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The Wolf Gift: The Wolf Gift Chronicles (1) Paperback – January 29, 2013

by Anne Rice (Author)

4.3 4,948 ratings

Book 1 of 2: Wolf Gift Chronicles

Editors' pick Best Science Fiction & Fantasy

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NATIONAL BESTSELLER • “Vintage Anne Rice—a lushly written, gothic … metaphysical tale. This time, with werewolves.” —The Wall Street Journal

When Reuben Golding, a young reporter on assignment, arrives at a secluded mansion on a bluff high above the Pacific, it’s at the behest of the home’s enigmatic female owner. She quickly seduces him, but their idyllic night is shattered by violence when the man is inexplicably attacked—bitten—by a beast he cannot see in the rural darkness. It will set in motion a terrifying yet seductive transformation that will propel Reuben into a mysterious new world and raise profound questions. Why has he been given the wolf gift? What is its true nature—good or evil? And are there others out there like him?

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Editorial Reviews

Review

“Vintage Anne Rice—a lushly written, gothic … metaphysical tale. This time, with werewolves.” —The Wall Street Journal

“I want to howl at the moon over this. . . . Rice’s style [is] as solid and engaging as anything she has written since her early vampire chronicle fiction.” —Alan Cheuse, The Boston Globe

“A fast-paced, heady romp that ranks with [Rice’s] best…. Feisty and terrific fun.” —Joy Tipping, Dallas Morning News

“Intoxicating.” —USA Today

“A delectable cocktail of old-fashioned lost-race adventure, shape-shifting and suspense, brightened by enticing hints of a secret history.” —Elizabeth Hand, The Washington Post

“One part Beauty and the Beast love story, one part meditation on morality and immortality, and one part superman tale…. Rice deepens and gives nuance to classic werewolf lore.” —The Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

“An entertaining tale of good vs. evil.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“Evolves from a fantastical romp into an engrossing thriller.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“Rice’s classic concerns regarding good and evil and shifting views of reality play out wonderfully in what will surely please fans and newcomers alike.” —Publishers Weekly

“The strange history of the Nideck family will jump off the page and enter the readers’ nightmares as Rice has found a new gothic saga to sink her teeth into.” —Bookreporter

“The queen of gothic lit, the maestro of the monstrous and the diva of the devious . . . has returned to her roots.” —The Philadelphia Inquirer

“The best Rice has written since … Interview with the Vampire. . . . Brilliant. . . .Wit-filled, languid and vibrant, brainy and snarling.” —The Globe and Mail (Toronto)

“Highly entertaining.” —The Washington Times

“Written with compelling modernity . . . The Wolf Gift is a strong—and welcome—return to the monster mythology that made Anne Rice famous.” —Shelf Awareness

About the Author

ANNE RICE is the author of thirty-seven books. She died in 2021.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I

Reuben was a tall man, well over six feet, with brown curly hair and deep-set blue eyes. “Sunshine Boy” was his nickname and he hated it; so he tended to repress what the world called an irresistible smile. But he was a little too happy right now to put on his studious expression, and try to look older than his twenty-three years.

He was walking up a steep hill in the fierce ocean wind with an exotic and elegant older woman named Marchent Nideck and he really loved all she was saying about the big house on the cliff. She was lean with a narrow beautifully sculpted face, and that kind of yellow hair that never fades. She wore it straight back from her forehead in a soft wavy swinging bob that curled under just above her shoulders. He loved the picture she made in her long brown knit dress and high polished brown boots.

He was doing a story for the San Francisco Observer on the giant house and her hopes of selling it now that the estate had at last been settled, and her great-uncle Felix Nideck had been declared officially dead. The man had been gone for twenty years, but his will had only just been opened, and the house had been left to Marchent, his niece.

They’d been walking the forested slopes of the property since Reuben arrived, visiting a ramshackle old guesthouse and the ruin of a barn. They’d followed old roads and old paths lost in the brush, and now and then come out on a rocky ledge above the cold iron-colored Pacific, only to duck back quickly into the sheltered and damp world of gnarled oak and bracken.

Reuben wasn’t dressed for this, really. He’d driven north in his usual “uniform” of worsted-wool blue blazer over a thin cashmere sweater, and gray slacks. But at least he had a scarf for his neck that he’d pulled from the glove compartment. And he really didn’t mind the biting cold.

The huge old house was wintry with deep slate roofs and diamond-pane windows. It was built of rough-faced stone, and had countless chimneys rising from its steep gables, and a sprawling conservatory on the west side, all white iron and glass. Reuben loved it. He’d loved it in the photographs online but nothing had prepared him for its solemn grandeur.

He’d grown up in an old house on San Francisco’s Russian Hill, and spent a lot of time in the impressive old homes of Presidio Heights, and the suburbs of San Francisco, including Berkeley, where he’d gone to school, and Hillsborough, where his late grandfather’s half-timber mansion had been the holiday gathering place for many a year. But nothing he had ever seen could compare to the Nideck family home.

The sheer scale of this place, stranded as it was in its own park, suggested another world.

“The real thing,” he’d said under his breath the moment he’d seen it. “Look at those slate roofs, and those must be copper gutters.” Lush green vines covered over half the immense structure, reaching all the way to the highest windows, and he’d sat in his car for a long moment, kind of pleasantly astonished and a little worshipful, dreaming of owning a place like this someday when he was a famous writer and the world beat too broad a path to his door.

This was turning out to be just a glorious afternoon.

It had hurt him to see the guesthouse dilapidated and unlivable. But Marchent assured him the big house was in good repair.

He could have listened to her talk forever. Her accent wasn’t British exactly, or Boston or New York. But it was unique, the accent of a child of the world, and it gave her words a lovely preciseness and silvery ring.

“Oh, I know it’s beautiful. I know it’s like no place else on the California coast. I know. I know. But I have no choice but to get rid of all of it,” she explained. “There comes a time when a house owns you and you know you have to get free of it, and go on with the rest of your life.” Marchent wanted to travel again. She confessed she’d spent precious little time here since Uncle Felix disappeared. She was headed down to South America as soon as the property was sold.

“It breaks my heart,” Reuben said. That was too damn personal for a reporter, wasn’t it? But he couldn’t stop himself. And who said he had to be a dispassionate witness? “This is irreplaceable, Marchent. But I’ll write the best story I can on the place. I’ll do my best to bring you a buyer, and I can’t believe it will take that long.”

What he didn’t say was I wish I could buy this place myself. And he’d been thinking about that very possibility ever since he’d first glimpsed the gables through the trees.

“I’m so glad the paper sent you, of all people,” she said. “You’re passionate and I like that so very much.”

For one moment, he thought, Yes, I’m passionate and I want this house, and why not, and when will an opportunity like this ever come again? But then he thought of his mother and of Celeste, his petite brown-eyed girlfriend, the rising star in the district attorney’s office, and how they’d laugh at the idea, and the thought went cold.

“What’s wrong with you, Reuben, what’s the matter?” asked Marchent. “You had the strangest look in your eye.”

“Thoughts,” he said, tapping his temple. “I’m writing the piece in my head. ‘Architectural jewel on the Mendocino coast, first time on the market since it was built.’ ”

“Sounds good,” she said. There was that faint accent again, of a citizen of the world.

“I’d give the house a name if I bought it,” said Reuben, “you know, something that captured the essence of it. Nideck Point.”

“Aren’t you the young poet,” she said. “I knew it when I saw you. And I like the pieces you’ve written for your paper. They have a distinct character. But you’re writing a novel, aren’t you? Any young reporter your age should be writing a novel. I’d be ashamed of you if you weren’t.”

“Oh, that’s music to my ears,” he confessed. She was so beautiful when she smiled, all the fine lines of her face seemingly so eloquent and pretty. “My father told me last week that a man of my age has absolutely nothing to say. He’s a professor, burnt out, I might add. He’s been revising his ‘Collected Poems’ for ten years, since he retired.” Talking too much, talking too much about himself, not good at all.

His father might actually love this place, he thought. Yes, Phil Golding was in fact a poet and he would surely love it, and he might even say so to Reuben’s mother who would scoff at the whole idea. Dr. Grace Golding was the practical one and the architect of their lives. She was the one who’d gotten Reuben his job at the San Francisco Observer, when his only qualification was a master’s in English literature and yearly world travel since birth.

Grace had been proud of his recent investigative pieces, but she’d cautioned that this “real estate story” was a waste of his time.

“There you go again, dreaming,” Marchent said. She put her arm around him and actually kissed him on the cheek as she laughed. He was startled, caught unawares by the soft pressure of her breasts against him and the subtle scent of a rich perfume.

“Actually, I haven’t accomplished one single thing in my life yet,” he said with an ease that shocked him. “My mother’s a brilliant surgeon; my big brother’s a priest. My mother’s father was an international real estate broker by the time he was my age. But I’m a nothing and a nobody, actually. I’ve only been with the paper six months. I should have come with a warning label. But believe me, I’ll make this a story you’ll love.”

“Rubbish,” she said. “Your editor told me your story on the Greenleaf murder led to the arrest of the killer. You are the most charming and self-effacing boy.”

He struggled not to blush. Why was he admitting all these things to this woman? Seldom if ever did he make self-deprecating statements. Yet he felt some immediate connection with her he couldn’t explain.

“That Greenleaf story took less than a day to write,” he murmured. “Half of what I turned up on the suspect never saw print at all.”

She had a twinkle in her eye. “Tell me—how old are you, Reuben? I’m thirty-eight. How is that for total honesty? Do you know many women who volunteer that they’re thirty-eight?”

“You don’t look it,” he said. And he meant it. What he wanted to say was You’re rather perfect, if you ask me. “I’m twenty-three,” he confessed.

“Twenty-three? You’re just a boy.”

Of course. “Sunshine Boy,” as his girlfriend Celeste always called him. “Little Boy,” according to his big brother, Fr. Jim. And “Baby Boy,” according to his mother, who still called him that in front of people. Only his dad consistently called him Reuben and saw only him when their eyes met. Dad, you should see this house! Talk about a place for writing, talk about a getaway, talk about a landscape for a creative mind.

He shoved his freezing hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the sting of the wind in his eyes. They were making their way back up to the promise of hot coffee and a fire.

“And so tall for that age,” she said. “I think you’re uncommonly sensitive, Reuben, to appreciate this rather cold and grim corner of the earth. When I was twenty-three I wanted to be in New York and Paris. I was in New York and Paris. I wanted the capitals of the world. What, have I insulted you?”

“No, certainly not,” he said. He was reddening again. “I’m talking too much about myself, Marchent. My mind’s on the story, never fear. Scrub oak, high grass, damp earth, ferns, I’m recording everything.”

“Ah yes, the fresh young mind and memory, nothing like it,” she said. “Darling, we’re going to spend two days together, aren’t we? Expect me to be personal. You’re ashamed of being young, aren’t you? Well, you needn’t be. And you’re distractingly handsome, you know, why you’re just about the most adorable boy I’ve ever seen in my entire life. No, I mean it. With looks like yours, you don’t have to be much of anything, you know.”

He shook his head. If she only knew. He hated it when people called him handsome, adorable, cute, to die for. “And how will you feel if they ever stop?” his girlfriend Celeste had asked him. “Ever think about that? Look, Sunshine Boy, with me, it’s strictly your looks.” She had a way of teasing with an edge, Celeste did. Maybe all teasing had an edge.

“Now, I really have insulted you, haven’t I?” asked Marchent. “Forgive me. I think all of us ordinary mortals tend to mythologize people as good-looking as you. But of course what makes you so remarkable is that you have a poet’s soul.”

They had reached the edge of the flagstone terrace.

Something had changed in the air. The wind was even more cutting. The sun was indeed dying behind the silver clouds and headed for the darkening sea.

She stopped for a moment, as if to catch her breath, but he couldn’t tell. The wind whipped the tendrils of her hair around her face, and she put a hand up to shelter her eyes. She looked at the high windows of the house as if searching for something, and there came over Reuben the most forlorn feeling. The loneliness of the place pressed in.

They were miles from the little town of Nideck and Nideck had, what, two hundred real inhabitants? He’d stopped there on the way in and found most of the shops on the little main street were closed. The bed-and-breakfast had been for sale “forever,” said the clerk at the gas station, but yes, you have cell phone and Internet connections everywhere in the county, no need to worry about that.

Right now, the world beyond this windswept terrace seemed unreal.

“Does it have ghosts, Marchent?” he asked, following her gaze to the windows.

“It doesn’t need them,” she declared. “The recent history is grim enough.”

“Well, I love it,” he said. “The Nidecks were people of remarkable vision. Something tells me you’ll get a very romantic buyer, one who can transform it into a unique and unforgettable hotel.”

“Now that’s a thought,” she said. “But why would anyone come here, in particular, Reuben? The beach is narrow and hard to reach. The redwoods are glorious but you don’t have to drive four hours from San Francisco to reach glorious redwoods in California. And you saw the town. There is nothing here really except Nideck Point, as you call it. I have a suffocating feeling sometimes that this house won’t be standing much longer.”

“Oh, no! Let’s not even think of that. Why, no one would dare—.”

She took his arm again and they moved on over the sandy flags, past his car, and towards the distant front door. “I’d fall in love with you if you were my age,” she said. “If I’d met anyone quite as charming as you, I wouldn’t be alone now, would I?”

“Why would a woman like you ever have to be alone?” he asked. He had seldom met someone so confident and graceful. Even now after the trek in the woods, she looked as collected and groomed as a woman shopping on Rodeo Drive. There was a thin little bracelet around her left wrist, a pearl chain, he believed they called it, and it gave her easy gestures an added glamour. He couldn’t quite tell why.

There were no trees to the west of them. The view was open for all the obvious reasons. But the wind was positively howling off the ocean now, and the gray mist was descending on the last sparkle of the sea. I’ll get the mood of all this, he thought. I’ll get this strange darkening moment. And a little shadow fell deliciously over his soul.

He wanted this place. Maybe it would have been better if they’d sent someone else to do this story, but they’d sent him. What remarkable luck.

“Good Lord, it’s getting colder by the second,” she said as they hurried. “I forget the way the temperature drops on the coast here. I grew up with it, but I’m always taken by surprise.” Yet she stopped once more and looked up at the towering façade of the house as though she was searching for someone, and then she shaded her eyes and looked out into the advancing mist.

Yes, she may come to regret selling this place terribly, he thought. But then again, she may have to. And who was he to make her feel the pain of that if she didn’t want to address it herself?

For a moment, he was keenly ashamed that he himself had the money to buy the property and he felt he should make some disclaimer, but that would have been unspeakably rude. Nevertheless, he was calculating and dreaming.

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Anchor; Reprint edition (January 29, 2013)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 528 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0307742105
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0307742100
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 13.4 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.18 x 1.08 x 8.02 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #191,704 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #5,358 in Romantic Fantasy (Books)
- #8,215 in Paranormal & Urban Fantasy (Books)
- #14,681 in Suspense Thrillers

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Anne Rice

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Anne Rice was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, which provided the backdrop for many of her famous novels. She was the author of more than 30 books, including her first novel, Interview with the Vampire, which was published in 1976. It has since gone on to become one of the best-selling novels of all time, and was adapted into a major motion picture starring Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Kirsten Dunst, and Antonio Banderas. In addition to The Vampire Chronicles, Anne was the author of several other best-selling supernatural series including Mayfair Witches, Queen of the Damned, the Wolf Gift, and Ramses the Damned. Under the pen name A.N. Roquelaure, Anne was the author of the erotic (BDSM) fantasy series, The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy. Under the pen name Anne Rampling she was the author of two erotic novels, Exit to Eden and Belinda. A groundbreaking artist whose work was widely beloved in popular culture, Anne had this to say of her work: "I have always written about outsiders, about outcasts, about those whom others tend to shun or persecute. And it does seem that I write a lot about their interaction with others like them and their struggle to find some community of their own. The supernatural novel is my favorite way of talking about my reality. I see vampires and witches and ghosts as metaphors for the outsider in each of us, the predator in each of us...the lonely one who must grapple day in and day out with cosmic uncertainty."

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Kelly Burkett

Not at all dissapointed

Reviewed in the United States on April 9, 2012

Verified Purchase

I am not Anne Rice's number one fan, I have not waited with baited breath for each and every book she has written, as a matter of fact, I have only read Interview with the Vampire. I remember reading interview when it was first published, in it Ann Rice had taken something mythical and brought it into the modern age like no one had ever done or could ever do. Vampires were more believable after interview and I began to see the author as being one of the best I had ever read. Why didn't I continue to read her work? Because I felt that she had reached perfection with interview and that any sequel would only water down her perfect vision. When I first heard that Ann Rice was writing a werewolf story, that story moved to the top of my to read list.

I opened The Wolf Gift expecting the author to do with werewolves what she had done with Vampires, I expected her to rejuvenate them, to add new life to an old tale, She did not accomplish this with The Wolf Gift. This is neither a retelling of the original myth or "new and improved" version. This story ( in my opinion) could have been told without any mention of a werewolf. We could have just as well read about young writer Ruben as he purchases an old mansion and discovers it's hidden secrets. The story could have been about a new vampire in which case the story may have been better received.

The author attempted to create a new species or werewolf that while not on the scale of "Sparkly Vampires" had a very similar effect on me as I read. There didn't seem to be any transformation between the happy youth and the killing beast, Ruben excepted the beast and it's murdering rage too easily. The werewolf in this book drives a car at one point and even uses a cell phone, this sounds idiotic but it works as well in this story as music from Queen and David Bowie worked in a Knights Tale. There was nothing in the story that didn't seem to fit other than the fact that everyone on the story has blue eyes without a tie in or explanation. The Characters weren't as well developed as I had hoped and I couldn't really identify with Ruben who seemed too young and yet acted too old to be very interesting, simply put, he was boring.

As I expected, Anne Rice's writing is better than I would have thought and her descriptions placed me right at the scene as if I were watching the events unfold before my eyes, I still feel that she is the most talented author that I have ever read. I can almost feel the mist on my face and smell the redwood as I stand on the balcony on my own room within the mansion. The descriptions of the creatures actions were magnificent but a little too short, I would have enjoyed more time with the beast and less time with Ruben. The mysteries within the house were enjoyable an I can imagine spending time in the secret rooms. The story ties up almost everything in the last two chapters but I didn't particularly enjoy the ending and I felt that the history of the werewolves to be a last minute add in.

In an earlier review someone refereed to this as a comfort read, I have never understood what a comfort read was before reading The Wolf Gift but I did find it a relaxing and comfortable read. This book is not an action packed horror with a werewolf killing everything in sight, it is a story about someone becoming a werewolf like creature who wants to use his abilities for good. The story draws you in, gets you comfortable and then slaps you in the face before offering you a nice Iced tea and a bit of Belgian Chocolate.

The Wolf Gift is a wonderful story about a werewolf who wants to do good, it is an adventure, a mystery and a romance all tied together. I am sure that the authors fans will enjoy it as well as true werewolf fans like myself but horror fans should probably move on to something else. Altogether I feel that this is worthy of Anne Rice and although it might not be the werewolf story I had hoped for, it is among the best I have ever read and deserving of the highest ratings and praise.

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Joshua Converse

Read this book.

Reviewed in the United States on April 25, 2012

Verified Purchase

On finishing Anne Rice's The Wolf Gift I had to step away. I had questions. I've read much of her fiction and asked myself if this was different. These werewolves are not just vampires who walk in daylight, nor are they a sort of shamanic Mayfair redux. They certainly aren't angels, or the Christ. Had she invented something new with Reuben Golding and his Man Wolf? To be sure there are echoes of past ideas, past books and past discussions.
It is a beautiful story. Almost saccharine in some places and brutal in others. The stylized Anne Rice dialogue remains, as ever, something both romantic and modern; natural and yet, paradoxically, it always leaves me saying to myself "No one talks this way in real life." There is action in this story, and myth-making, and beauty. There is love, and sex, and certainly violence. There is also a subtle kind of activism, a gentle observation of Rice's personal causes and perhaps her politics, such as gay rights, the environment and the stem cell debate.
I think the answer to my question is yes. Yes, this is something new. It is a considered, interesting, engaging approach to a genre. It is a meditation on the human condition, as all her books are. Perhaps all literary engagement with the supernatural is a method of engaging with the human condition. The story, and Reuben himself, is concerned with Good and Evil, Heaven and Earth (though perhaps not Hell) and in the existence of G-d. The Man Wolf is drawn to people crying out against malice and cruelty in The Wolf Gift. He is drawn to acts of violent evil and the stink of evil permeates those who perpetrate it. The question of whether this is a metaphysical judgment of innocence and guilt or merely hormonal response to the pheromones released in moments of aggression, fear, and hatred is never fully settled, but rather remains an open question and perhaps it should. The book doesn't preach or moralize, really, and at any rate not near any terribly controversial ground except perhaps among theologians and philosophers.
I found the climax a bit anticlimactic. The denouement was, perhaps, a bit forced. The ending definitely insinuates a sequel. There were moments where I found things to be just a bit too easy, a bit too convenient. Occasionally, sticky matters seem to be handled a bit too handily. Despite that, it's a fun and interesting book that captures the imagination and any flaws are very forgivable. The characters are rich and interesting, particularly the characters that haunt the book but whom we really only meet towards the end.
I will spoil nothing here, but the creation story of the "morphenkind" as they call themselves, is original and fascinating and every bit as seductive as Akasha ever was. What makes it different may be what makes Rice's writing different in this book: Akasha, when she rose to destroy all but a few of the men in the world in Queen of the Damned, was full of certainty and roiling gender feminism and violence. The Wolf Gift, on the other hand, is a book where those with the most knowledge are filled with the deepest doubts personally and metaphysically. It reminds me of Yeats' "The Second Coming", "the worst are filled with passionate intensity while the best lack all conviction." That may be a result of Rice having converted to and then walking away from the Catholic Church. It may be a discussion of what we all grapple with when we, as thinking people, examine beliefs that require faith alone. Reuben Golding's brother, Jim, is a Catholic priest and the interplay between them is, for me, cause for rumination. The rituals of the Church function almost legally, rather than mystically, during the course of the narrative. Jim's priesthood is a calling, to be sure, but perhaps to ethics rather than to a living G-d. This is a complaint often leveled at the Church which may be embodied in the sympathetic but ultimately tragic Jim Golding.
There is a heroine in this story, Laura, and her motivations are a bit of a mystery to me. She is painted as beautiful, scarred by tragedy, intelligent, strong and loyal. It never becomes clear to me why she responds as she does to otherwise frightening or horrifying situations that arise in the book. When first encountered she lives alone in the woods, the last survivor of a family tragically cut short. Her instant and complete love for Reuben is hard to understand and left me scratching my head. It is never explained, but at some point it must be taken for granted by the reader. Accepting her love and devotion to Reuben makes her decisions at the end of the book all the more puzzling, as is the tantalizingly unanswered question regarding her ultimate fate. I assume this is a matter with which the next book will concern itself, but I can't help but wonder if it's simply that Anne Rice has never really embraced her female characters as she has her men. She has, I think, loved them from a distance. Even Pandora, the vampire who got her own book of the same name, is not as vibrant as Marius, her maker. Gabrielle, Lestat's mother, disappears into the primeval forest and never again really assumes any narrative strength (though we can always hold out hope for another book). Perhaps Merrick was as adored a female character as Anne Rice's supernatural fiction has known, but I digress.
It was occasionally jarring for me that internet websites like Youtube and Facebook, technology such as Reueben's iPhone and television news featured so often and by name. This seemed out of place for something as gothic as werewolves. In time I got more comfortable with it, and in retrospect as we consider the project of the novel, these contemporary trappings with which most of us negotiate every day are really just a necessary element to telling a modern werewolf story.
Movies like "Wolf" with Jack Nicholson and "Teen Wolf" with Michael J. Fox, even "The Howling" were invoked directly. The old cliché of the werewolf having his first change and marveling in the bathroom mirror takes place early on. All this surprised me because it seemed so self-conscious of the author, aware that she was entering into something already a part of the popular culture and canonized by various other books and forms of media. Nevertheless, as obscure (and not so obscure) werewolf legendry and literature is mentioned during the progression of the story it feels more like these old ideas and images must be acknowledged if progress is going to be made in crafting a new mythology.
Finally, no review of this book would be complete without a discussion the house. The house in this story is another character. It is as mysterious and beautiful and perfect a house as any literary character in the history of good houses could ask for. Reuben Golding is supposed to be a very good-looking man and I suppose that means something a bit different to all of us but the images of the house were so clear and vibrant that it's the features of the house I'm left with at the end of the story, much more than any other physical description of any other character. The big beautiful house by the cliffs and set deep in the redwood forest is the place for werewolves. If I didn't think so before I do now, but it seems now so obvious that I must always have though so and not realized it. That's good writing.
I say read The Wolf Gift.
P.S. I had the good fortune to get my copy of The Wolf Gift signed by the author in San Francisco (appropriate for this book, I thought) during her book tour. She was concerned about any children that might be cold in the San Francisco evening and despite the line around the block asked that people with little ones come to the front of the line so the kids wouldn't catch a chill. Let it be known she is a kind, considerate person even when she doesn't have to be and I think that counts for a lot. I think it's something people should know about the artists they choose to support.

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Tamara Conrad

This was an awesome book

Reviewed in the United States on March 29, 2024

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It was exciting And very well written. The supernatural element to this book What's a perfect mix between good and evil. I thoroughly enjoyed it

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ms Carol Walden

Great reading

Reviewed in Australia on October 7, 2022

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A good light read from Anne Rice again. I have only finished the first book in this short series but fully intend to read the 2nd!
The characters are interesting with enough depth to get drawn in. The old mansion comes to life with her descriptive powers.

Kyau

狼男

Reviewed in Japan on February 19, 2022

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謎の動物にかまれて狼男になったリューベンの話。他の狼男や狼男を捕らえようとするロシア人科学者がでてきて、面白く読めました。

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J.H. Lergenmuller

Marvellous

Reviewed in France on September 18, 2016

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Old library book. In good condition.Another marvellous book by Anne Rice. I can recommend it to everybody. Nothing better than turning a real page.

Belén Algarra

Un baño de sangre

Reviewed in Spain on February 1, 2016

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Me ha gustado el detalle en la descripción de los ataques de lobo, la distinción que hace entre lo que no es ético para los seres humanos y lo que es simplemente natural en los animales. Me ha gustado cómo va empujando la historia hacia adelante, pero me ha desilusionado el final.

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Robin Hartman

Partial Review Of An Amazing Novel With Awesome Characters !

Reviewed in Canada on February 2, 2014

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I haven’t finished the entire novel, but so far I absolutely love every aspect of it.

I would like to start off saying this is the first Anne Rice novel i have had the pleasure of reading. The characters are extremely well written, and seem to take on a life of their own. The interaction between them is fluid and somewhat imperfect at the same time. Almost like their holding back from divulging what the other wants to hear, which is a good thing because a dialogue between two people; in real life, is not a linear thing that flows together with the goal of mutual interest. This is something alot of authors do. Their characters speak too perfectly allowing each party to interact together in a linear way, each saying exactly what is on their minds. Something normal humans do not do, they hold back, and keep pieces of information from the other for personal reasons that are affected by life experience and personality.

Miss Rice seems to take this into consideration when writing her characters. They hold a conversation together, but they hold back from speaking their minds, each not knowing the others intentions. The author then gives the reader insight into the minds of the characters. Altogether it makes the interactions between them authentic, adding to the exquisite experience that is The Wolf gift.

Something that i truly admire from Anne Rice is the way she describes so perfectly the scenery, emotions, thoughts of the beautiful universe she created while setting a vivid mood. This is something that i have trouble with while working on my own self published novella Children Of The Moon. It truly does create a very visual aspect to the words. Imagination is a big part of reading a book. The fact that Anne Rice has such a strong imagination and is able to apply it to the novel, allowing her readers to visualize almost exactly what she see’s while creating this universe is simply delightful. Some reviewers say that this is simply to fill up word count and thicken the novel. I personally believe that this is her style, it’s what lets all her readers be able to visualize the same universe, it creates a constant base visual that any reader can follow but allows each to have a variation of the same universe while maintaining the basic structure that Miss Rice depicted.

Since i purchased this novel from the Kindle store. I fell in love with every aspects of it. I cant wait to finish it, and be able to start reading the second installment! For Christmas I’m going to ask for a physical copy of the book, and hopefully get it signed by Miss Rice once she visits Montreal once again.

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