Winds of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

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      BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS

      The Astral: Till the Day I Die

      Avalon: An Historical Novel

      The C.A.M.P. Cookbook

      The C.A.M.P. Guide to Astrology

      Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions

      Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.

      The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror

      Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror

      The Daughters of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #2)

      The Devil’s Dance: A Novel of Terror

      Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde

      The Earth and All It Holds: An Historical Novel

      A Family Affair: A Novel of Terror

      Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Horror

      Fire on the Moon: A Novel of Terror

      The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.

      The Gay Haunt

      The Glass House: A Novel of Terror

      The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror

      Goodbye, My Lover

      The Greek Boy

      The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)

      Green Willows: A Novel of Terror

      Kenny’s Back

      Life & Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings

      The Lion’s Gate: A Novel of Terror

      Love’s Pawn: A Novel of Romance

      Lucifer’s Daughter: A Novel of Horror

      Moon Garden: A Novel of Terror

      Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #1)

      The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)

      San Antone: An Historical Novel

      The Scent of Heather: A Novel of Terror

      The Second House: A Novel of Terror

      The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)

      Shadows of Nightsong (Nightsong Saga #4)

      The Sins of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #3)

      Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer

      Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense

      Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance

      The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel

      This Splendid Earth: An Historical Novel

      The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)

      Twisted Flames

      The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.

      A Westward Love: An Historical Romance

      White Jade: A Novel of Terror

      The Why Not

      Winds of Nightsong (Nightsong Saga #5)

      The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance

      The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1985 by Ben All, Inc.

      Originally published under the title, Winds of Moonsong.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.

      And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.

      CHAPTER ONE

      San Francisco, California—1912

      As full as her life had once been, Lydia now felt empty. She reached for her brandy glass and gazed at the amber liquid which had become her friend of late. The delicate etching in the bowl of the Waterford goblet glinted enticingly in the light from the fireplace. She knew she had been drinking far too much these past months; but since Peter’s death, brandy seemed to deaden the pain—or did it intensify it?

      “Lydia Nightsong,” she sighed, resting her head against the back of the chair and swirling the brandy slowly, watching the colors melt and flow. “Nightsong...what a strange name.” For a moment she couldn’t remember how she’d come by the name. Of course it was no more strange than that of the overbearing Ima Hogg of San Francisco society, nor as insipid and frivolous as Ima’s friend Charity Faire.

      “Nightsong,” she said again. “Oh yes.” She closed her eyes and saw the simple little painting some Chinese artist, perhaps centuries ago, had painted on the wall of Peter MacNair’s hut in that remote Chinese village. She saw it so clearly. There was a branch of a plum tree, in full blossom, and a bird on the branch singing to a golden crescent moon. Now, as so often before, she felt she had only to listen to hear the nightingale’s song and catch the pale flowers’ fragrant scent.

      “So long ago,” Lydia said. She took another sip of the brandy, remembering that night and the little bird singing to the moon, that night she’d so willingly given herself to Peter.

      “Peter,” she said to the near-empty brandy glass, and the tears came in a rush. Dead. They were all dead, as dead as her own life felt now.

      Lydia turned her head when she heard the door to her sitting room open. “Who is it?” she snapped, annoyed by the intrusion.

      “Mother? You really shouldn’t be sitting here alone in the dark,” her son said as he came over to her chair and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

      She shrugged it off. “I prefer to be alone, Leon.”

      “You’re too much alone,” he answered sharply. “You are not doing yourself or anyone else any good by locking yourself away and trying to crawl inside that damned brandy bottle. Good God, Mother, what would your tony friends say if they knew?”

      “To the devil with those Nob Hill snobs. They never liked me anyway, nor I them. I was only accepted because of my wealth and influence.” Angrily she drained the glass and reached for the bottle that sat on the table next to her chair.

      Leon took the bottle out of her hand. “I think you’ve had quite enough.”

      She glared at him and grabbed it back. “Don’t you dare dictate to me, young man.”

      He smiled. “Young man? Dear heavens, Mother. I’m thirty-eight-years old, which is hardly young.”

      Lydia splashed more brandy into her glass. “Thirty-eight,” she sighed. “Have the years gone by as quickly as that? I feel I’ve lived two hundred years.”

      “Only fifty-eight,” Leon answered with a grin. “And still an extremely beautiful woman. If you put your mind to it, you’d easily catch another husband.”

      Lydia sniffed. “I’ve had my share of those.” She reached for his hand. “I have you, darling, and April and my grandchildren. That’s enough to satisfy me.” She turned her head. “Is April in her room?”

      “Yes. She’s asleep. I’m worried about her, Mother. Isn’t there anything we can do? Perhaps one of those psychiatrists?”

      “No,” Lydia said firmly. “In her mind your sister is where she wants to be, back in her old world where she was once so happy.”

      “I was