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Talulla Rising

Cover of Talulla Rising

Talulla Rising

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When I change I change fast. The moon drags the whatever-it-is up from the earth and it goes through me with crazy wriggling impatience . . . I'm twisted, torn, churned, throttled--then rushed through...More
When I change I change fast. The moon drags the whatever-it-is up from the earth and it goes through me with crazy wriggling impatience . . . I'm twisted, torn, churned, throttled--then rushed through...More
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Description-
  • When I change I change fast. The moon drags the whatever-it-is up from the earth and it goes through me with crazy wriggling impatience . . . I'm twisted, torn, churned, throttled--then rushed through a blind chicane into ludicrous power . . . A heel settles. A last canine hurries through. A shoulder blade pops. The woman is a werewolf.

    The woman is Talulla Demetriou.
    She's grieving for her werewolf lover, Jake, whose violent death has left her alone with her own sublime monstrousness. On the run, pursued by the hunters of WOCOP (World Organisation for the Control of Occult Phenomena), she must find a place to give birth to Jake's child in secret.
    The birth, under a full moon at a remote Alaska lodge, leaves Talulla ravaged, but with her infant son in her arms she believes the worst is over--until the windows crash in, and she discovers that the worst has only just begun . . .
    What follows throws Talulla into a race against time to save both herself and her child as she faces down the new, psychotic leader of WOCOP, a cabal of blood-drinking religious fanatics, and (rumor has it) the oldest living vampire.
    Harnessing the same audacious imagination and dark humor, the same depths of horror and sympathy, the same full-tilt narrative energy with which he crafted his acclaimed novel The Last Werewolf, Glen Duncan now gives us a heroine like no other, the definitive twenty-first-century female of the species.

Excerpts-
  • Chapter One

    "Oh. mon Dieu," Cloquet said, when he opened the lodge door and saw me on the floor. "Fuck."

    I was on my side, knees drawn up, face wet with sweat. Pregnancy and the hunger didn't get along. Hated each other, in fact. I pictured the baby pressing werewolf fingernails against my womb, five bits of broken glass on the skin of a balloon. And only myself to blame: When I could've got rid of it I didn't want to. Now that I wanted to it was too late. Conscience from the old life said: Serves you right. I'd fired conscience months back, but it was still hanging around, miserable, unshaven, nowhere else to go.

    "Did you get it?" I gasped. Behind Cloquet the open door showed deep snow, the edge of the pine forest, frail constellations. Beauty mauled me even in this state. Aesthetic hypersensitivity was a by-product of slaughter. Life was full of these amoral relations, it turned out.

    Cloquet rushed to my side, tugging off his thermal gloves. "Lie still," he said. "Don't try to speak." He smelled of outdoors, dense evergreens and the far north air like something purified by the flight of angels. "You have a temperature. Did you drink enough water?"

    For the umpteenth time I wished my mother were alive. For the umpteenth time I thought how unspeakably happy I'd be if she and Jake walked in the door right now, grinning, the pair of them. My mother would dump her purse on the table in a puff of Chanel and say, For God's sake, Lulu, look at your hair--and the weight would lift and everything would be all right. Jake wouldn't have to say anything. He'd look at me and it would be there in his eyes, that he was for me, always, always--and the nightmare would reduce to a handful of solvable problems. (I'd expected their ghosts, naturally. I'd demanded their ghosts. I got nothing. The universe, it also turned out, was no more interested in werewolf demands than it was in human ones.)

    "Talulla?"

    Pain thickened under my toenails, warmed my eyeballs. Wulf smirked and kicked and cajoled in my blood. Come on, what's a few hours between friends? Let me out. Let me out. Every month the same delirious bullying, the same pointless impatience. I closed my eyes.

    Bad idea. The footage ran, immediately: Delilah Snow's room, the wardrobe door swinging open, its long mirror introducing me to myself in all my grotesque glory, what I was, what I could do, the full range of my options. Monster. Murderer. Mother-to-be.

    I opened my eyes.

    "Let me get you some water," Cloquet said.

    "No, stay here."

    I had hold of his coat and was twisting it. My dead moaned and throbbed. My dead. My restless tenants. My forced family of thirteen. Those ghosts, yes, of course, as many as you like. The only way to be sure of never losing the ones you love. The Dahmer Method. Extreme, but effective.

    "Breathe, chérie, breathe."

    Chérie. Mon ange. Ma belle. Lovers' endearments, though we weren't, and never would be, lovers.

    One by one the broken-glass fingernails withdrew. The pain furled shut, like time-lapse film of a flower closing. By degrees, with Cloquet's help, I made it to the armchair. Wulf smiled. The prisoner's smile at the guard, knowing the breakout gang's already on its way.

    "Did you get it?" I asked again, when I'd caught my breath. "At least tell me you got it."

    Cloquet shook his head. "There was a screw-up. It's stuck in freight clearing at Anchorage. It'll be in Fairbanks Saturday morning. There's more snow coming, though. I'll have to take the Ski-Doo and trailer."

    I didn't say anything. I was remembering an artwork I saw once at MOMA: a foetus made entirely of barbed wire. Lauren and I had...

About the Author-
  • Glen Duncan is the author of eight previous novels. He was chosen by both Arena and The Times Literary Supplement as one of Britain's best young novelists. He lives in London.

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    Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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