A daring new departure from the inspired creator of The Vampire Chronicles (“unrelentingly erotic . . . unforgettable”—The Washington Post), Lives of the Mayfair Witches (“Anne Rice will live on through the ages of literature”—San Francisco Chronicle), and the angels of The Songs of the Seraphim (“remarkable”—Associated Press). A whole new world—modern, sleek, high-tech—and at its center, a story as old and compelling as history: the making of a werewolf, reimagined and reinvented as only Anne Rice, teller of mesmerizing tales, conjurer extraordinaire of other realms, could create.
The time is the present.
The place, the rugged coast of Northern California. A bluff high above the Pacific. A grand mansion full of beauty and tantalizing history set against a towering redwood forest.
A young reporter on assignment from the San Francisco Observer . . . An older woman welcoming him into her magnificent family home that he has been sent to write about and that she must sell with some urgency . . . A chance encounter between two unlikely people . . . An idyllic night—shattered by horrific unimaginable violence, the young man inexplicably attacked—bitten—by a beast he cannot see in the rural darkness . . . A violent episode that sets in motion a terrifying yet seductive transformation, as the young man, caught between ecstasy and horror, between embracing who he is evolving into and fearing what he will become, soon experiences the thrill of the wolf gift.
As he resists the paradoxical pleasure and enthrallment of his wolfen savagery and delights in the power and (surprising) capacity for good, he is caught up in a strange and dangerous rescue and is desperately hunted as “the Man Wolf” by authorities, the media, and scientists (evidence of DNA threatens to reveal his dual existence) . . . As a new and profound love enfolds him, questions emerge that propel him deeper into his mysterious new world: questions of why and how he has been given this gift; of its true nature and the curious but satisfying pull towards goodness; of the profound realization that there may be others like him who are watching—guardian creatures who have existed throughout time who possess ancient secrets and alchemical knowledge. And throughout it all, the search for salvation for a soul tormented by a new realm of temptations, and the fraught, exhilarating journey, still to come, of being and becoming, fully, both wolf and man.
Showing 1-4 of the 4 most recent reviews
1 . Dissapointing
Posted April 29, 2012 by Kipske , WorldThis was the most dissappointing book by Anne Rice that I ever read. It started out like any other Anne Rice book, slowly but promising. But from there, it devolved into philosophical rambling, with absolutely no plot and not a trace of action. Not worth the bytes it was stored on!
2 . Loved it
Posted April 09, 2012 by JM , HolidayRead all the old great anne rice when i was younger... Really impressed with this book, rice is back!!! Sequel please!!!
3 . Wow what a let down.
Posted April 04, 2012 by LT59 , Vancouver IslandJust becouse everybody and thier dog thinks that they should write about the next hot thing, doesn't mean that they should. This story was a big disappointment. It took forever for the plot to take off and even when it did manage to get a wheel off the ground it just hovered above the runway. The main character was a wimp and his girlfriend rather shallow. Her way of dealing with stress is to make a salad. That was the funny part of the book, I'm sure. Too much wrong in this book to make it right and I couldn't wait for it to end so I could read anthing else. I use to love Ann Rice but I can't love this. It was a wast of time and money.
4 . GRRReat Read!
Posted February 26, 2012 by fyrewolfcarol , Las Vegas, NVThis is from the Anne Rice we all know and love....it left me wanting MORE!
Very interesting and fun perspective on the werewolf fable.
I liked it!
Please, Ma'am may we have some more???
February 14, 2012
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Excerpt from The Wolf Gift by Anne Rice
Reuben was a tall man, well over six feet, with brown curly hair and deep-�set blue eyes. "Sunshine Boy" was his nickname and he hated it; so he tended to repress what the world called an irresistible smile. But he was a little too happy right now to put on his studious expression, and try to look older than his twenty-�three years.
He was walking up a steep hill in the fierce ocean wind with an exotic and elegant older woman named Marchent Nideck and he really loved all she was saying about the big house on the cliff. She was lean with a narrow beautifully sculpted face, and that kind of yellow hair that never fades. She wore it straight back from her forehead in a soft wavy swinging bob that curled under just above her shoulders. He loved the picture she made in her long brown knit dress and high polished brown boots.
He was doing a story for the San Francisco Observer on the giant house and her hopes of selling it now that the estate had at last been settled, and her great-�uncle Felix Nideck had been declared officially dead. The man had been gone for twenty years, but his will had only just been opened, and the house had been left to Marchent, his niece.
They'd been walking the forested slopes of the property since Reuben arrived, visiting a ramshackle old guesthouse and the ruin of a barn. They'd followed old roads and old paths lost in the brush, and now and then come out on a rocky ledge above the cold iron-�colored Pacific, only to duck back quickly into the sheltered and damp world of gnarled oak and bracken.
Reuben wasn't dressed for this, really. He'd driven north in his usual "uniform" of worsted-�wool blue blazer over a thin cashmere sweater, and gray slacks. But at least he had a scarf for his neck that he'd pulled from the glove compartment. And he really didn't mind the biting cold.
The huge old house was wintry with deep slate roofs and diamond-�pane windows. It was built of rough-�faced stone, and had countless chimneys rising from its steep gables, and a sprawling conservatory on the west side, all white iron and glass. Reuben loved it. He'd loved it in the photographs online but nothing had prepared him for its solemn grandeur.
He'd grown up in an old house on San Francisco's Russian Hill, and spent a lot of time in the impressive old homes of Presidio Heights, and the suburbs of San Francisco, including Berkeley, where he'd gone to school, and Hillsborough, where his late grandfather's half-�timber mansion had been the holiday gathering place for many a year. But nothing he had ever seen could compare to the Nideck family home.
The sheer scale of this place, stranded as it was in its own park, suggested another world.
"The real thing," he'd said under his breath the moment he'd seen it. "Look at those slate roofs, and those must be copper gutters." Lush green vines covered over half the immense structure, reaching all the way to the highest windows, and he'd sat in his car for a long moment, kind of pleasantly astonished and a little worshipful, dreaming of owning a place like this someday when he was a famous writer and the world beat too broad a path to his door.
This was turning out to be just a glorious afternoon.
It had hurt him to see the guesthouse dilapidated and unlivable. But Marchent assured him the big house was in good repair.
He could have listened to her talk forever. Her accent wasn't British exactly, or Boston or New York. But it was unique, the accent of a child of the world, and it gave her words a lovely preciseness and silvery ring.
"Oh, I know it's beautiful. I know it's like no place else on the California coast. I know. I know. But I have no choice but to get rid of all of it," she explained. "There comes a time when a house owns you and you know you have to get free of it, and go on with the rest of your life." Marchent wanted to travel again. She confessed she'd spent precious little time here since Uncle Felix disappeared. She was headed down to South America as soon as the property was sold.
"It breaks my heart," Reuben said. That was too damn personal for a reporter, wasn't it? But he couldn't stop himself. And who said he had to be a dispassionate witness? "This is irreplaceable, Marchent. But I'll write the best story I can on the place. I'll do my best to bring you a buyer, and I can't believe it will take that long."
What he didn't say was I wish I could buy this place myself. And he'd been thinking about that very possibility ever since he'd first glimpsed the gables through the trees.