A compulsive feminist reworking of Carmilla, the queer novella that inspired Dracula.
It’s the height of the industrial revolution and ten years into Lenore’s marriage to steel magnate Henry, their relationship has soured. When Henry’s ambitions take them from London to the remote British moorlands to host a hunting party, a shocking carriage accident brings the mysterious Carmilla into their lives. Carmilla, who is weak and pale during the day but vibrant at night. Carmilla, who stirs up something deep within Lenore. And before long, girls from the local villages fall sick, consumed by a terrible hunger….
As the day of the hunt draws closer, Lenore begins to unravel, questioning the role she has been playing all these years. Torn between regaining her husband’s affection and the cravings Carmilla has awakened, soon Lenore will uncover a darkness in her household that will place her at terrible risk.
Don't just take our word for it...
“A rich and daring reimagining that brings the beating heart of Carmilla to life again. Hungerstone is a delicious tribute to the inherent horrors of womanhood and the desperate and exquisite vulgarity of desire. This is everything I dream of in a novel.”
– Ava Reid, author of Lady Macbeth
“Utterly captivating. A fabulous Gothic feast of a novel which is so gripping I genuinely struggled to put it down. This book has everything—a compulsive plot, fascinating characters, and a world so dark and atmospheric it makes the real one look drab. A book that will upend your expectations of the genre and leave you wanting more.”
– Elodie Harper, author of The Wolf Den
“Extraordinary…. A dark, sensuous, gothic story of female appetite, ravenous desire and insatiable rage. A blood-drenched, glittering, jewel of a novel.”
– Jennifer Saint, author of Ariadne and Atalanta
Taste the very first page
It starts with blood.
In the middle of the night, I wake, like a hound scenting the fox, and place a hand between my thighs. It comes away sticky and dark.
I used to feel grief about it, once. Now, I am numb. A task my body gives me to dispense with: a rag, the awkward fumble with the safety pins and the belt that will lie against my skin for five days, bringing up rashes around my unused belly and hips.
There is an echo of a dream in my mouth, a copper taste on my tongue, and the prickle of the skin of my throat. I cannot recall more. Henry is sleeping in his room; I can hear his soft snoring through the dressing room that forms the connection between our two private spaces. I still think softly of him, too, though I have come to doubt the strength of his regard for me after so many years.
I squat over the chamber pot and arrange my business. The nightdress is not stained, nor are the sheets—such is my intuition at thirty, when as a girl of sixteen I ruined so many bedclothes that my Aunt Daphne made me sleep with the belt on for a week either side of my courses as a precaution. I am mistress of my own house now, and I have sympathy for her penny-pinching. If I had a daughter, perhaps I, too, would begrudge her any accidents, wish her to hasten into adult responsibility.
I have no daughter. I have no child at all.
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