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Blood Lines (Anglais) Broché – 4 novembre 2004

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OneHe had been almost aware for some time. Nothingness had shattered when they removed him from the chamber long concealed behind the centuries empty tomb of a forgotten priest. The final layer of the binding spell had been written on the rock wall smashed to gain access and, with that gone, the spell itself had begun to fray. Every movement frayed it further. The surrounding ka, more souls than had been near him in millennia, called him to feed. Slowly, he reached for memory. Then, just as he brushed against self and had only to reach out and grasp it and draw home the key to his freedom, the movement stopped and the lives went away. But the nothingness didn’t quite return. And that was the worst of all. Sixteenth Dynasty, thought Dr. Rax running his finger lightly along the upper surface of the plain, unadorned rectangle of black basalt. Strange, when the rest of the collection was Eighteenth. He could now, however, understand why the British were willing to let the artifact go; although it was a splendid example of its type, it was neither going to bring new visitors flocking to the galleries nor was it likely to shed much light on the past. Besides, thanks to the acquisitiveness of aristocracy with more money than brains, Great Britain has all the Egyptian antiquities it can hope to use. Dr. Rax was careful not to let that thought show on his face, as a member of said aristocracy, albeit of a more recent vintage, fidgeted at his shoulder. Too well bred to actually ask, the fourteenth Baron Montclair leaned forward, hands shoved into the pockets of his crested blazer. Dr. Rax, unsure if the younger man was looking worried or merely vacant, attempted to ignore him. And I thought Monty Python created the concept of the upper-class twit, he mused as he continued his inspection. How foolish of me. Unlike most sarcophagi, the artifact Dr. Rax examined had no lid but rather a sliding stone panel in one narrow end. Briefly, he wondered why that feature alone hadn’t been enough to interest the British museums. As far as he knew the design survived on only one other sarcophagus, an alabaster beauty found by Zakaria Goneim in the unfinished step pyramid of Sekhem-khet. Behind him, the fourteenth baron cleared his throat. Dr. Rax continued to ignore him. Although one corner had been chipped, the sarcophagus was in very good condition. Tucked away in one of the lower cellars of the Monclairs’ ancestral home for almost a hundred years, it seemed to have been ignored by everything including time. And excluding spiders. He brushed aside a dusty curtain of webbing, frowned, and with fingers that wanted to tremble, pulled a penlight out of his suit pocket. “I say, is something wrong?” The fourteenth baron had an excuse for sounding a little frantic. The very exclusive remodeling firm would be arriving in a little under a month to turn the ancestral pile into a very exclusive health club and that great bloody stone box was sitting right where he’d planned to put the women’s sauna. The thudding of Dr. Rax’s heart almost drowned out the question. He managed to mutter, “Nothing.” Then he knelt and very carefully played the narrow beam of light over the lower edge of the sliding plate. Centered on the mortared seam, six inches above the base of the sarcophagus, was an oval of clay—a nearly perfect intact clay seal stamped with, as far as Dr. Rax could tell through the dust and the spiderwebs, the cartouche of Thoth, the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom. Just for a moment, he forgot to breathe. An intact seal could mean only one thing. The sarcophagus wasn’t—as everyone had assumed—empty. For a dozen heartbeats, he stared at the seal and struggled with his conscience. The Brits had already said they didn’t want the artifact. He was under no obligation to let them know what they were giving away. On the other hand... He sighed, switched off the penlight, and stood. “I need to make a call,” he told the anxious peer. “If you could show me to a phone.” “Dr. Rax, what a pleasant surprise. Still out at Haversted Hall are you? Get a look at his lordship’s ‘bloody-great-black-stone-box’?” “As a matter of fact, yes. And that’s why I’ve called.” He took a deep breath; best to get it over with quickly, the loss might hurt less. “Dr. Davis, did you actually send one of your people out here to look at the sarcophagus.” “Why?” The British Egyptologist snorted. “Need some help identifying it?” Abruptly, Dr. Rax remembered why, and how much, he disliked the other man. “I think I can manage to classify it, thank you. I was just wondering if any of your people had seen the artifact.” “No need. We saw the rest of the junk Montclair dragged out of his nooks and crannies. You’d think that with all the precious bits and pieces leaving Egypt at the time, his Lordship’s ancestor could have brought home something worthwhile, even by accident, wouldn’t you?” Professional ethics warred with desire. Ethics won. “About the sarcophagus . . .” “Look, Dr. Rax . . .” On the other end of the line, Dr. Davis sighed explosively. “.. . this sarcophagus might be a big thing for you, but trust me, we’ve got all we need. We have storerooms of important, historically significant artifacts we may never have time to study.” And you don’t, was the not too subtly implied message. “I think we can allow one unadorned hunk of basalt to go to the colonies.” “So I can send for my preparators and start packing it up?” Dr. Rax asked quietly, his tone in severe contrast to the white-knuckled grip that twisted the phone cord. “If you’re sure you don’t want to use a couple of my people . . .” Not if my only other option was to carry the sarcophagus on my lap all the way home. “No, thank you. I’m sure all your people have plenty of historically significant things to do.” “Well, if that’s the way you want it, be my guest. I’ll have the paperwork done up and sent down to you at the Hall. You’ll be able to get your artifact out of the country as easily as if it were a plaster statue of Big Ben.” Which, his tone said clearly, is about its equivalent value. “Thank you, Dr. Davis.” You pompous, egocentric asshole, Dr. Rax added silently as he hung up. Oh, well, he soothed his lacerated conscience, no one can say I didn’t try. He straightened his jacket and turned to face the hovering baron, smiling reassuringly. “I believe you said that 50,000 pounds was your asking price . . . ?” The movement had begun again and the memories strengthened. Sand and sun. Heat. Light. He had no need to remember darkness; darkness had been his companion for too long. As the weight of the sarcophagus made flying out of the question, a leisurely trip back across the Atlantic on the grand old lady of luxury ocean liners, the QE II, would have been nice. Unfortunately, the acquisitions budget had been stretched almost to the breaking point with the purchase and the packing and the insurance and the best the museum could afford was a Danish freighter heading out of Liverpool for Halifax. The ship left England on October 2nd. God and the North Atlantic willing, she’d reach Canada in ten days. Dr. Rax sent the two preparators back by plane and he himself traveled with the artifact. It was foolish, he knew, but he didn’t want to be parted from it. Although the ship occasionally carried passengers, the accommodations were spartan and the meals, while nourishing, were plain. Dr. Rax didn’t notice. Refused access to the cargo hold where he could be near the sarcophagus and the mummy he was sure it contained, he stayed as close as he could, caught up on paperwork, and at night lay in his narrow bunk and visualized the opening of the coffin. Sometimes, he removed the seal and slid the end panel up in the full glare of the media; the find of the century, on every news program and front page in the world. There’d be book contracts, and speaking tours, and years of research as the contents were studied, then removed to be studied further. Sometimes, it was just him and his staff, working slowly and meticulously. Pure science. Pure discovery. And still the years of research. He imagined the contents in every possible form or combination of forms. Some nights expanding on the descriptions, some nights simplifying. It wouldn’t be a royal mummy—more likely a priest or an official of the court—and so hopefully would have missed the anointing with aromatic oils that had partially destroyed the mummy of Tutankhamen. He grew so aware of it that he felt he could go into the hold and pick its container out of hundreds of identical containers. His thoughts became filled with it to the exclusion of all else; of the sea, of the ship, of the sailors. One of the Portuguese sailors began making the sign against the evil eye whenever he approached. He started to speak to it each night before he slept. “Soon,” he told it. “Soon.” He remembered a face, thin and worried, bending over him and constantly muttering. He remembered a hand, the soft skin damp with sweat as it brushed his eyes closed. He remembered terror as he felt the fabric laid across his face. He remembered pain as the strip of linen that held the spell was wrapped around him and secured. But he couldn’t remember self. He could sense only one ka, and that at such a distance he knew it must be reaching for him as he reached for it. “Soon,” it told him. “Soon.” He could wait. The air at the museum loading dock was so charged with suppressed excitement that even the driver of the van, a man laconic to the point of legend, became infected. He pulled the keys out of his pocket like he was pulling a rabbit out of a hat and opened the van doors with a flourish that added a silent Tah dah to the proceedings. The plywood packing crate, reinforced with two by twos and strapping, looked no different from any number of other crates that the Royal Ontario Museum had received over the years, but the entire Egyptology Department—none of whom had a reason to be down in Receiving—surged forward and Dr. Rax beamed like the Madonna must have beamed into the manger. Preparators did not usually unload trucks. They unloaded this one. And as much as he single-handedly wanted to carry the crate up to the workroom, Dr. Rax stood aside and let them get on with it. His mummy deserved the best. “Hail the conquering hero comes.” Dr. Rachel Shane, the assistant curator, walked over to stand beside him. “Welcome back, Elias. You look a little tired.” “I haven’t been sleeping well,” Dr. Rax admitted, rubbing eyes already rimmed with red. “Guilty conscience?” He snorted, recognizing she was teasing. “Strange dreams about being tied down and slowly suffocating.” “Maybe you’re being possessed.” She nodded at the crate. He snorted again. “Maybe the Board of Directors has been trying to contact me.” Glancing around, he scowled at the rest of his staff. “Don’t you lot have anything better to do than stand around watching a wooden box come off a truck?” Only the newest grad student looked nervous, the others merely grinned and collectively shook their heads. Dr. Rax grinned as well; he couldn’t help himself. He was exhausted and badly in need of something more sustaining than the coffee and fast food they’d consumed at every stop between Halifax and Toronto, but he’d also never felt this elated. This artifact had the potential to put the Royal Ontario Museum, already an internationally respected institution, on the scientific map and everyone in the room knew it. “As much as I’d like to believe that all this excitement is directed at my return, I know damned well it isn’t.” No one bothered to protest. “And as you can now see there’s nothing to see, why don’t the lot of you head back up to the workroom where we can all jump about and enthuse in the privacy of our own department?” Behind him, Dr. Shane added her own silent but emphatic endorsement to that suggestion. It took more than a few last, lingering looks at the crate, but, finally, Receiving emptied. “I suppose the whole building knows what we’ve got?” Dr. Rax asked as he and Dr. Shane followed the crate and the preparators onto the freight elevator. Dr. Shane shook her head. “Surprisingly enough, considering the way gossip usually travels in this rabbit warren, no. All of our people have been very closemouthed.” Dark brows drew down. “Just in case.” Just in case it does turn out to be empty, the less people know, the less our professional reputations will suffer. There hasn’t been a new mummy uncovered in decades. Dr. Rax chose to ignore the subtext. “So Von Thorne doesn’t know?” While the Department of Egyptology didn’t really resent the Far East’s beautiful new temple wing, they did resent its curator’s more-antiquarian-than-thou attitude concerning it. “If he does,” Dr. Shane said emphatically, “he hasn’t heard about it from us.” As one, the two Egyptologists turned to the preparators who worked, not just for them, but for the museum at large. One hand resting lightly on the top of the crate, Karen Lahey drew herself up to her full height. “Well he hasn’t heard about it from us. Not after accusing us of creating a nonexistent crack in that porcelain Buddha.” Her companion grunted agreement. The freight elevator stopped on five, the doors opened, and Dr. Van Thorne beamed genially in at them. “So, you’re back from your shopping trip, Elias. Pick up anything interesting?” Dr. Rax managed a not very polite smile. “Just the usual sorts of things, Alex.” Stepping nimbly out of the way as the preparators rolled the crate from the elevator, Dr. Von Thorne patted the wood as it passed; a kind of careless benediction. “Ah,” he said. “More broken bits of pottery, eh?” “Something like that.” Dr. Rax’s smile had begun to show more teeth. Dr. Shane grabbed his arm and propelled him down the hall. As the doors of the workroom swung closed behind him, the weight of responsibility for the sarcophagus lifted off his shoulders. There was still a lot to do, and any number of things that could yet go wrong, but the journey at least had been safely completed. He felt like a modern day Anubis, escorting the dead to eternal life in the Underworld, and wondered how the ancient god had managed to bear such an exhausting burden. He rested both hands on the crate, aware through the wood and the packing and the stone and whatever interior coffin the stone concealed, of the body that lay at its heart. “We’re here,” he told it softly. “Welcome home.” The ka that had been so constant was now joined by others. He could feel them outside the binding, calling, being, driving him into a frenzy with their nearness and their inaccessibility. If he could only remember . . . And then, suddenly, the surrounding ka began to fade. Near panic, he reached for the one he knew and felt it moving away. He hung onto it as long as he could, then he hung onto the sense of it, then the memory. Not alone. Please, not alone again. When it returned, he would have wept if he’d remembered how. Refreshed by a shower and a good night’s sleep plagued by nothing more than a vague sense of loss, Dr. Rax stared down at the sarcophagus. It had been cataloged—measured, described, given the card number 991.862.1—and now existed as an official possession of the Royal Ontario Museum. The time had come. “Is the video camera ready?” he asked pulling on a pair of new cotton gloves. “Ready, Doctor.” Doris Bercarich, who took care of most of the departmental photography, squinted through the view finder. She’d already taken two films of still photography—one black and white, one color—and her camera now hung around the neck of the more mechanically competent of the two grad students. He’d continue to take photographs while she shot tape. If she had anything to say about it, and she did, this was going to be one well documented mummy. “Ready, Dr. Shane?” “Ready, Dr. Rax.” She tugged at the cuffs of her gloves, then picked up the sterile cotton pad that would catch the removed seal. “You can start any time.” He nodded, took a deep breath, and knelt. With the sterile pad in place, he slid the flexible blade of the palette knife behind the seal and carefully worked at the centuries old clay. Although his hands were sure, his stomach tied itself in knots, tighter and tighter as the seconds passed and his fear grew that the seal, in spite of the preservatives, could be removed only as a featureless handful of red clay. While he worked, he kept up a low-voiced commentary of the physical sensations he was receiving through the handle of the knife. Then he felt something give and a hairline crack appeared diagonally across the outer surface of the seal. For a heartbeat the only sound in the room was the soft whir of the video camera. A heartbeat later, the seal, broken cleanly in two, halves held in place by the preservative, lay on the cotton pad. As one, the Department of Egyptology remembered how to breathe. He felt the seal break, heard the fracture resonate throughout the ages. He remembered who he was. What he was. What they had done to him. He remembered anger. He drew on the anger for strength, then he threw himself against his bonds. Too much of the spell remained; he was now aware but still as bound as he had been. His ka howled in silent frustration. I will be free!“Soon,” came the quiet answer. “Soon.” Five hours and seven rolls of film later, the inner coffin lay on padded wooden supports, free of its encasing stone for the first time in millennia. “Well,” Dr. Shane frowned down at the painted wood, “that’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.” The rest of the department nodded in agreement; except for Dr. Rax who fought not to step forward and throw off the lid. The coffin was anthropomorphic but only vaguely. There were no features either carved into or painted on the wood, nor any symbols of Anubis or Osiris as might be expected. Instead, a mighty serpent coiled its length around the coffin, its head, marked with the cartouche of Thoth, resting above the breast of the mummy. At the head of the coffin was a representation of Setu, a minor god who stood guard in the tenth hour of Tuat, the underworld, and used a javelin to help Ra slay his enemies. At the foot of the coffin was a representation of Shemerthi, identical in all ways to the other guardian save that he used a bow. Small snakes, coiled and watchful, filled in the spaces that the great serpent left bare. In Egyptian mythology, serpents were the guardians of the underworld. As a work of art, it was beautiful; the colors so rich and vibrant that the artist might have finished work three hours instead of three millennia ago. As a window on history, the glass was cloudy at best. It took them the rest of the day to photograph it, catalog it, and remove the seal of cedar gum that held the lid tightly in place. “Why this stuff hasn’t dried to a nice, easily removable powder, I have no idea.” Dr. Shane shook the kinks out of one stiff leg, and then the other. This had been the second day she’d spent mostly on her knees and, while it was a favored position of archaeologists, she’d never been a great believer in crippling herself for science. “It looks,” she added slowly, her hand stretching out but not quite touching one of the small serpents, “like something interred in this coffin was not supposed to get out.” One of the graduate students laughed, a high-pitched giggle quickly cut off. “Open it,” Dr. Rax commanded, through lips suddenly dry. “On three. One, two, three!” The lid lifted cleanly, heavier than it looked. “Ahhh.” The sound came involuntarily from half a dozen throats. Placing the lid carefully on another padded trestle, Dr. Rax, heart slamming painfully against his ribs, turned to see what might lie revealed. The mummy lay thickly swathed in ancient linen and the smell of cedar was almost overpowering—the inside of the casket had been lined with the aromatic wood. Someone sneezed although no one noticed who. A long strip of fabric, closely covered in scarlet hieroglyphs was wrapped around the body following the path the serpent had taken around the coffin. The mummy wore no death mask, but features were visible in relief through the cloth. The dry air of Egypt was good to the dead, preserving them for the future to study by leeching all the moisture from even protected tissue. Embalming was only the first step and, as sites that predated the pharaohs proved, not even the most necessary one. Desiccated was the only word to describe the face beneath the linen, although other, more flattering words might have been used once, for the cheekbones were high and sharp, the chin determined, and the overall impression one of strength. Dr. Rax let out a long breath he hadn’t been aware of holding and the tension visibly left his shoulders. “You were expecting maybe Bela Lugosi?” Dr. Shane asked dryly, pitched for his ears alone. The look he turned on her—half horror, half exhaustion—made her regret the words almost instantly. “Can we go home now?” she asked in a tone deliberately light. “Or did you want to cram another two years of research into this evening?” He did. He saw his hand reach out and hover over the strip of hieroglyphs. He snatched it back. “Pack it up,” he said, straightening, forcing his voice to show no sign of how he had to fight to form the words. “We’ll deal with it Monday.” Then he turned and, before he could change his mind, strode from the workroom. * * *He would have laughed aloud had it been possible, unable to contain the rush of exaltation. His body might still be bound, but with the opening of his prison his ka was free. Free . . . freed . . . feed. * * *His kind never dreamed, or so he'd always believed—they lost dreaming as they lost the day—but in spite of this, for the first time in over four hundred and fifty years, he came to awareness with a memory that had no connection to his waking life. Sunlight. He hadn't seen the sun since 1539 and he had never seen it as a golden disk in an azure sky, heat spreading a shimmering shield around it. Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, romance writer, vampire, lay in the darkness, stared at nothing, and wondered what the hell was going on. Was he losing his mind? It had happened to others of his kind. They grew so that they couldn't stand the night and finally they gave themselves to the sun and death. Was this memory, then, the beginning of the end? He didn't think so. He felt sane. But would a madman recognize his condition? ``This is going nowhere.'' Lips tight, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. He certainly had no conscious wish to die. If his subconscious had other ideas, it would be in for a fight. But the memory lingered. It lingered in the shower. It lingered as he dressed. A blazing circle of fire. When he closed his eyes, he could see the image on his lids. His hand was on the phone before he remembered; she was with him tonight. ``Damn!'' In the last few months Vicki Nelson had become a necessary part of his life. He fed from her as often as it was safe, and blood and sex had pulled them closer into friendship if not something stronger. At least on his side of the relationship. ``Relationship, Jesu! Now that's a word for the nineties.'' Tonight, he only wanted to talk to her, to discuss the dream—if that's what it was—and the fears that came with it. Running pale fingers through short, sandy-blond hair, he walked across the condo to look out at the lights of Toronto. Vampires hunted alone, prowled the darkness alone, but they had been human once and perhaps at heart were human still, for every now and then, over the long years of their lives, they searched for a companion they could trust with the truth of what they were. He had found Vicki in the midst of violence and death, given her his truth, and waited for what she would give him in return. She'd offered him acceptance, only that, and he doubted she ever realized how rare a thing acceptance was. Through her, he'd had more contact with mortals since last spring than he'd had in the last hundred years. Through her, two others knew his nature. Tony, an uncomplicated young man who, on occasion, shared bed and blood, and Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci, who was neither young nor uncomplicated and while he hadn't come right out and said vampire, he was too intelligent a man to deny the evidence of his eyes. Henry's fingers curled against the glass, forming slowly into a fist. She was with Celluci tonight. She'd as much as warned him of it when they'd last spoken. All right. Maybe he was getting a bit possessive. It was easier in the old days. She'd have been his then, no one else would have had a claim on her. How dared she be with someone else when he needed her? The sun burned down in memory, an all-seeing yellow eye. He frowned down at the city. He was not used to dealing with fear, so he fed the dream to his anger and allowed, almost forced, the Hunger to rise. He did not need her. He would hunt. Below him, a thousand points of light glowed like a thousand tiny suns. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Poche .

Revue de presse

"Entertaining characters, wry humor, crazy plots, glimpses of horror, the occult, romance, and just a dollop of sex." —VOYA

"The novel [has] an unexpected serious theme that helps raise it above the crowd. It may be funny, often lighthearted and highly entertaining, but it's more than just another 'light' fantasy." —Locus

"A yummy concoction of equal parts fantasy and mystery, throwing in a splash of humor and a dash of romance to beguile the palate quite delightfully.... Ms. Huff manages to develop all her different plot threads to marvelous effect. How could anyone resist this vastly entertaining pastiche?" —RT Book Reviews

"A fine mix of the detective story with the supernatural, and easily Huff's best novel to date.... A rousing adventure tale with likable characters and an interesting setting."—Science Fiction Chronicle
"The author of the Blood novels has once again proven herself a master of urban fantasy." —Library Journal

"Huff tells a great story, but never takes herself or it too seriously. She consciously borrows elements from other books as well as movies, comics, and mythology and combines them with her own great imagination to make a thoroughly satisfying story." —SF Site

  --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

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40 internautes sur 42 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
demons, werewolves, now it's a mummy- what next? 19 janvier 2001
Par R. Kelly Wagner - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
This is the third book in a series about Vicki Nelson, PI, and Henry Fitzroy, romance writer, bastard son of Henry VIII, and vampire. The titles, by the way, have nothing to do with the plot - other than the word Blood, there's no reason this one is Blood _Lines_ while another is Blood _Trail_. Those who already know that they like vampire novels, anything at all that features a vampire, can skip this review, and likewise, those who hate the whole idea of vampires can skip it. But for those trying to decide whether or not to read more of this genre, or whether the one vampire novel you've already read was a fluke, it may help to have some ways to categorize these novels. Thus: BunRab's Standard Vampire Classification Guide. First, most authors of vampire novels approach from one of the main genres of genre fiction; thus their background may be primarily in romance, or in science fiction/fantasy, or in murder mysteries, or in horror. Second, many vampire novels come in series; knowing whether this is one of a series, and where in the series it falls, may be helpful. Then we have some particular characteristics: - Is the vampire character (or characters) a "good guy" or a "bad guy"? Or are there some of each? - Are there continuing characters besides the vampire, through the series? - Are there other types of supernatural beings besides vampires? - Can the vampire stand daylight under some circumstances, or not stand daylight at all? - Does the vampire have a few other supernatural characteristics, many other supernatural characteristics, or none other than just being a vampire? (E.g., super strength, change into an animal, turn invisible) - Does the vampire have a regular job and place in society, or is being a vampire his or her entire raison d'etre? - Does the vampire literally drink blood, or is there some other (perhaps metaphorical) method of feeding? - Is sex a major plot element, a minor plot element, or nonexistent? - Is the entire vampire feeding act a metaphor for sex, part of a standard sex act, or unrelated to sex? - Is the story set in one historical period, more than one historical period, or entirely in the present day? - Does the story have elements of humor, or is it strictly serious? - Is the writing style good, or is the writing just there to manage to hold together the plot and characters?
Tanya Huff's series about the vampire Henry Fitzroy starts from the mystery and thriller genres (Huff also writes Fantasy), and is a continuing series. Fitzroy is a good guy, just leading a quiet life. The continuing characters include several types of humans: police officers, detectives, street people, family members. There are other supernatural characters, usually only one type per book (e.g., werewolves). Henry definitely can't stand daylight at all; it literally burns him. He has extraordinary strength and speed, and a sort of hypnotic influence but no "magic" powers. In fact, other than the existence of a few types of supernatural beings, there is little supernatural going in in the series - it's everyday modern Toronto, not a fantasy world. He's got a day job - er, make that a night job: he's a writer. He drinks blood, usually from consenting adults, sometimes associated with sex, but not necessarily. There is sex in the books, but it's a minor plot element, not graphically detailed. These stories are there for the mystery/thriller elements; romance is only a sideline. Huff allows the characters to have a sense of humor: witty dialogue, a way with words. Some of the characters are set up for humor and farce as well, although not in a crude or gross way. The writing is well above average for "genre fiction" and the books are quite enjoyable to read.
In each of the books in the series, we get introduced to one other sort of supernatural character. In the first book it was demons, in the second, werewolves - and now it's a mummy. That's right, an Egyptian mummy, complete with curse attached - sort of. The mummy isn't exactly dead, you see; he's been dreaming and plotting in there all these millennia, and once he gets out, he has distinct plans for Toronto. Starting with the police department, where he has a nasty impact on the day to day life of Vicki's lover, detective Mike Celluci. He also has an unusual effect on Henry - who hasn't seen the sun in several centuries, and is rather puzzled to suddenly begin dreaming of the hot Egyptian sun. Henry, Vicki, Mike, and Tony team up, as usual, to pool their respective abilities and save each other's butts from odd situations (for example, Vicki gets thrown in jail at one point!) complete with the usual witty dialogue. One small quibble- I don't think it's quite that likely that the entire law enforcement apparatus of the city and the province could turn that strange without more people noticing- but hey, it's a small quibble. It's still a good read.
20 internautes sur 20 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Mummies AND Vampires!! 5 septembre 2001
Par Marc Ruby™ - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
I have to confess. I am just as addicted to mummies as I am to vampires. Possibly even worse. Ever since I was completely terrified by both Karloff's and Chaney's portrayals of Kharis I have been a loyal pop-corn chomping mummy fan. So I took great delight in discovering that the latest opponent of Vicki Nelson, Mike Celluci, and Henry Fitzroy is an ancient Egyptian wizard who is so old that his origins go back to pre-dynastic times. Eventually he challenged the gods themselves and was promptly trapped, wrapped, and entombed alive. Several thousand years later the Royal Ontario Museum purchases his sarcophagus and brings it back to Toronto.
Opening the sarcophagus triggers a series of eerie events. Two men die of 'heart failure' and then the whole museum staff suffers from selective memory lost as the mummy reawakens, feeds, and prepares to reinstate his god's reign on earth. Taking the name Anwar Tawfik the mummy uses its command of sorcery and hypnosis to extend its power and to feed on its favorite delicacy, young and infant children.
Mike Celluci is the first to suspect, when he finds clues at the museum that simply do not agree with the testimony of the staff. And then Henry Fitzroy is suddenly haunted with dreams of a burning sun. Dreams so vivid that Henry doubts his own sanity and fears the he will be driven to suicide. Vicki is enlisted by both men to help with the investigation and to keep Henry from committing auto-da-fe. As usual, when these three are involved the tension of the love triangle adds suspense and humor to their otherwise grim struggle.
Tawfik successfully takes over the police department and turns Mike and Vicki into fugitives. In addition, he plans to make a feast out of Henry's ka (Egyptian soul). Absorbing Henry, Tawfik figures, will give him such a boost that he can get rid of his unpleasant deity and move up himself. He is also planning to perform a ceremony that will cement his powers and make him virtually unstoppable. Careful detection, as well as considerable luck, are our heroes primary resources in defeating their strongest opponent so far and preventing a supernatural disaster.
"Blood Lines," third in this series carves out some new territory. The series shifts from simply being Vicki's story to making Celluci and Henry equal characters. For the same reason, Henry's powers as a 450 year old vampire are downplayed to increase the part the others play in the final cataclysm. This means good character development and a rich and varied plot. All in all a very enjoyable novel, and the best so far.
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Can TRUE EVIL ever be removed? 10 juin 2000
Par "mcmarcy" - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
Henry (Romance writing Vampire) Victory (ex-cop now Detective) Mike (Cop) all work together to over come a Ancient Evil Priest to a long forgotten god.... Henry thinks he's "losing it" because he has started to dream of The Sun. In his fear that he'll kill himself he calls on Vicki for help, as she strives to keep him safe, Mike starts finding odd events in 2 "Heart-Attack" victims deaths. Soon all three paths are crossing, converging to this power raising super-natural evil. Cleverly written, wonderful blend of all my favorite genre of books; Romance, ScFi, Horror & Mystery... Fun, scary & a wee bit sexy.
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The Priest Hunt 4 octobre 2008
Par Arthur W. Jordin - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
Blood Lines (1993) is the third fantasy novel in the Blood series, following Blood Trail. In the previous volume, Vicki Nelson, Henry Fitzroy and Mike Celluci helped save the life of young Peter Heerkens. Then she thoroughly confused the crime scene and called in the firemen and the provincial police.

In this novel, Doctor Elias Rax is Curator of Egyptology of the Royal Ontario Museum. He acquires a sarcophagus from the Monclair family estate and has it carefully removed to the ROM. When it arrives, the entire Egyptology Department is waiting by the loading dock. They follow the crate as the preparators take it up to the workroom.

Doctor Rachael Shane is the assistant curator. She greets him at the loading dock and they start the process of opening the sarcophagus on the following day. Doris Percarich and the graduate students record the scene as Rax removes the seal. Then they slowly clear the mortar from around the lid. After that, the working day is done and they leave the stone box unopened.

Reid Ellis is a janitor in the ROM. He thoroughly enjoys his job, especially the Egyptology department. So he saves the Egyptology workroom for last. The next morning, his body is found there. He apparently died of a heart attack.

The next morning, the Egyptology staff resumed their task. After five hours of tedious effort, Doctor Rax becomes impatient and has the sarcophagus lid opened. The mummy lies thickly swathed in ancient linen. The corpse lacks a death mask and the features show in relief through the cloth.

The following day, the body of Doctor Rax is found in his workroom by a researcher. Apparently he has died of a heart attack. Still, two deaths in as many days are rather much. Mike Celluci and his partner investigate the case.

In this story, the ROM Egyptology staff declares that the sarcophagus was empty. Their minds have been wiped of knowledge about the mummy. The body has been revitalized by the two deaths and his mind has absorbed the memories of his victims.

The priest of Akhekh takes the name of Anwar Tawfik. He hasn't used his true name since the time of the first Pharaoh. By the time the priest of Thoth found and bound him, his true name was no longer known.

Tawfik's first task is to find worshippers for his god. His continued existence has kept his god alive, but more energy will be needed to allow Akhekh to thrive. He can sustain himself on the ka of his victims, but his god needs more.

Henry Fitzroy becomes aware of Tawfik through his dreams. Despite having not seen the sun for centuries, now he is dreaming of it. He gradually understands that he is tapping another's dreams.

Vicki is aware of the mummy case and then learns that Mike is assigned to it. She keeps abreast of the investigation. But then she personally witnesses the priest stripping an infant of his ka.

This tale takes Vicki, Mike and Henry through a hunt for an ancient god and his priest. Vicki encounters the priest several times without recognizing him. Then they learn of a big meeting with a special speaker.

The ancient priest has survived through magic and has other spells that he can use. His god gives him various powers to use as needed. Enjoy!

Highly recommended for Huff fans and for anyone else who enjoys tales of preternatural entities, police procedurals, and a bit of romance.

-Arthur W. Jordin
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Another Great Read in an Enthralling Series! 20 novembre 2002
Par Sophie - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
"Blood Lines" by Tanya Huff is the third instalment in her wonderful "Blood" series, and it is another great read. It contains a thrilling and suspenseful plot perfectly blended with the tantalizing love triangle between Private Investigator Vicki Nelson, 450 year-old vampire romance writer Henry Fitzroy, and homicide detective Mike Celluci. "Blood Lines" is an excellent addition to the series and is sure to be widely enjoyed.
The story begins with the arrival of an Egyptian sarcophagus at the Royal Ontario Museum. The staff is excited about what and who it may contain, but they don't know the half of it. For the mummy lying inside is an ancient Egyptian wizard who challenged the gods at the height of his power and was subsequently entombed alive. For thousands of years he has lain in darkness, unable to escape his living death, until now.
Strange and frightening things begin happening at the museum after the sarcophagus is opened and the mummy uncovered. Two men die sudden and inexplicable deaths and then the entire museum staff selectively forgets that there ever was a mummy. Because the ancient wizard, now awake and planning his overthrow of the city and the reinstatement of his dark god's reign, has been growing stronger by feeding on the lives of those around him. Armed with knowledge of the 20th century stolen from his victims, the mummy takes the name Anwar Tawfik and goes out into the city. And so this ancient evil is loosed upon an unsuspecting Toronto.
Mike Celluci, Vicki Nelson's ex-partner on the force and sometime lover, can see that something is not right. He finds clues at the museum that deny the statements given by the museum staff, and after the things he's seen in the recent past, Mike's willing to believe in a supernatural explanation. Henry Fitzroy, Vicki's other lover and the bastard son of Henry VIII, no less, is haunted by dreams of a blazing desert sun. And being a vampire, this is pretty terrifying for Henry, who believes that his recurring dream signifies some hidden desire to commit suicide. So Henry enlists Vicki's help to watch over him and keep him from frying himself, and Mike recruits her to help him find out what is going on.
As Tawfik becomes more and more powerful, he gains control of some people in high places, leaving Vicki, Mike, and Henry to fight him all alone. And it's not long before the clues, Henry's instincts, and some blind luck add up to give these three a fairly accurate picture of what's going on. Tawfik is so power hungry that he is prepared to do whatever it takes to get what he wants, and his plans include a ceremony that will make him almost unstoppable.
So it's up to Vicki, Mike, and Henry to find a way to stop Tawfik and save Toronto. The suspense builds very effectively, and Huff takes her readers on a thrilling adventure. "Blood Lines" is intriguing, tightly plotted, and exciting. Not to mention the fabulous romance between Henry and Vicki (my favourite couple) and Mike and Vicki, which provides some intense sexual tension along with some highly amusing moments that balance the horror and suspense perfectly.
All in all, "Blood Lines" is an entertaining and worthwhile read. Vicki is a fantastic heroine. She's strong and stubborn, but not without vulnerabilities. I adore Henry, and can't help but like Mike. The story is a fascinating mix of horror, mystery, fantasy, and romance and Huff makes it work beautifully. The entire "Blood" series is worth reading, though I strongly advise you read them in order. "Blood Lines" will not disappoint, so pick it up today and enjoy!
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