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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
