Mystery
![Laurie R. King - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_laurie_r_king.jpg)
Castle Shade: A novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes
A queen, a castle, a dark and ageless threat-all await Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes in this chilling adventure.
The queen is Marie of Roumania: the doubly royal granddaughter of Victoria, Empress of the British Empire, and Alexander II, Tsar of Russia. A famous beauty who was married at seventeen into Roumania's young dynasty, Marie had beguiled the Paris Peace Conference into returning her adopted country's long-lost provinces, singlehandedly transforming Roumania from a backwater into a force.
The castle is Bran: a tall, quirky, ancient structure perched on high rocks overlooking the border between Roumania and its newly regained territory of Transylvania. The castle was a gift to Queen Marie, a thank-you from her people, and she loves it as she loves her own children.
The threat is . . . well, that is less clear. Shadowy figures, vague whispers, the fears of girls, dangers that may be only accidents. But this is a land of long memory and hidden corners, a land that had known Vlad the Impaler, a land from whose churchyards the shades creep.
When Queen Marie calls, Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes are as dubious as they are reluctant. But a young girl is involved, and a beautiful queen. Surely it won't take long to shine light on this unlikely case of what would seem to be strigoi?
Or, as they are known in the West . . . vampires.
The queen is Marie of Roumania: the doubly royal granddaughter of Victoria, Empress of the British Empire, and Alexander II, Tsar of Russia. A famous beauty who was married at seventeen into Roumania's young dynasty, Marie had beguiled the Paris Peace Conference into returning her adopted country's long-lost provinces, singlehandedly transforming Roumania from a backwater into a force.
The castle is Bran: a tall, quirky, ancient structure perched on high rocks overlooking the border between Roumania and its newly regained territory of Transylvania. The castle was a gift to Queen Marie, a thank-you from her people, and she loves it as she loves her own children.
The threat is . . . well, that is less clear. Shadowy figures, vague whispers, the fears of girls, dangers that may be only accidents. But this is a land of long memory and hidden corners, a land that had known Vlad the Impaler, a land from whose churchyards the shades creep.
When Queen Marie calls, Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes are as dubious as they are reluctant. But a young girl is involved, and a beautiful queen. Surely it won't take long to shine light on this unlikely case of what would seem to be strigoi?
Or, as they are known in the West . . . vampires.
Editorial Reviews
"King smoothly slips in fascinating historical details about the life of Marie of Roumania, all the while keeping the plot galloping along at high speed. This is a treat for old fans and newcomers alike."-Publishers Weekly
"Highly recommend for historical mystery fans who have followed the series, as well as readers looking for historical heroines with agency such as Maisie Dobbs, Bess Crawford, or Phryne Fisher."-Library Journal (starred review)
"Each book in the Russell and Holmes series is a treat. . . . The novels are extremely atmospheric. . . . Kudos to Laurie King for keeping the legend [of Sherlock Holmes] alive with such entertaining novels, and Mary Russell keeping him on his toes."-Mystery & Suspense Magazine
"As per the customary quality of her work, Laurie R. King has imbued Castle Shade with all the creativity and intelligence deserving of a series that both immortalizes an ingenious, feminist heroine of her own making and continues the legacy of the astonishingly observant and eminently logical London gentleman whose name has become synonymous with detection."-BookTrib
"[Castle Shade] has everything you want in a book. . . . A good mystery, fun characters and a story you don't want to put down."-Red Carpet Crash
"Highly recommend for historical mystery fans who have followed the series, as well as readers looking for historical heroines with agency such as Maisie Dobbs, Bess Crawford, or Phryne Fisher."-Library Journal (starred review)
"Each book in the Russell and Holmes series is a treat. . . . The novels are extremely atmospheric. . . . Kudos to Laurie King for keeping the legend [of Sherlock Holmes] alive with such entertaining novels, and Mary Russell keeping him on his toes."-Mystery & Suspense Magazine
"As per the customary quality of her work, Laurie R. King has imbued Castle Shade with all the creativity and intelligence deserving of a series that both immortalizes an ingenious, feminist heroine of her own making and continues the legacy of the astonishingly observant and eminently logical London gentleman whose name has become synonymous with detection."-BookTrib
"[Castle Shade] has everything you want in a book. . . . A good mystery, fun characters and a story you don't want to put down."-Red Carpet Crash
Readers Top Reviews
VelyrhordeA. W. W
Homes and Russell are back! This time they are in... wait for it!... Transylvania! Ghosts, witches, vampires... oh my! Is there a plot against Queen Marie or not? Why was her daughter threatened if not to keep the queen from returning to her summer castle? And what mysterious goings-on have led her to summon the great Sherlock Holmes? Russell is less than pleased to be traveling to such an out-of-the-way location, but is somewhat mollified by the castle’s modern fixtures. When she and Homes start staying out at night to get to the bottom of the shenanigans, things go pear shaped quickly. Was Russell actually attacked by a vampire? Who has been sulking about the village leaving hex symbols and witch’s bags, not to mention poisoned corn for the village chickens? Trust our duo to get to the bottom of things, though it takes a bit of doing. Everyone in the village seems to be hiding something... If you haven’t read this excellent series yet, go buy The Beekeepers Apprentice now and get started! This is a stand-alone novel, but you really should read the rest of the series to get the feel of their relationship! Plus, it’s just a damn good read.
Mudala GVelyrhord
This work is one of depth, clearly the result of serious thought put into plot, careful crafting of her characters and their histories, and beautiful writing. The setting of Romania and its people is subtle and true to life; the historical Romanian personages represented with their mysteries and complexities. The portrayals of Holmes and Mary Russell give us reminders of their past sleuthing and their complex personalities, gratifying all of us who have followed their relationship and adventures. The fabric of this novel is rich, showing Laurie King to be a serious and talented writer. I pray her Russell and Holmes find their place in film, where a wide audience may grow to love them as her readers have.
Kindle Mudala GV
Chills, thrills, plot twists, and unexpected occurrences abound in this well-written adventure for Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes. In Transylvania, nothing is what it seems as the pair endeavor to solve a mystery for the owners of the castle in the title. No spoilers will be given here. Suffice it to say that I recommend reading this book in the bright white light of day. If you read it during the dark blackness of a stormy night, I refuse to be responsible for the results.
J. L. PedersenKin
This is a classic Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes novel, with a terrific setting in Transylvania. The sense that Russell has in the beginning of the book, that of one who has stepped into a fairy tale, is reinforced by occasional “once upon a time” stories that explain a characters place in the world. Very fun, and brilliant to set it in that most fairy tale of dark fictional settings. If you like her series, you will thoroughly enjoy this.
MarilisaMarishaKa
I am what you might call a series freak: I care more about characters and conversation than I do about plots. In many series whose characters I love, there comes a time when something feels off, and I am left dissatisfied. I felt that way after Pirate King, but I loved Garment of Shadows and have read it several times. So it didn’t feel like King was going downhill. What i suspect is that she became fascinated by Castle Bran, and wanted to set a novel there, and that’s what it is: a whole lot of description, and not much character. So I didn’t really like it. Mary feels too confused. I know she’s been through huge amounts of trauma, so maybe this is realistic, but it isn’t enjoyable for me. I don’t enjoy King’s other series—too sad and/or too gruesome for me. But I have enjoyed most of the Russell novels. And I only read novels for pleasure, so I doubt I will read this again.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
I ripped myself from the fever-dream somewhere west of Ljubliana.
My face was pressed up to a window, as it had been in the dream. Outside was the same mist-soaked night, the same eerie glow of a full moon.
I jerked upright and thrust out my hands, turning them over, back and front-but even in the near-dark, I could see they were perfectly clean. There were no red and dripping stains gloving the skin.
And no wolves, I thought, chasing after the smell of blood on my hands. The pack's vivid howls merged into the distant rise and fall of a passing train's whistle, while my horse-drawn carriage and its sinister driver became, reluctantly, an aged train compartment behind a steam-powered engine.
I shuddered to rid myself of the macabre sensations, then pulled the thin blanket back up around my shoulders, coughing as I patted around for my glasses. With them on my nose, menace retreated a step. Only a nightmare. Wolves and a carriage, triggered by our destination. The blood, though . . . I'd had the blood of two different dead men on my hands, these past months. Perhaps I should have anticipated the psychic toll.
I wiped ineffectually at the cracked window, trying to see where we were. Not a mysterious forest, thank goodness, but a railway station, with one dim light shining through the decorative iron braces of the platform roof. Silent and deserted.
How long had I been here? For that matter, where was here? My memories weren't entirely gone-I knew what that felt like-just . . . slow. Like pulling a boot from deep mud. Let me see: we had boarded the train in the Côte d'Azur. And we were headed to Roumania. The last station-marker I'd noticed was-Padua?
None of which helped much. I squinted at the rusty and ill-lit metal sign, decided that I had assembled as much information as I could without outside resources, tossed back the travelling rug-and only then realised that I was not alone in the compartment.
"Holmes, what are you-" I began, then dissolved into a fit of coughing, followed by an enormous sneeze. That knocked loose a recollection: the Murphy children, back in France, hacking and snuffling in all directions. "Sorry, I seem to have picked up a head-cold. And I think a fever-I had the most vivid dream, that I was in Jonathan Harker's coach at the start of Dracula. All the evil things in the world will have full sway-sorry, I'm babbling. But why are you sitting there in the dark? And where on earth are we? I can't even tell what language that sign is." Surely Italian didn't have that pepper-pot sprinkling of accents and subscript marks?
He stirred in his dark corner. His feet came down from the seat, his features coming into view as he leaned forward to look out of the window. "I believe that is Slovenian," he said, then retreated back into the shadows.
Slovenia. Edge of the Balkans, south of . . . everywhere. Next to Italy?
I sneezed again. This time his arm stretched out, offering a clean handkerchief. Sherlock Holmes always had a clean handkerchief. I used it, and again the pressure on my sinuses knocked forth a couple of ideas. First, that any question Holmes did not answer was generally more important than the one he did, and second, the fog I was looking through was not all on the outside.
"Good Lord, Holmes, are you trying to suffocate us?" I stood to wrestle with the window latch, no more able to smell the air than I could read the sign outside, but knowing that at least some of my dizziness was due to the dense smoke in my lungs. Heaven only knew how long he had been sitting there in the dark, mulling over some conundrum. By the looks of the compartment's atmosphere, it had been quite a five-pipe problem.
The stuff that billowed out into the night was thick enough to summon the fire services. I dropped onto my seat, coughing now with fresh air rather than stale fug.
With an exaggerated show of patience, Holmes put down his pipe and picked up the Italian newspaper from the seat beside him. He crossed his legs and switched on a reading lamp, to disappear behind the pages.
When the coughing spate passed, I tried again. "Slovenia is some way from Bucharest."
My husband and partner muttered something under his breath. The exiting air had ceased to look like a chimney, so I closed the window somewhat, scowled at the station-name that might have been spillage from a typesetter's tray, then turned on my companion a glare strong enough to burn a hole in the pages he was pretending to read. He raised the paper a little.
"How long have we been sitting here?" Another mutter. "How long?"
He gave up, folding the newspaper noisily into something resembling a rectangle, and took out his watch. "Not quite thre...
I ripped myself from the fever-dream somewhere west of Ljubliana.
My face was pressed up to a window, as it had been in the dream. Outside was the same mist-soaked night, the same eerie glow of a full moon.
I jerked upright and thrust out my hands, turning them over, back and front-but even in the near-dark, I could see they were perfectly clean. There were no red and dripping stains gloving the skin.
And no wolves, I thought, chasing after the smell of blood on my hands. The pack's vivid howls merged into the distant rise and fall of a passing train's whistle, while my horse-drawn carriage and its sinister driver became, reluctantly, an aged train compartment behind a steam-powered engine.
I shuddered to rid myself of the macabre sensations, then pulled the thin blanket back up around my shoulders, coughing as I patted around for my glasses. With them on my nose, menace retreated a step. Only a nightmare. Wolves and a carriage, triggered by our destination. The blood, though . . . I'd had the blood of two different dead men on my hands, these past months. Perhaps I should have anticipated the psychic toll.
I wiped ineffectually at the cracked window, trying to see where we were. Not a mysterious forest, thank goodness, but a railway station, with one dim light shining through the decorative iron braces of the platform roof. Silent and deserted.
How long had I been here? For that matter, where was here? My memories weren't entirely gone-I knew what that felt like-just . . . slow. Like pulling a boot from deep mud. Let me see: we had boarded the train in the Côte d'Azur. And we were headed to Roumania. The last station-marker I'd noticed was-Padua?
None of which helped much. I squinted at the rusty and ill-lit metal sign, decided that I had assembled as much information as I could without outside resources, tossed back the travelling rug-and only then realised that I was not alone in the compartment.
"Holmes, what are you-" I began, then dissolved into a fit of coughing, followed by an enormous sneeze. That knocked loose a recollection: the Murphy children, back in France, hacking and snuffling in all directions. "Sorry, I seem to have picked up a head-cold. And I think a fever-I had the most vivid dream, that I was in Jonathan Harker's coach at the start of Dracula. All the evil things in the world will have full sway-sorry, I'm babbling. But why are you sitting there in the dark? And where on earth are we? I can't even tell what language that sign is." Surely Italian didn't have that pepper-pot sprinkling of accents and subscript marks?
He stirred in his dark corner. His feet came down from the seat, his features coming into view as he leaned forward to look out of the window. "I believe that is Slovenian," he said, then retreated back into the shadows.
Slovenia. Edge of the Balkans, south of . . . everywhere. Next to Italy?
I sneezed again. This time his arm stretched out, offering a clean handkerchief. Sherlock Holmes always had a clean handkerchief. I used it, and again the pressure on my sinuses knocked forth a couple of ideas. First, that any question Holmes did not answer was generally more important than the one he did, and second, the fog I was looking through was not all on the outside.
"Good Lord, Holmes, are you trying to suffocate us?" I stood to wrestle with the window latch, no more able to smell the air than I could read the sign outside, but knowing that at least some of my dizziness was due to the dense smoke in my lungs. Heaven only knew how long he had been sitting there in the dark, mulling over some conundrum. By the looks of the compartment's atmosphere, it had been quite a five-pipe problem.
The stuff that billowed out into the night was thick enough to summon the fire services. I dropped onto my seat, coughing now with fresh air rather than stale fug.
With an exaggerated show of patience, Holmes put down his pipe and picked up the Italian newspaper from the seat beside him. He crossed his legs and switched on a reading lamp, to disappear behind the pages.
When the coughing spate passed, I tried again. "Slovenia is some way from Bucharest."
My husband and partner muttered something under his breath. The exiting air had ceased to look like a chimney, so I closed the window somewhat, scowled at the station-name that might have been spillage from a typesetter's tray, then turned on my companion a glare strong enough to burn a hole in the pages he was pretending to read. He raised the paper a little.
"How long have we been sitting here?" Another mutter. "How long?"
He gave up, folding the newspaper noisily into something resembling a rectangle, and took out his watch. "Not quite thre...
