The Age of Miracles Compact disc - 2012

Excerpt

9780812992977|excerpt

Arthur / BENEATH A RISING MOON

Chapter One

The music swirled through the darkness, its beat rich and seductive. Night cloaked the ballroom—­a mantle challenged only by the occasional flicker of a torch burning high on the rough-­hewn stone walls. On the dance floor, couples swayed to the music, their bodies so close they almost seemed to be one. Heat and sweat mingled with the growing odor of lust and need—­scents that stirred her senses, made her hunger.

Neva Grant looked uneasily over her shoulder. Though the moon was masked beneath the clouds that crowded the night sky, she could feel its presence. Feel its power.

The full moon was too close. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be doing this when the wildness within was so close to the surface.

But she’d made her promises, and she intended to see them through—­no matter what the cost.

She let her gaze roam the dance floor again. Somewhere down there, a killer lurked. A man who was using this secluded, exotic retreat as his own private hunting ground.

A man she had every intention of finding. And slaying.

She raised her glass and finished the last of her wine. The alcohol slithered warmth through her body, and perspiration beaded her skin. Hunger rose, flashing white-­hot through her veins. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

But the pulsing need suggested it was already too late for such prayers. The wildness had woken. It would not remain leashed for long.

Maybe she shouldn’t even bother trying. The killer seemed to be choosing the more adventurous of this wanton crowd. Unleashing the wildness might be the quickest way of attracting his attention.

Bile rose up her throat and she swallowed heavily. While she had no real choice about what she had to do tonight, she wasn’t about to give the wolf within free rein. She wasn’t like any of the hunters who danced on the floor below. Her world was one of sunshine and restraint, of trying to live normally.

These people rejoiced in the night and the power of the moon. They came to this mansion for the freedom and the safety it offered, seeking to sate the moon-­spun lust surging through their veins. That was why most of the men were naked, and why most of the women wore little more than wisps of material that covered everything yet left nothing to the imagination. Only their faces were concealed. Once the moon’s spell had faded and daylight returned, they would return to their packs, picking up their lives where they’d left off, not knowing the faces of any of those they’d chosen to mate with.

Unlike her pack, these wolves were free spirits, exhilarated by the thrill of the chase, by the excitement of capture and possession. The belief in one mate, one life partner, had never touched these dark halls.

But for her promise, she would not be here tonight.

She put aside her glass, then adjusted her ornate mask and made her way down the stairs. The deeper shadows that lined the walls were filled with hunters in various stages of mating. She forced her gaze away even though the wildness within yearned to watch. Hungered to join them.

Her stomach turned again. God, she hated this place. Hated everything it represented. Given the choice, she’d rather burn the Sinclair estate to the ground than be walking its halls. She wasn’t a prude; far from it. She’d given in to the power of the moon more than once herself. But if it wasn’t for this place, if it wasn’t for the wanton and careless behavior of its guests, her twin sister would not now be lying in the hospital, so close to death.

Tears stung her eyes, and she took a deep breath. Don’t think. Just do.

She moved onto the dance floor, inching her way past the slowly dancing couples. Her pulse throbbed in time to the music’s heavy beat, and the deep-­down ache grew stronger.

She clenched her fists and made her way toward the rear exit. She’d spent most of her adult life fighting the worst of her desires, and she would not give in now. Not even here in this place of dark freedom.

And yet, at the same time, she knew she’d do whatever she had to—­even unleashing the wildness—­if it led her to the man who had attacked her twin.

She’d studied the files in Savannah’s office before she’d come down here this evening. The killer had struck three times—­each time near dawn and just beyond the boundaries of the Sinclair mansion. The victims were always alone, though forensics had, not surprisingly, found evidence to suggest each victim had taken more than half a dozen lovers the night of their deaths. Savannah and the other werewolf rangers who patrolled the Ripple Creek Reservation—­which was the mountain homeland of the four Colorado wolf packs—­believed that the killer was shadowing his victims as they left the mansion, and attacking once they were clear. But they had no proof of this—­nothing more than scents and suspicions. And neither of those were admissible in court, be it human or werewolf.

Savannah had been following one such scent when she’d been attacked by a silver wolf. Only the fact that she’d been in wolf form herself had saved her. The winter coat of their tribe was thick, and the silver wolf had been unable to gain a true grip around her sister’s throat. But even so, her wounds were multiple and life threatening.

And Neva had shared the last, terrifying moments of her twin’s horror. While she never wanted to go through something like that again, in the end it was the link between them that had saved Savannah. Her sister had siphoned Neva’s stronger psychic abilities and used them to finally fend off her attacker.

Neva closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Even now, her sister’s pain edged Neva’s consciousness. When she’d left home this evening, the doctors still weren’t sure if Savannah would survive. Even she couldn’t say with any degree of certainty. Savannah was hanging on by the slenderest of threads, and it wouldn’t take much to snatch that lifeline away.

Which was why Neva had touched her twin’s unresponsive mind and made a silent vow: she’d hunt down the killer and finish what her sister had started if Savannah found the strength to live.

It may have been foolish, but it was better than sitting at home, waiting for the worst.

But unlike Savannah, she was no ranger. Far from it. She had no idea how to load a weapon, let alone shoot, and she only had a wolf’s natural skills when it came to tracking. But she was still far from defenseless. Like most of the wolves of her tribe, she rated high in telepathy, but she was also almost off the scale empathically. The two abilities combined could be a deadly weapon if one knew how to use them properly—­as the wolf who’d attacked Savannah had learned.

So far, Neva had kept her shields up tonight. Skimming the minds of hunters when the moon bloomed was far too dangerous and would attract the kind of sexual interest she was trying to avoid. Besides, she might just alert the killer she was here, seeking him.

The rangers believed it was probably one of the Sinclairs behind the killings, but they were a large and closed-­mouthed pack and had yet to provide the rangers with any real help. And while the Sinclairs were all silver wolves, like the one who had attacked her sister, they did not have a monopoly on the color. Even in her own pack, which were primarily golden-­coated, silver could be found.

No, she’d never find the killer roaming the outskirts of the Sinclair stronghold. It was doubtful if even the rangers could. It had to be done from within. And there was only one way she could achieve that. Goose bumps skated across her skin, and she sent a silent prayer to the moon for strength.

She’d spent a good part of the day studying the Sinclair lineage. The wolf she’d chosen to seduce was the pack leader’s third son. By all accounts, he was the wildest of them all, but he was the only one who’d been away from home when the first two murders had occurred. So he was safe—­or as safe as any of the Sinclairs could be.

She’d also spent time studying the mansion’s floor plans before coming here, and she had talked to Betise, a regular customer at her family’s diner. Though barely thirty-­six, Betise had been attending moon dances at the mansion for a good twenty years and knew the place almost as well as the Sinclairs themselves. It had been Betise who told her that Duncan Sinclair rarely joined the dance before midnight, and that before then he could usually be found close to his rooms on the west side of the mansion.

Of course, he’d been away for ten years, and anybody—­even the wildest of the wild—­could change in that amount of time. But for her sister’s sake she had to hope that wasn’t the case.

She hurried out the rear doors. The night breeze stirred her flimsy skirt. Its touch was cool against the fever-­kissed skin of her thighs. She glanced skyward again, judging the time by the position of a moon she could feel, not see. Close to midnight. She had to hurry. She tugged the delicate material clear of her bare feet and ran to the back of the mansion.

A cherub-­filled fountain came into sight. She slowed, scanning the windows until she found his. Her heart was beating so fast it felt as if it would tear free of her chest, and she knew the cause was fear, not exertion. She’d never done anything like this before. She didn’t know if she even had what it took to attract, let alone hold, a wolf with Duncan Sinclair’s experience.

But she had to try. It was the safest way to gain full access to the mansion.

She could smell only one wolf in the rooms above, and there were no others in the immediate area. So Betise’s information had been accurate. If she pulled this off, Neva was going to keep the woman supplied with free coffee for the next year.

She walked over to the fountain and stripped off the flimsy excuse for a gown. Then she stepped into the icy water, avoiding the most vigorous of the water-­spewing cherubs as she turned her attention to his window.

Everything she’d learned about Duncan Sinclair suggested he liked a chase and preferred his mates to be sexually adventurous. While she could never claim to be that, she was a wolf, and the moon was high. And Betise had offered more than a few tips.

But she couldn’t exactly send out a blatant invitation to the man. The rules of the moon dance said no names, so she had to be a little more devious. The Sinclairs were the only other wolf pack who were strong telepaths, so she just had to make it seem he was catching her thoughts.

Lord, I ache tonight.

She kept her mind voice breathy, wistful. For several tense seconds, nothing happened, then his presence stirred and he walked across to the windows. She dipped her fingers into the water and wet her neck, letting the cool droplets dribble between her breasts.

Hunger surged through the night—­a force so strong it almost knocked her over. His need for the dance was high. Very high. The thought churned her stomach, but she was here now and would not back away.

She let her gaze roam the windows until she saw him. If his shadow was to be believed, he was big. Bigger than she’d expected. She cupped another handful of water, sipping it quickly to ease the dryness in her throat.

Why do you ache? The moon is high and the night free.

His mind voice was rich and husky, and stirred her senses with longing. She clenched her fists. She had to remain in control. She couldn’t let the wildness free.

Perhaps I am choosy.

You can be choosy as many times as you like on a night such as this. Amusement swam across her senses, warm and sensual.

Perhaps I long for a more careful seduction once the initial fire has passed.

His silhouette stirred. She caught the brief glimpse of a muscular arm before the shadows closed in again. A difficult request when the moon rides high.

So it would seem. She arched her back, stretching her arms skyward. The emotive swirl of his thoughts became a wall of heat. He wanted her, of that she was certain. Whether he would take her was unclear. He hadn’t yet moved from his dark hideaway.

Perhaps I should go home. The moon, it seems, offers me no comfort tonight.

He hesitated. Perhaps we should talk further on the matter.

The bait had been taken. Now to snare him fully. But the elation that ran through her was tempered by the knowledge that true victory would mean spending the rest of the week in this man’s bed. But it was a small price to pay when her sister’s life hung in the balance.

She considered him a moment longer, not wanting to seem too eager. You are little more than a shadow to me. I cannot discuss possibilities with someone I cannot see.

The French window opened and he stepped out onto the balcony. Her heart slammed into the wall of her chest, then it seemed to drop somewhere to the vicinity of her toes.

He was tall, close to six feet, if not over, his build quietly powerful but lean like an athlete’s. His hair was dark and long, full of unruly waves that brushed his shoulders. His face was that of a dark angel’s—­beautiful and yet somehow sinister. And while it may have been true that the eyes were the window of the soul, this man’s were shuttered and black. There was nothing to be read in his expression—­or the lack of it. If not for the hunger that burned between them, she would have thought him uninterested.

Do you like what you see?

She gave a disinterested shrug. Looks are not the measure of the man. Even though this man’s looks were stirring her in ways no man’s ever had before.

A wise statement for one so young.

She raised her eyebrows, a smile teasing her lips. And that is a very condescending statement from one likewise so young.

Amusement touched his sensual mouth. He crossed his arms and continued to regard her in that oddly disturbing manner of his.

I have squeezed many years of living into this young body, believe me.

So his reputation had suggested. Had she any other choice, she would have stayed far away from this particular wolf and his wild, hungry ways. But he was the only Sinclair the rangers did not have under suspicion and, therefore, her safest route into the Sinclair stronghold.

Ah. Then perhaps you have little interest in one less well traveled. She picked up her gown and pulled it on. The sheer material clung to her damp breasts and caressed her aching nipples. Again his need swam around her, leaving her breathless.

I did not say that.

No. She hesitated and stepped from the water, then raised her gaze challengingly to his. I intend to leave. But if you can find me before I depart these grounds, we shall indeed . . . talk . . . more on this matter.

She turned around and walked away, not looking back. Yet his gaze burned into her back as surely as his hunger sent a fever blistering across her skin. He would come for her, she was certain of that.

Now all she had to do was pray she could hold his attention for more than just one night.

Media reviews

Praise for The Age of Miracles
 
“[A] moving tale that mixes the real and surreal, the ordinary and the extraordinary with impressive fluency and flair … Ms. Walker has an instinctive feel for narrative architecture, creating a story, in lapidary prose, that moves ahead with a sense of both the inevitable and the unexpected … Ms. Walker maps [her characters’] inner lives with such sure-footedness that they become as recognizable to us as people we’ve grown up with or watched for years on television… [A] precocious debut…one of this summer’s hot literary reads.”--Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

“THE NEXT BIG FEMALE NOVELIST.” --Rolling Stone

“THE SUMMER BOOK.” --Vanity Fair.com

“[AN] EARTHSHAKING DEBUT.” –Entertainment Weekly
 
“Part speculative fiction, part coming-of-age story…The Age of Miracles could turn Walker into American literature's next big thing.”--NPR
 
 “A tender coming-of-age novel.”--Maureen Dowd, The New York Times
 
“Walker creates lovely, low-key scenes to dramatize her premise…The spirit of Ray Bradbury hovers in the mixture of the portentous and quotidian.”--The New Yorker

“[Walker] matches the fierce creativity of her imagination with a lyrical and portentous understanding of the present.”--People (4 stars)

“This haunting and soul-stirring novel about the apocalypse is transformative and unforgettable.”--Marie Claire

“Quietly explosive … Walker describes global shifts with a sense of utter realism, but she treats Julia’s personal adolescent upheaval with equal care, delicacy, and poignancy.”—O, The Oprah Magazine

“Haunting.”--Real Simple

“If you begin this book, you'll be loath to set it down until you've reached its end… The Age of Miracles reminds us that we never know when everything will change, when a single event will split our understanding of personal history and all history into a Before and an After.” –The San Francisco Chronicle

“The perfect combination of the intimate and the pandemic…Flawlessly written; it could be the most assured debut by an American writer since Jennifer Egan's ‘Emerald City.’”--Denver Post
 
“Touching, observant and poetic.”--The Columbus Dispatch
 
“Simply told, skillfully crafted and filled with metaphorical unities, this resonant first novel [rings] with difficult truths both large and small.”--Kansas City Star

"The Age of Miracles lingers, like a faded photo of a happy time. It is stunning.”–Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Both utterly realistic and fantastically dystopian…The big miracles, Walker seems to be saying, may doom the world at large, but the little ones keep life worth living.”--Minnesota Herald Tribune
 
“[An] elegiac, moving first novel.”--Newsday
 
“Arresting… This book cuts bone-deep.” --Austin Chronicle 
 
“Evocative and poetic...I loved this book from the first page.”--Huntington News
 
“Walker’s tone can be properly [Harper] Lee-esque; both Julia and Scout grapple with the standard childhood difficulties as their societies crumble around them. But life prevails, and the stunning Miracles subtly conveys that adapting.”--Time Out New York

“[A] gripping debut . . . Thompson’s Julia is the perfect narrator. . . . While the apocalypse looms large—has in fact already arrived—the narrative remains fiercely grounded in the surreal and horrifying day-to-day and the personal decisions that persist even though no one knows what to do. A triumph of vision, language, and terrifying momentum, the story also feels eerily plausible, as if the problems we’ve been worrying about all along pale in comparison to what might actually bring our end.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“In Walker’s stunning debut, a young California girl coming of age in a dystopian near future confronts the inevitability of change on the most personal level as life on earth withers … She goes through the trials and joys of first love. She begins to see cracks in her parents’ marriage and must navigate the currents of loyalty and moral uncertainty. She faces sickness and death of loved ones. ... Julia’s life is shaped by what happens in the larger world, but it is the only life she knows, and Walker captures each moment, intimate and universal, with magical precision. Riveting, heartbreaking, profoundly moving.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“What a remarkable and beautifully wrought novel. In its depiction of a world at once utterly like and unlike our own, The Age of Miracles is so convincingly unsettling that it just might make you stockpile emergency supplies of batteries and bottled water. It also—thank goodness—provides great solace with its wisdom, its compassion, and the elegance of its storytelling.”—Curtis Sittenfeld, author of Prep

“‘Miracles’ indeed. Karen Thompson Walker’s debut novel is a stunner from the first page—an end-of-the-world, coming-of-age tale of quiet majesty. I loved this novel and can’t wait to see what this remarkable writer will do next.”—Justin Cronin, author of The Passage

“Is the end near? In Karen Thompson Walker’s beautiful and frightening debut, sunsets are becoming rarities, “real-timers” live in daylight colonies while mainstream America continues to operate on the moribund system of “Clock Time,” and environmentalists rail against global dependence on crops that guzzle light. Against this apocalyptic backdrop, Walker sets the coming-of-age story of brave, bewildered Julia, who wonders at the “malleable rhythms” of the increasingly erratic adults around her. Like master fabulists Steven Millhauser and Kevin Brockmeier, Karen Thompson Walker takes a fantastic premise and makes it feel thrillingly real. In precise, poetic language, she floods the California suburbs with shadows and a doomsday glow, and in this altered light shows us amazing things about how one family responds to a stunningly imagined global crisis.”—Karen Russell, author of Swamplandia!

“This is what imagination is. In The Age of Miracles, the earth’s rotation slows, gravity alters, days are stretched out to fifty hours of sunlight. In the midst of this, a young girl falls in loves, sees things she shouldn't and suffers heartbreak of the most ordinary kind. Karen Thompson Walker has managed to combine fiction of the dystopian future with an incisive and powerful portrait of our personal present.”—Amy Bloom, author of Away
 
“The Age of Miracles is pure magnificence. Deeply moving and beautifully executed, Karen Thompson Walker has written the perfect novel for the global-warming age.”—Nathan Englander, author of For the Relief of Unbearable Urges

“Reading The Age of Miracles is like gazing into a sky of constellations and being mesmerized by the the strange yet familiar sensation of infinity. Beautifully written, the novel lets the readers see the world within us and the world without with an unforgettable freshness.”—Yiyun Li, author of Gold Boy, Emerald Girl

“The Age of Miracles spins its glowing magic through incredibly lucid and honest prose, giving equal care and dignity to the small spheres and the large. It is at once a love letter to the world as we know it and an elegy.”—Aimee Bender, author of The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
 
“Gripping from first page to last, The Age of Miracles is itself a small, perfectly formed miracle: Written with the cadence and pitch of poetry, this gem of a novel is a wrenching and all-too-believable parable for our times, and one of the most original coming-of-age stories I have ever read. Karen Thompson Walker is the real deal.”—Dani Shapiro, author of Devotion

“The Age of Miracles is harrowing and beautiful on the ways in which those catastrophes already hidden about us in plain sight, once ratcheted up just a bit, provide us with a glimpse of the end of our species’ run on earth: the uncanny distress of hundreds of beached whales, or the surreal unease of waves rolling across the rooftops of beachfront houses. And as it does it reminds us of all of the miracles of human regard that will have taken place before then: the way compassion will retain its resilience, and the way, for those of us in love, a string of afternoons will be as good as a year.”—Jim Shepard, author of Like You’d Understand, Anyway (National Book Award finalist)