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Portable Magic Ltd. - Mostert Natasha

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205 pages

English

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From the award-winning author of SEASON OF THE WITCH comes a highly original story of murder, redemption, eternal love and destiny, WINDWALKER will keep you on the edge of your seat. And break your heart.When photographer, Justine Callaway, walks into the deserted English mansion, Paradine Park, she doesn't suspect that she is opening the door to the greatest mystery-and magic-of her life. Justine becomes obsessed by the family who used to live in the house, especially the oldest son, Adam Buchanan. But why is she so drawn to a man who had killed his brother nine years before? And why, as she photographs the house, does she discover ghostly images she knows she did not record?Even more unsettling, it seems as if someone is stalking her, watching her...

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Thriller

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Publié par	Portable Magic Ltd.
Date de parution	02 septembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781909965072
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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WINDWALKER. Copyright 2005, 2013 by Natasha Mostert. First edition published by Tor, Tom Doherty Associates (USA). Second, revised edition: Portable Magic, 2013.
This book is a work 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 may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Jacket design by Stefan Coetzee/Asha Hossain Photograph Zachar Rise Author photograph: by Mark Andreani Natasha Mostert Photograph of Skeleton Coast Wreck Trygve Roberts
ISBN 978-1-909965-07-2
www.natashamostert.com www.portablemagic.com

PRAISE FOR WINDWALKER
This hauntingly elegant tale of a doomed love between two lost souls is rife with Eastern mysticism, concepts of destiny, reincarnation and redemption through selfless acts.
Booklist
Always action-packed.
Publishers Weekly
The most touching, heartbreaking and romantic novel I have read in years (this) wonderful novel will haunt me for a very long time.
Romance Designs
The cave-diving sequences are heart-stopping in their intensity. One has come to expect good writing and clever plotting from Mostert, and this book does not disappoint on either score.
Cape Times
One of the most original voices on the literary scene. A master wordsmith.
Glamour Magazine
I dedicate this book to cave divers everywhere. And to Frederick, my love in this life and the next.

AUTHOR S NOTE
W INDWALKER IS SET in part in Kepler s Bay, an imaginary town wedged in between the cold Atlantic Ocean and the windswept dunes of the Namib Desert. Anyone who has ever visited Namibia will recognise in Kepler s Bay many similarities to the tiny port of Luderitzbucht and the adjacent ghost town of Kolmanskop. I have certainly drawn inspiration for my book from these two places, and have considered carefully whether I shouldn t use them as the actual setting for my story. In the end I decided to create my own town, Kepler s Bay. It is a composite of a number of Namibian towns: tiny, wind-scoured outposts clinging to the edge of the world.
The decision solved a number of problems. In real life, Kolmanskop and the surrounding area are sealed off and form part of the so-called Sperrgebiet , or prohibited land . Anyone who dares cross its barren wastes is considered a potential diamond-smuggler and will find himself in danger of criminal prosecution. In my book this would have posed great difficulties for my hero, who not only made his home in one of the deserted ghost towns, but wanders through the desert sands of the southern Namib at will. So in the world I ve created, the artificial barriers of Diamond Area No. 1 do not exist. Still, Kepler s Bay owes much of its eerie charm to the port of Luderitzbucht and the deserted hamlet of Kolmanskop, where the ghosts walk even during the day.

CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for WINDWALKER
Dedication
Author s Note
Epigraph
Prologue 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 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20 Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 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 Epilogue
Special photo section
Acknowledgements About the Author Also by Natasha Mostert
Preview of Natasha Mostert s DARK PRAYER
Contact Natasha
You may know the characters are absolutely doomed to some fate, but the characters themselves must be allowed to hope.
BRUCE CHATWIN, IN CONVERSATION WITH NICHOLAS SHAKESPEARE

PROLOGUE
H E WAS LOOKING up at the stars, his eyes wide open and shiny. The expression on his face was ecstasy. His arms were thrown wide as though he were about to hug the sky to his chest.
His brother.
For a moment the man hesitated, wondering if he should try to close the staring eyes, smooth the pale lids over the curved eyeballs. But as he looked down at his own hands they were clenched into fists and, try as he might, he was unable to open his fingers.
The grass here was wet and sweet-smelling and the fragrant wisteria, with its drooping white petals, looked like a bride. The shaft of a sundial gleamed palely in the moonlight. A pleasant spot, this. He had always thought so. Turning his head slowly, he looked at the house with its smooth windows. Behind the glass panes there was only dark and quiet; the rooms not empty, but their occupants asleep. The house would be silent inside except for the secret sounds of slumber. Soft breathing, maybe the ticking of a bedside clock.
He looked back at the figure in front of him. How pale the thin face with its ecstatic, frozen eyes. How still those long limbs. Only the fine hair at the hollow of the temples moved ever so slightly in the soft breeze. But the arms flung wide seemed almost carefree, stretched out in a gesture of abandon. A wristwatch gleamed gold at the edge of a snow-white cuff.
Something moved at the edge of his peripheral vision and he whipped around, his heart beating wildly. He stared into the darkness. He sensed the presence of someone-something. For a moment he waited tensely, the adrenaline burning through his blood like acid. But nothing moved. No shadow detached itself from the surrounding blackness.
Nerves. And now he was aware of the cold. The knees of his trousers were wet where the moisture from the grass had seeped through. His arm was suddenly on fire when he touched it, and even in the darkness he could see the black stain of his own blood.
He got to his feet and, without a backward glance, he started walking. At first he walked slowly, with no haste. But as he crossed the wide, manicured lawn he stretched his stride. By the time he reached the edge of the mile-long avenue of trees, he was hurrying.
The road stretched straight ahead for what seemed like a long, long way. The moon was directly overhead. The trunks of the beech trees on both sides of him threw slim black shadows across the path in front of his feet. For a moment he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. And the house with its tall chimney stacks, its beautiful bow-fronted windows and the three-pointed gables had never seemed to him more lovely. The stone walls glowing white in the light of the moon. The windows glittering darkly. A house serene and dreaming. A house at peace.
But as he watched, a light suddenly stabbed from an upstairs window. He waited, his blood rushing through his veins, thrumming inside his ears. And then yet another light-like a warning, an alarm-turned the darkness yellow.
He started running, his footsteps loud. The wind had sprung up and the branches of the trees danced. The wind chilled the back of his neck and the sweat in his armpits felt cold. But he had almost reached the end of the avenue and he could see the elaborately curlicued ironwork of the gate in front of him.
As he curled his fingers around one of the iron bars, he thought for a terrified moment that the gate was locked. He could feel his lips drawing away from his teeth in a snarl, and inside the cage of his chest were fist blows of rage and fear. But then-slowly, ponderously-the gate started to swing toward him.
He stepped through the narrow opening and turned round. In the distance the house was ablaze with light. Light was pouring from every window. Light was pouring through the front door. The door stood wide open and a long tongue of light licked across the stone steps.
A house in distress.
A house in a state of mortal sin.

W ITH HIS BACK to the sundial, a few steps away from the wisteria walkway, a shadow shook itself free from the darkness. For a moment the man who had stood there so motionless peered in the direction of the black wrought-iron gate. The gate was half-open, but the fleeing figure of the killer was no longer visible. He had disappeared.
The Watcher glanced up at the house. Light from the windows was falling onto the lawn, the yellow glow not quite reaching the dead body spread-eagled on the moist grass only a few yards away from him.
He would have liked to take a closer look, but he heard voices. He had no desire to answer questions, to describe what he had witnessed. The very idea filled him with panic. It was time to leave. But, unlike the murderer, he would not be able to escape through the gate. There was no possibility of walking down the avenue of trees without being seen.
Swiftly-the voices were drawing near-he turned in the direction of the woods, which rose tall and dark at the rear of the house. There was no clear path through the woods and the terrain among the trees was rough, but he had no choice.
He had reached the edge of the woods. Here the moonlight still silvered the leaves of the trees. A much deeper darkness awaited him inside the dense, moss-furred forest. A dank, bitter smell rose from the earth. He shivered. His features, blanched by the white light, showed indecision.
The next moment, he stepped from light into darkness and was swallowed up by the night.

ONE
S HE MUST HAVE taken a wrong turn.
Justine glanced at her watch and then at the road map on the car seat beside her. She had been making good time but, since leaving the motorway, she had found herself lost in a maze of country lanes bordered by towering hedges, tiny villages with evil roundabouts, and roads without names. People living in the country didn t need road signs, of course: they knew exactly where they were. And no doubt it was considered part of the charm of living in the English countryside. But a bloody nuisance for visito