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352 pages, Paperback
First published October 4, 2005
But the girl carried midnight with her. It made up her long hair, her long dress, the long boots she wore. It filled and surrounded her eyes, and sprinkled from her ears in tiny shiny drops. At one shoulder only was a silken scarlet slash, left by some descending sun much older than the orb recently fallen behind the high street. That ancient sunset had also splashed her lips and nails. And a bone white moonlight her skin.
She moved in her own darkness, personal to her as all fantasy, yet externalized into armour and a mask.
Ruby Sin moved into the space, and the sound and the light undid the lid of her brain, so her spirit could fly right up, and look about, clear-sighted as a hawk, from the tower-top of her body...She was all part of it now, the night. Safely locked in, yet her soul flying free, connected to her only by a hair-fine silver chain.
Her soul perched there on the rail, and that was when Ruby Sin, at the bar, felt something--someone-- touch her...
The most intimate of touches.
Not to breast or groin, but stroking over the fiber of her psychic life.
Ruby Sin had to kill Sue Wyatt every Friday evening. First in a bath with salts of cedar, frankincense and myrrh. Then with black clothing and red and black costume jewels, and a long black wig. Next smothering her in a black and white and red makeup and nail polish. All through the murder, poor Sue Wyatt stared in horror and fear--but at the end her eyes were shut behind jet-black contacts. Dead, dead, left behind on the floor like a shed toenail clipping.
This was, nearly, a Cinderella dream, of going out into the night disguised as Ruby Sin...Sue Wyatt then saw behind her closed eyes and all over the inside of her body a dark male Being who walked between the crowds as a full fed black leopard sometimes walks between the restless passivity of feeding deer.
Sue read the book first. She found it dense and almost difficult, to begin with. Then the vampiric sequences of Stoker's rogue masterpiece of transmogrified sex, began to quicken her. Why had she wanted to read it in the first place?
Real life, always less lovely, less wanted, more terrible than fantasy, had hunted for and found her, Unforgivably here.
'My father," Andruin said, once he had passed her the wine and she had drunk some, "rides with a gang of bikers. He looks younger than he did. Or perhaps he's older again, or he's doing something else. He has always refused to credit that I exist, as if that could unmake me. My mother was Spanish-Hungarian. Where she is I've no idea either. But I'm hardly alone. There is the Family. My Family," he added, "is very old."




