: eyes whose clouded gaze followed his ant-like procession through a tilting labyrinth of images and thoughts.
He knew their order. The order of places, the order of things . He had followed the rules perfectly. Why then-his mind a spent bulb, his body so heavy-was he finding it increasingly difficult to stay afloat?
A wind had sprung up. He felt its dusty breath against the wetness of his skin and he wondered if the fat moon might topple from the tree.
He was becoming tired. His neck muscles were straining. He should try to swim for the side of the pool, but half of his body felt paralysed. It was all he could do to move his arms and legs slightly to keep from sinking. Below him was a watery blackness. And he suddenly realised he was no longer at peace but horribly afraid.
But then the darkness was split by a warm beam of light. Someone had switched on a lamp inside the house. He wanted to cry out, but the muscles in his throat refused to work. The light was coming from behind the French doors with their inserts of stained glass carefully fitted together in the shape of an emblem. Monas hieroglyphica. See, he still remembered
A shadow appeared behind the glowing lozenges of red, green and purple glass. For a moment it hovered, motionless.
The shadow moved. The doors opened.
She stepped out into the garden and her footfall made no sound. As she walked towards him, he thought he could smell her perfume.
His heart lifted joyously. She had known he was out here all along. Of course she did. And now she had come to save him. No longer any need to be afraid. But hurry, he thought. Please hurry.
She was still wearing the mask. It covered her eyes. Her hair was concealed by the hood of her cape. On her shoulder perched the crow, black as coal. Even in the uncertain light he was able to see the sheen on the bird s wings.
Sinking down to her knees at the very edge of the pool, she leaned over and looked squarely into his face. A wash of yellow light fell across her shoulder. Round her neck she was wearing a thin chain and from it dangled a charm in the shape of the letter M. It gleamed against the white of her skin.
From inside the house, the sound of the violin was much clearer now and he recognised the music. Andante cantabile . Tchaikovsky s string quartet no. 1, opus 11. The ecstatic notes struck a fugitive chord of memory. The last time he had listened to this piece there was a fire burning in the hearth, a bowl of drooping apricot roses on the dark wooden table and next to it three glasses filled with red wine waiting on a silver tray.
He was sinking. His feet were pale finless fish paddling sluggishly. He couldn t keep this up much longer. But she would help him. She would pull him to safety. With difficulty he moved his arm and stretched out his hand beseechingly.
Her forehead creased with concern but the eyes behind the mask were enigmatic. She placed her hand on his face and pushed it softly into the water. The crow left her shoulder with a startled shriek.
His mouth opened in protest and he almost drowned right then and there. He turned his head violently to one side, sneezing and coughing. Panic-stricken, he tried to swim away from her but his limbs were so heavy.
Again she leaned forward and pushed him down. And again. Each time he broke the surface, he gasped for breath, aware only of her white arms and the chain with the initial M hanging from her neck. Her movements were gentle, but laced with steel. As his head bobbed in and out of the water, he knew he was about to die.
Exhaustion. His lungs on fire. He made one last enormous effort to free himself but she was too strong.
She had relaxed her grip now but he could no longer find the strength to push himself upward. As he started to sink, he kept his eyes open and through the layer of water he saw her get to her feet. She looked down at him and lifted her hand: a gesture of regret.
Air was leaving his mouth, rippling the water, dissolving her figure, her masked face. And as he slowly spiralled downwards, he wondered with a strange sense of detachment if he might not still be on a journey, still searching for the path that does not wander
HOUSE OF A MILLION DOORS


I always wanted to know what was knowable in the world
-Johannes Trithemius, Steganographia (Secret Writing), 1499

CHAPTER ONE
W as there anything as cool as rush-hour traffic on a hot day?
The light turned red. Gabriel Blackst