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Of Love and Evil (Songs of the Seraphim, Book 2) Hardcover – Deckle Edge, November 30, 2010

by Anne Rice (Author)

4.5 592 ratings

Book 2 of 2: The Songs of the Seraphim

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The second book in nationally bestselling Songs of the Seraphim series is a gripping metaphysical thriller in which angels partner up with assassins, from the author of Interview with the Vampire.

Barely recovered from his previous divine mission, former contract killer Toby O'Dare is once again summoned by the angel Malchiah to investigate the poisoning of a prominent nobleman and stop the haunting of a diabolical dybbuk. Together, they travel back to fifteenth-century Italy—the age of Michelangelo, the Holy Inquisition, and Pope Leo X—and this time Malchiah has Toby pose as a lute player sent to charm and calm this troublesome spirit. But Toby soon discovers that he is in the midst of plots and counterplots, surrounded on all sides by increasingly dangerous threats as the veil of ecclesiastical terror closes in around him.

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Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

In Rice's slim second Songs of the Seraphim novel (after Angel Time), the angel Malchiah whisks ex-contract killer Toby O'Dare back to 16th-century Rome, where Toby must save Vitale de Leone, a young Jewish physician who's been implicated in the poisoning of his gentile master and accused of bringing a poltergeist-like dybbuk into the household. Toby resolves both problems efficiently, but tragedy ensues, shaking his faith and leaving him vulnerable to powers of evil lying in wait to exploit his weakness. Toby's life back in modern times also grows complicated with the sudden appearance of an ex-lover and the son he never knew, neither of whom he can share his angelic interventions with. Though the plot is surprisingly similar to that of its predecessor, Rice's fans will easily succumb to the charm of her lapidary prose and a cliffhanger ending that sets up the next book in the series. 200,000 first printing. (Dec.) (c)
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

From Booklist

Toby O’Dare, the assassin who started on the path to redemption in Angel Time (2009), continues his quest for salvation. He has just learned that he’s the father of a 10-year-old boy and is nervously awaiting the arrival of his former lover, Liona, and their son at the Mission Inn in California. He longs to be a part of the boy’s life and to rekindle his relationship with Liona, but he is summoned on another time-traveling errand of mercy by the angel Malchiah. This time Toby is transported to fifteenth-century Rome to respond to the prayer of a Jewish physician named Vitale, whose best friend and patient, Niccolò, has clearly been poisoned. Given the city’s virulent anti-Semitism, Vitale is at risk if the real culprit isn’t discovered. In addition to helping Vitale save Niccolò, Toby must discover the origins of an angry spirit that is haunting the house Vitale lives in. Toby is surprised by the dangers he faces in a story shaped by Catholic doctrine. Readers who enjoy Rice’s larger-than-life tales and elegant writing will find much to appreciate here, and the cliff-hanger ending will leave fans eager for the next installment. --Kristine Huntley

Review

"Ghosts and angels aside, Of Love and Evil transcends the metaphysical thriller label through its grounding in historical fact...[Toby’s] sense of wonder proves infectious for the reader as well...[Rice] not only explores a battle against evil, but asks what it means to be evil and who gets to define it. Above all, Of Love and Evil is simply good entertainment."
—Carmela Ciuraru, The Boston Globe

"Rice tells a good story, nicely balancing the profound and the profane."
—Judith Chettle, Richmond Times-Dispatch

"Rice knows how to tell a story, and this one’s a lot of fun. . . Rice’s knock-your-socks-off cliffhanger ending leaves no doubt that this series has wings."

—People magazine (3½ stars out of 4)

"Rice is remarkable in her ability to breathe life into another place, another time."
—The Associated Press

"Present, as always, is the author’s ability to craft dreamlike prose to lull readers into believing every heavenly scenario she puts forth without a whiff of disbelief."
—Andrea Hoag, The Denver Post

“A bullet of a book—and an absolute bull’s eye.”

—Kirkus (starred)

“Readers who enjoy Rice’s larger-than-life tales and elegant writing will find much to appreciate here, and the cliff-hanger ending will leave fans eager for the next installment.”

—Kristine Huntley, Booklist

About the Author

ANNE RICE is the author of thirty-seven books. She died in 2021.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

I DREAMED A DREAM OF ANGELS. I SAW THEM AND I heard them in a great and endless galactic night. I saw the lights that were these angels, flying here and there, in streaks of irresistible brilliance, and some as great as comets which seemed to draw so close the fire might devour me, and yet I felt no heat. I felt no danger. I felt no self.

I felt love around me in this vast and seamless realm of sound and light. I felt intimately and completely known. I felt beloved and held and part of all I saw and heard. And yet I knew I deserved nothing of it, nothing. And something akin to sadness swept me up and mingled my very essence with the voices who sang, because the voices were singing of me.

I heard the voice of Malchiah rise high and brilliant and immense as he said that I must now belong to him, that I must now go with him. That he had chosen me as his companion and I must do what he would have me do. How strong and brilliant was his voice rising higher and higher. Yet there came against him a smaller voice, tender, lustrous, that sang of my life on earth and what I had to do; it sang of those who needed me and loved me; it sang of common things and common dreams, and pitted these with faultless courage against the great things which Malchiah sought to do.

Oh, that such a mingling of themes could be so very magnificent and this music should surround and enfold me as if it were a palpable and loving thing. I lay upon the breast of this music, and I heard Malchiah triumph as he claimed me, as he declared that I was his very own. The other voice was fading but not conceding. The other voice would never concede. The other voice had its own beauty and it would go on singing forever as it was singing now.

Other voices rose; or they had been there all the while. Other voices sang all around me and of me, and these voices vied with angelic voices as though answering them across a fathomless vault. It was a weave, these voices, angelic and other, and I knew suddenly that these were voices of people praying, praying for me. They were people who had prayed before and would pray after and in the far future and would always pray, and all these voices had to do with what I might become, of what I might be. Oh, sad, small soul that I was, and how very grand was it, this burning world in which I found myself, a world that makes the very word itself meaningless as all boundaries and all measures disappear.

There came to me the blessed knowledge that every living soul was the subject of this celebration, of this infinite and ceaseless chorus, that every soul was loved as I was loved, known now as I was known.

How could it not be? How could I, with all my failures, all my bitter losses, be the only one? Oh, no, the universe was filled with souls woven into this triumphant and glorious song.

And all were known and loved as I was known and loved. All were known as even their prayers for me became part of their own glorious unfolding within this endless and golden weave.

“Don’t send me away. Don’t send me back. But if you must, let me do your Will, let me do it with all my heart,” I prayed, and I heard my own words become as fluid as the music that surrounded me and sustained me. I heard my own particular and certain voice. “I love You. I love You who made all things and gave us all things and for You I will do anything, I will do what it is You want of me. Malchiah, take me. Take me for Him. Let me do His Will!”

Not a single word was lost in this great womb of love that surrounded me, this vast night that was as bright as day. For neither day nor night mattered here, and both were blended and all was perfect, and the prayers rising and rising, and overlapping, and the angels calling were all one firmament to which I completely surrendered, to which I completely belonged.

Something changed. Still I heard the plaintive voice of that angel pleading for me, reminding Malchiah of all that I was to do. And I heard Malchiah’s gentle reproof and ultimate insistence, and I heard the prayers so thick and wondrous that it seemed I would never need a body again to live or love or think or feel.

Yet something changed. The scene shifted.

I saw the great rise of the Earth beneath me and I drifted downwards feeling a slow but certain and aching chill. Let me stay, I wanted to plead, but I didn’t deserve to stay. It was not my time to stay, and I had to feel this inevitable separation. Yet what opened now before me wasn’t the Earth of my expectations but vast fields of wheat blowing golden under a sky more vivid in the brightening sun than I had ever beheld. Everywhere I looked I saw the wildflowers, “the lilies of the field,” and I saw their delicacy and their resilience as the force of the breeze bent them to and fro. This was the wealth of the Earth, the wealth of its blowing trees, the wealth of its gathering clouds.

“Dear God, never to be away from you, never to wrong you, never to fail you in faith or in heart,” I whispered, “for this, all this you have given me, all this you have given us.”

And there followed on my whisper an embrace so close, so total, that I wept with my whole soul.

The fields grew vague and large and a golden emptiness enveloped the world and I felt love embracing me, holding me, as if I were being cradled by it, and the flowers shifted and turned into masses of colors I couldn’t describe. The very presence of colors we did not know struck me deep and rendered me helpless. Dear God, that you love us so very much.

Shapes were gone. Colors had detached themselves effortlessly from shapes, and the light itself was rolling now as if it were a soft and consuming smoke.

There appeared a corridor and I had the distinct impression, in words, that I had passed through it. And now, down the long corridor there came to me the tall slender figure of Malchiah, clothed as he always was, a graceful figure, like that of a young man.

I saw his soft dark hair, his oval face. I saw his simple dark suit with its narrow lines.

I saw his loving eyes, and then his slow and fluid smile. I saw him reach out to me with both arms.

“Beloved,” he whispered. “I need you once again. I will need you countless times. I will need you till the end of time.”

It seemed then the other voices sang from their hearts, in protest, in praise, I couldn’t tell.

I wanted to hold him. I wanted to beg him to let me stay just a little while more with him here. Take me again into the realm of the lamps of Heaven. I wanted to cry. I had never known as a child how to cry. And now as an adult, I did it repeatedly, awake and in dreams.

Malchiah came on steadily as though the distance between us was far greater than I had supposed.

“You’ve only a couple of hours before they come,” he said, “and you want to be ready.”

I was awake.

The morning sun flooded the windows.

The noise of traffic rose from the streets.

I was in the Amistad Suite, in the Mission Inn, and I was sitting back against a nest of pillows, and Malchiah sat, collected and calm, in one of the wing chairs near the cold stone fireplace and he said again to me that Liona and my son would soon come.

CHAPTER TWO
A CAR WAS GOING TO PICK THEM UP FROM THE Los Angeles airport and bring them straight to the Mission Inn. I’d told her I’d meet her under the campanario, that I’d have a suite for her and for Toby—that was my son’s name—and that I’d take care of everything.

But I still didn’t believe she’d really come. How could she come?

I’d disappeared out of her life, in New Orleans, ten years ago, leaving her seventeen and pregnant, and now I was back via a phone call from the West Coast, and when I’d found out she wasn’t married, not even engaged, not even living with someone, when I’d found that out, I’d almost passed out on the spot.

Of course I couldn’t tell her that an angel named Malchiah told me I had a son. I couldn’t tell her what I’d been doing both before and after I met that angel, and I couldn’t tell her when or how I might see her again.

I couldn’t explain either that the angel was giving me time to see her now, before I went off on another assignment for him, and when she agreed to fly out here to see me, to bring my son, Toby, with her, well, I’d been in a sustained state of jubilation and disbelief.

“Look, the way my father feels about you,” she’d said, “it’s easier for me to fly to the West Coast. And of course I’ll bring your son to see you. Don’t you think he wants to know who his father is?”

She was still living with her father, apparently, old Dr. Carpenter, as I had called him back then, and it didn’t surprise me that I had earned his contempt and scorn. I’d crept off with his daughter into the family guesthouse, and never dreamed all these years that she’d had a child as the result.

The point is: they were coming.

Malchiah went down with me to the front walk. It was perfectly plain to me that other people could see him, but he looked entirely normal, as he always did, a man of my height, and dressed in a three-piece suit pretty much like my own. Only his was gray silk. Mine was khaki. His shirt had a sheen to it, and mine was a workingman’s blue shirt, starched, pressed and finished off with a dark blue tie.

He looked to me rather like a perfect human being, his wondering eyes drifting over the flowers and the high palms against the sky as if he was savoring everything. He even seemed to feel the breeze and to glory a little in it.

“You’re an hour early,” he said.

“I know. I can’t sit still. I feel better if I just wait here.”

He nodded as though that was perfectly reasonable when in fact it was ridiculous.

“She’s going to ask what I’ve been doing all this time,” I said. “What do I say to her?”

“You’ll say only what’s good for her and for your son,” he answered. “You know that.”

“Yes, I do,” I conceded.

“Upstairs, on your computer,” he said, “there’s a long document you wrote called ‘Angel Time.’?”

“Yes, well, I wrote that when I was waiting for you to come to me again. I wrote down everything that happened on my first assignment.”

“That was good,” he said, “a form of meditation and it worked well. But Toby, no one must read that document, not now, and maybe not ever.”

I should have known this. I felt a little crestfallen but I understood. With embarrassment I thought of how proud I’d been to recount my first mission for the angels. I’d even boasted to The Right Man, my old boss, that I had changed my life, that I was writing about it, that maybe someday he’d find my real name in the bookstores. As if he cared, the man who’d sent me as Lucky the Fox to kill over and over again. Ah, such pride, but then, in all my adult life, I’d never done anything before to be proud of. And The Right Man was the only person in this world with whom I had regular conversations. That is, until I had met Malchiah.

“Children of the Angels come and go as we do,” Malchiah said, “only seen by a few, unseen and unheeded by others.”

I nodded.

“Is that what I am now, a Child of the Angels?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “That’s what you are. Remember it.”

With that he was gone.

And I was left realizing I had some fifty minutes to wait for Liona.

Maybe I’d take a little walk, have a soda in the bar, I didn’t know. I only knew suddenly I was happy, and I was.

As I thought about this, I turned around, and looked towards the doors of the lobby, but for no particular reason. I saw a figure there, to one side of the doors, a figure of a young man, who stood with arms folded, leaning against the wall, staring at me. He was as vivid as anything around him, a tall man like Malchiah, only with reddish blond hair, and larger blue eyes, and he wore a khaki suit identical to my own. I turned my back on him to avoid his fixed stare, and then I realized how unlikely it was that the guy should be wearing a suit exactly like mine, and staring at me like that, with an expression that was just short of anger. No, it hadn’t been anger.

I turned back. He was still staring. It was concern, not anger.

You’re my guardian angel!

He gave me a near-imperceptible nod.

A remarkable sense of well-being came over me. My anxiety melted away. I’ve heard your voice! I’ve heard you with the other angels. I was fascinated and oddly comforted, and all of this in a split second.

A little crowd of guests came out of the lobby doors, passing in front of this figure, and obscuring him, and as they turned left to go along another path, I realized he had disappeared.

My heart was skipping. Had I seen all this correctly? Had he really been staring at me, and had he nodded to me?

My mental picture of this was fading rapidly. Someone had been standing there, yes, of course, but there was no way now to check what had happened, to submit it to any kind of analysis.

I put it out of my mind. If he was my guardian, what was he doing but guarding me? And if he wasn’t, if he’d been someone else, well, what was that to me? My memory of this continued to fade. And of course, I’d settle the whole matter with Malchiah later. Malchiah would know who he was. Malchiah was with me. Oh, we are creatures of such little faith.

An extraordinary contentment filled me suddenly. You are a Child of the Angels, I thought, and the angels are bringing Liona and her son, your son, to you.

I took a long walk around the Mission Inn, thinking what a perfect cool California day it was, passing all my favorite fountains and chapel doorways and patios and curios and other such things, and it was just time then for her to have come.

I returned to the far end of the walkway, near the doors to the lobby, and I waited for two likely people to start up the path and then pause under the low arched campanario with its many bells.

I couldn’t have been there for longer than five minutes, pacing, looking around, checking my watch, moving in and out of the lobby now and then, when suddenly I realized that amid the steady flow of foot traffic along the path, there were two people standing right beneath the bells as I had asked those two people to do.

For a moment I thought my heart would stop.

I’d expected her to be pretty because she’d been pretty when she was a girl, but that had been the bud to this, the radiant flower, and I didn’t want to do anything except stare at her, to drink in the woman she’d become.

She was only twenty-seven. Even I at twenty-eight knew that’s not very old, but she had a womanly manner about her, and she was dressed in the most becoming and most finished way.

She wore a red suit, fitted at the waist and flaring over her narrow hips, with a short flared skirt that just covered her knees. Her pink blouse was open at her throat and there she wore a simple string of pearls. There was a tiny bit of pink handkerchief in her breast pocket, and her purse was patent leather pink, and so were her graceful high-heeled shoes.

What a picture she was in those clothes.

Her long full black hair was loose over her shoulders, with only some of it drawn back from her clear forehead and fixed perhaps with a barrette, the way she’d done it when she was a girl.

A sense came over me that I would remember her this way forever. It didn’t matter what would happen next or hereafter. I would simply never forget the way she looked now, so gorgeous in red, with her full and girlish black hair.

In fact a passage came to me from a film, and it’s one that many people love. It’s from the film Citizen Kane, and an old man named Bernstein speaks the passage as he reflects on memory and how things can strike us that we see for no more than a few seconds. In his case, he’s describing a young woman he once glimpsed on a passing ferryboat. “A white dress she had on,” he says, “and she was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second and she didn’t see me at all, but I’ll bet a month has not gone by since that I haven’t thought of that girl.”

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ 1400043549
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Knopf; First Edition (November 30, 2010)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 192 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 9781400043545
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1400043545
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 13.2 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.81 x 0.88 x 9.64 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #804,765 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #1,440 in Metaphysical & Visionary Fiction (Books)
- #21,792 in Paranormal & Urban Fantasy (Books)
- #37,025 in Suspense Thrillers

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4.5 592 ratings

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Anne Rice

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Anne Rice was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, which provided the backdrop for many of her famous novels. She was the author of more than 30 books, including her first novel, Interview with the Vampire, which was published in 1976. It has since gone on to become one of the best-selling novels of all time, and was adapted into a major motion picture starring Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Kirsten Dunst, and Antonio Banderas. In addition to The Vampire Chronicles, Anne was the author of several other best-selling supernatural series including Mayfair Witches, Queen of the Damned, the Wolf Gift, and Ramses the Damned. Under the pen name A.N. Roquelaure, Anne was the author of the erotic (BDSM) fantasy series, The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy. Under the pen name Anne Rampling she was the author of two erotic novels, Exit to Eden and Belinda. A groundbreaking artist whose work was widely beloved in popular culture, Anne had this to say of her work: "I have always written about outsiders, about outcasts, about those whom others tend to shun or persecute. And it does seem that I write a lot about their interaction with others like them and their struggle to find some community of their own. The supernatural novel is my favorite way of talking about my reality. I see vampires and witches and ghosts as metaphors for the outsider in each of us, the predator in each of us...the lonely one who must grapple day in and day out with cosmic uncertainty."

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NobleLorre

Rice at the peak of her powers!

Reviewed in the United States on December 6, 2010

Verified Purchase

"I dreamed a dream of angels. I saw them and heard them in a great and endless galactic night. I saw the light that these were angels, flying here and there, in streaks of irrisistible brilliance, and some as great as comets which seemed to draw so close the fire might devour me, and yet I felt no heat. I felt no danger. I felt no self." ~

This is the eloquent opening of Anne Rice's new novel, "Of Love and Evil." It is the second book in her "Songs of the Seraphim" series (the first being "Angel Time.")

In this tale Rice's main protagonist, former hit man Toby O'Dare, is summoned once again by the angel Malchiah and transported back into the past to fifteenth century Rome, to the land and time of Michelangelo, of Raphael, of Pope Leo X, of the Medicis. To a time of high drama and strife in both public and personal lives. It is Toby's charge this time to investigate the case of the accused Vitale, a jewish man living in the house of the wealthy gentile Antonio. One of Antonio's sons, Niccolo, is mortally ill, dying a slow, miserable death, with Vitale suspected of being the culprit because of his jewishness. Also during this same period the house is undergoing a mighty metaphysical disturbance by an outraged dybbuk-a dislocated spirit, or "ghost," for want of a better term. It is up to Toby to unravel these duel (connected?) mysteries, the true cause of Niccolo's illness and to find the resolution of the rampaging dybbuk.

It's difficult to proceed much further with this plot without giving away too much info, i.e. "spoilers," as others have already done. Among the many enthralling things you should know about this superb book is that Rice, in her shortest novel yet, manages to incorporate a riveting mystery thriller within a finely woven, dramatic tale which themes rich with action, philosophical question on life, love, spirituality, history and prejudice. The expert conciseness rendered with her second book on the early life of Jesus, "Road to Cana," is even more evident here.

Anne Rice deftly weaves a tale which rings with an authentic tone that is appropriately "biblical." A chief feature in the plot is the relationship between Niccolo and his brother. Also, the method chose by the would be killer, poisoning, is a fascinating plot device. It takes a certain kind of killer-and says much about them-to choose poison as their means of murder. They don't extinguish their victim in an instant with a single, severe blow or with a knife to the throat, as they could. Instead they systematically administer exact dosages of poison over a period of time. This not only gives the appearance of the victim as dying of a lingering illness, but also allows the murderer the opportunity to stand in the shadows and and witness the deadly plot as it unfolds.
Few acts could be more chilling...

A huge factor in Rice's angel chronicles, and especially here, thematically in "Of Love and Evil," is the notion that evil, or sin-severe wrongs perpetrated against innocents, crimes, prejudicial acts, etc., make a lasting mark that never fades until there is some sort of resolution. No redemption can be achieved unless and until the evil act is directly addressed and dealt with, made right. Not until there is resolution and redemption the victim of the evil act lives on in relentless fury. The spirit-or dybbuk of this tale, is angry. Is it ever! And with reason. Redemption must be earned. It cannot be simply bestowed without resolution. Only then can there be a measure of peace, once justice has been achieved.

For Toby O'Dare, who has spent ten years of his life as a relentless killing machine (see "Angel Time," the first book in the series), it is encumbant upon him to travel back into time on these redemptive missions to make right injustices of the past. There are many unknowns for him in his present and future. As a former hired assassin he could be arrested at any moment. Or he could himself be the victim of another assassin. Until his earthly fate is determined he will be sent on missions to undo and rectify evil acts perpetrated by man in the past. At first he might seem an odd choice for these missions, but who better? Who is more in need of redemption himself than someone like O'Dare? What killer of the past can fool Toby, he who has killed so many in the past?

Personally, the most affecting parts of the book for me are the early chapters , passages that deal with the reunion of Toby with his old girlfriend, Liona, and the ten year old son, little Toby, that he had heretofore been unaware of. So much deep emotion is expressed in these moving pages with inner dialogue, with looks, with a select few eloquent words. The first time I read "Of Love and Evil" it occurred to me that Toby O'Dare is a dead man returning to life. For ten years, following personal tragedy and a decade as a ruthless hit man he has been dead emotionally and spiritually. He has been totally cut off from any personal life, from family and love. In this "Songs of the Seraphim" series, he is slowly coming to life again. His soul is being reborn and he is having to learn how to live and love again in an often cruel and difficult world. These early chapters with Liona and little Toby and the promise of love could easily have been developed into a fine, full novel all on their own by a less ambitious writer. That Anne Rice is able to present Toby's tale of personal redemption in the larger context of history is an amazing feat and the work of a brilliant writer at the peak of her powers.

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Justin B.

Concise but nevertheless packed with depth

Reviewed in the United States on June 10, 2011

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Anne Rice books never cease to entrap me in this dreamlike state that occurs while I'm reading the books or afterwords. Normally, the need to continue reading her books dawns on you like a spontaneous desire for rich coffee or scrumptious chocolate. Every page of her books weaves an intricate web of rich design that contains many substantive spiritual truths contained within.
Her newest entry to the "Songs of the Seraphim," series does not deviate from the established, proven formula of her other novels. This is not a form of criticism. In actuality, her formula of enticing prose, first-person perspectives of a reclusive individual, and rich historical settings elevates her books to a very high level of quality. This year alone, I have read an estimated ten or twelve Anne Rice books, alongside a slew of college-required reads. Her books leave an imprint of great intrigue that cannot be divested. Instead, the reader only craves for the next installment in one of her many series or does research on some of the intriguing historical, spiritual, or philosophical questions raised in her books.

Anne Rice's inquisitive self has always been the strength of her novels. Every novel of hers is mostly centered around some difficult spiritual question that she herself has been wrestling with. "Of Love and Evil," raises an interesting dilemna that is pivotal to our faith. Now, that we have equipped ourselves with this new Christian perspective, What determines something as a good or evil act? More importantly, could a loving act that we believe reflects the spirit of Christ be a definably evil act?

Readers are transported to Renaissance Italy to become involved with a mystery that involves a Jewish physician wrongly being convicted for supposedly poisoning their trusted, Catholic patient. Anne Rice uses this perplexing mystery to immerse the reader into this picturesque world with ease. Using Toby O'Dare as the curious soul with a spiritual dilemna, the reader's full psyche becomes attached to this main perspective. Again, these troubled, reclusive souls of Anne Rice's books work wonderfully because they essentially reflect universal themes of spiritual struggle. All of us equally,with some variance,feel spiritually bankrupt at times in our life even when we have a solid relationship with God. Similarly with the Jesus novels, spiritual struggles are not exempted from the characters even when their faith appears to be perfected.

Whether you are a Christian or not, this novel should appeal widely to any readers that thirsts for an exciting mystery story that contains human characters with realistic flaws. More importantly, the spiritual struggles of these characters are equally faced by all individuals of differing faith backgrounds. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, and agnostics alike ponder the question of our purpose for existence. Even when our beliefs appear externally solidified. We still disbelieve the beliefs we thought we had conceived. At the time of reading this novel, I struggled greatly with the question of: "What if my supposed belief in God is worthless after I become nonexistent when I die ?

Meaning, after I die, the whole notion of having a conscious self will become a useless ideal. If there really is nothing after our deaths then "What really is the use of striving to morally perfect ourselves?" There would be no benefits or compensation for acting benevolently towards other humans. Because, in the short frame of our human lives, we'll only be partially experiencing the wonders of a morally-superb life filled with love. We'll only have glimpses of a perfected world where our pain and struggling truly works as a cause that will bring about an effect in the form of an afterlife which informs us that our endeavors are not completely useless. Toby O'Dare chooses to undertake the risk of facing the possibility of a meaningless existence because the other solution involves having a belief that our inclination to love is an accidental , purposeless desire. Having a God be our endpoint serves not as an escape from the pain of the reality of nothingness. It strengthens the truth that our love, our dreams, and our desires are not manufactured by a soulless machine. Internally, there exists a soul that powers this insatiable desire for transcendence. When we peer at art or are overwhelmed by the ineffable beauty of rich, symphonic music, we are having otherworldly experiences that inform our need for a God. Anne Rice books mimic that same effect. Every time, I read her books; I sense the poverty of my soul and realize the many abstract qualities or mysteries of our world that prove to us that this universe requires a God.

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Better

Reviewed in the United States on January 10, 2011

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I thought this book was much better than the first one. When reading the second book of any series it is always easier to get to the story because you don't have to get through the introducation of the characters and plot. This book was straight to the point and enjoyable. I also loved his son, he was the perfect character for Toby. Straight to the point and amazing!

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Kyau

過去に悩む

Reviewed in Japan on March 5, 2022

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トビーは昔の恋人と息子に会う。今度は15世紀のローマで、友人を毒殺しようとしている疑いをかけられたユダヤ人の医者のもとへ行く。セラフィムは嘘を言っているという存在もあらわれる。トビーは自分の過去におかした罪について悩む。
罪は赦されるのか？

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Michael Vermeersch

What if you got given a second chance?

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 10, 2013

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Anne Rice gently moves the reader from her usually supernatural prose into the domain of Questions about Life. She does this in the most fascinating and enthralling way. It keeps you hooked until the very end, while at the same time, should the reader make that choice shows you that there is a second chance for all of us out there. Excellent blend of fascinating fiction with a message.

2 people found this helpful

Amanda B

A great new series from Anne

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on May 29, 2013

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Having read Angel Time and enjoyed it, purchasing Of Love and Evil was the obvious next step. Another short and sweet chapter in Toby's life, we see his relationship with his ex rekindle and that with his son begin to bloom. His second mission is as short and simple as the first but never-the-less a good read. I would say that again this is Anne Rice simmered down a bit but still very enjoyable,

frankie

oh lala

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 18, 2013

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Another master piece from Ann Rice, is ther no end to her talent. a must read if you love this Auther, you can never get enough of her.

Colin Branch

Good

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on October 16, 2018

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Good

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Of Love and Evil (Songs of the Seraphim, Book 2) Hardcover – Deckle Edge, November 30, 2010

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