By Clive Barker

The paranormal story of ill-fated fans misplaced between worlds teetering at the fringe of destruction, the place their ardour holds the main to flee.

There hasn't ever been a ebook like Imajica. remodeling each expectation offantasy fiction with its heady mingling of radical sexuality and religious anarchy, it has carried its thousands of readers into areas of ardour and philosophy that few books have even tried to map. it really is an epic in each approach; titanic in belief, obsessively precise in execution, and apocalyptic in its answer. A e-book of erotic mysteries and perverse violence. A booklet of historic, mythological landscapes or even extra historic magic.

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Additional resources for Imajica (The Fifth Dominion, Book 1)

Sample text

The child was born. Light had come into the world again, even if it was to the accompaniment of tap-dancing elves. When they exited, there was sleet in the wind. “Cold, cold, cold,” Marlin said. ” He went back inside to join the line for the toilets, leaving Jude at the door, watching the blobs of wet snow pass through the lamplight. The theater was not large, and the bulk of the audience was out in a couple of minutes, umbrellas raised, heads dropped, darting off into the Village to look for their cars, or a place where they could put some drink in their systems and play critic.

He allowed himself one backward glance, then turned his heels to the task of flight. Though classically it was the light of day which showed a painter the deepest flaws in his handiwork, Gentle worked best at night: the instincts of a lover brought to a simpler art. In the week or so since he’d returned to his studio it had once again become a place of work: the air pungent with the smell of paint and turpentine, the burned-down butts of cigarettes left on every available shelf and plate. Though he’d spoken with Klein daily there was no sign of a commission yet, so he had spent the time reeducating himself.

Again, there was little to learn. Zacharias was a minor painter, when he wasn’t living off his mistresses, and reputedly a dissolute. Of this Estabrook had perfect proof when, by chance, he met the fellow. Gentle was as handsome as his legends suggested, but looked, Charlie thought, like a man just risen from a fever. There was something raw about him-his body sweated to its essence, his face betraying a hunger behind its symmetry-that lent him a bedeviled look. Half a week after that encounter, Charlie had heard that his beloved had parted from the man with great grief and was in need of tender care.

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