By Dennis Wheatley
First released in 1934, Black August is decided in a terrifying destiny Europe at the brink; monetary breakdown and revolution, civilian panic, street-fighting and an out of control exodus from the towns to the geographical region, the place bands of ravenous humans wander, pillaging for food.
Out of the fear and the bloodshed steps the previous British undercover agent Gregory Sallust, to take the management of a gaggle of fellows and ladies looking purely to outlive: to steer them via sour problem and bad possibility to a rural payment which they improve opposed to invasion, and which, before everything, turns out kind of secure...
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Extra info for Black August (Gregory Sallust, Book 10)
My body felt a staggering wave of relief. “Too late,” I said. ” I could feel the host’s reaction to this—could feel it much too strongly. The host was almost… smug. I allowed the words she thought to be spoken, so that I could learn from them. ” The Seeker pounced on the pronoun. ” The black wall slammed down with more force than she’d used before. She was the tiniest fraction of a second too late. Again, the face filled my mind. The beautiful face with the golden tan skin and the light-flecked eyes.
It seared with sharp color and ringing sound. Cold on her skin, pain gripping her limbs, burning them. The taste was fiercely metallic in her mouth. And there was the new sense, the fifth sense I’d never had, that took the particles from the air and transformed them into strange messages and pleasures and warnings in her brain—scents. They were distracting, confusing to me, but not to her memory. The memory had no time for the novelties of smell. The memory was only fear. Fear locked her in a vise, goading the blunt, clumsy limbs forward but hampering them at the same time.
The walls were light green—a calming color, but also the color of sickness. A poor choice, in my quickly formed opinion. The people facing me were more interesting than the room. The word doctor sounded in my mind as soon as my eyes fastened on the Healer. He wore loose-fitting blue green clothes that left his arms bare. Scrubs. He had hair on his face, a strange color that my memory called red. Red! It had been three worlds since I had seen the color or any of its relatives. Even this gingery gold filled me with nostalgia.