The Complete Vampire Chronicles 12-Book Bundle (The Vampire Chronicles)

by Rice, Anne

  Other immortals came, the young, the feeble and sometimes, most horribly, the very ancient, wanting to view this miracle, slipping into the nighttime Church among the mortal worshipers and looking with crazed eyes on the veil.

  Sometimes they spoke of poor Armand or brave Armand or St. Armand, who in his devotion to the Crucified Christ had immolated himself at this very Church door!

  Sometimes they did the same. And just before the sun was to rise again, I’d have to hear them, hear their last desperate prayers as they waited for the lethal light. Did they fare better than I? Did they find their refuge in the arms of God? Or were they screaming in agony, agony such as I felt, unendurably burnt and unable to break away from it, or were they lost as I was, remnants in alleyways or on distant roofs? No, they came and they went, whatever their fate.

  How pale it all was, how far away. I felt so sad for Lestat that he had bothered to weep for me, but I was to die here. I was to die sooner or later. Whatever I had seen in that moment when I’d risen into the sun didn’t matter. I was to die. That was all there was.

  Piercing the snowy night, electronic voices spoke of the miracle, that Christ’s Face upon a Veil of linen had cured the sick and left its imprint on other cloths pressed to it. Then came an argument of clergymen and skeptics, a perfect din.

  I followed the sense of nothing. I suffered. I burned. I couldn’t open my eyes, and when I tried, my eyelashes scratched my eyes and the agony was too much to bear. In darkness, I waited for her.

  Sooner or later, without fail, there came her magnificent music, with all its new and wondrous variations, and nothing mattered to me then, not the mystery of where I was, or what I might have seen, or what it was that Lestat and David meant to do.

  It was not until the seventh night perhaps that my senses were fully restored to me, and the full horror of my state was understood.

  Lestat was gone. So was David. The Church had been shut up. From the murmurings of mortals I soon realized that the Veil had been taken away.

  I could hear the minds of all the city, a din that was unsupportable. I shut myself off from it, fearing the vagrant immortal who’d home in on me if he caught but one spark from my telepathic mind. I couldn’t endure the thought of some attempted rescue by immortal strangers. I couldn’t endure the thought of their faces, their questions, their possible concern or merciless indifference. I hid myself from them, coiled up in my cracked and tightened flesh. Yet I heard them, as I heard the mortal voices around them, speaking of miracles and redemption and the love of Christ.

  Besides, I had enough to think about to figure my present predicament and how it had come to be.

  I was lying on a roof. That is where my fall had left me, but not under the open sky, as I might have hoped or supposed. On the contrary, my body had tumbled down a slope of metal sheeting, to lodge beneath a torn and rusted overhang, where it had been repeatedly buried in the wind-stirred snow.

  How had I gotten here? I could only suppose.

  By my own will, and with the first explosion of my blood in the light of the morning sun, I had been driven upwards, as high perhaps as I could go. For centuries I’d known how to climb to airy heights and how to move there, but I’d never pushed it to a conceivable limit, but with my zeal for death, I had strained with all my available strength to move Heavenward. My fall had been from the greatest height.

  The building beneath me was empty, abandoned, dangerous, without heat or light.

  Not a sound issued from its hollow metal stairwells or its battered, crumbling rooms. Indeed the wind played the structure now and then as if it were a great pipe organ, and when Sybelle was not at her piano it was to this music I listened, shutting out the rich cacophony of the city above, beyond and below.

  Now and then mortals crept inside the lower floors of the building. I felt a sudden wrenching hope. Would one be fool enough to wander to this rooftop where I might lay hands on him and drink the blood I needed merely to crawl free of the overhang which protected me and thereby give myself unsheltered to the sun? As I lay now, the sun could scarce reach me. Only a dull white light scorched me through the snowy shroud in which I was wound, and with the lengthening of each night this newly inflicted pain would mellow into the rest.

  But nobody ever came up here.

  Death would be slow, very slow. It might have to wait until the warm weather came and the snow melted.

  And so each morning, as I longed for death, I came to accept that I would wake, more burnt perhaps than ever, but all the more concealed by the winter blizzard, as I had been concealed all along, from the hundreds of lighted windows that looked down upon this roof from above.

  When it was deadly quiet, when Sybelle slept and Benji had ceased praying to me and talking to me at the window, the worst happened. I thought, in a cold listless broken way, of those strange things that had befallen me when I’d been tumbling through space, because I could think of nothing else.

  How utterly real it had been, the altar of Santa Sofia and the bread I’d broken in my hands. I’d known things, so many things, things which I couldn’t recall any longer or put into words, things which I could not articulate here in this narrative even as I sought to relive the tale.

  Real. Tangible. I had felt the altar cloth and seen the wine spill, and before that the bird rise out of the egg. I could hear the sound of the cracking of the shell. I could hear my Mother’s voice. And all the rest.

  But my mind didn’t want these things anymore. It didn’t want them. The zeal had proved fragile. It was gone, gone like the nights with my Master in Venice, gone like the years of wandering with Louis, gone like the festive months on The Night Island, gone like those long shameful centuries with the Children of Darkness when I had been a fool, such a pure fool.

  I could think of the Veil, I could think of Heaven, I could think of my standing at the Altar and working the miracle with the Body of Christ in my hands. Yes, I could think of all of it. But the totality had been too terrible, and I was not dead, and there was no Memnoch pleading with me to become his helper, and no Christ with arms outstretched against the backdrop of God’s unending light.

  It was sweeter by far to think of Sybelle, to remember that her room of rich red and blue Turkey carpets and darkly varnished overblown paintings had been every bit as real as Santa Sofia of Kiev, to think of her oval white face when she’d turned to glance at me, to think of the sudden brightness of her moist, quick eyes.

  One evening, as my eyes actually opened, as the lids truly drew back over the orbs of my eyes so that I could see through the white cake of ice above me, I realized I was healing.

  I tried to flex my arms. I could raise them ever so slightly, and the encasing ice shattered; what an extraordinary electric sound.

  The sun simply couldn’t reach me here, or not enough to work against the preternatural fury of the powerful blood my body contained. Ah, God, to think of it, five hundred years of growing ever stronger and stronger, and born from the blood of Marius in the first place, a monster from the start who never knew his own strength.

  It seemed for a moment that my rage and despair could grow no greater. It seemed the fiery pain in all my body could be no worse.

  Then Sybelle started to play. She began to play the Appassionata, and nothing else mattered.

  It wouldn’t matter again until her music had stopped. The night was warmer than usual; the snow had melted slightly. There seemed no immortals anywhere near. I knew that the Veil had been spirited away to the Vatican in Rome. No cause now, was there, for immortals to come here?

  Poor Dora. The nightly news said that her prize had been taken from her. Rome must examine this Veil. Her tales of strange blond-haired angels were the stuff of tabloids, and she herself was no longer here.

  In a moment of daring, I fastened my heart upon Sybelle’s music, and with an aching straining head, sent out my telepathic vision as if it were a fleshly part of me, a tongue requiring stamina, to see through Benjamin’s eyes, the roo
m where they were both lodged.

  In a lovely golden haze, I saw it, saw the walls covered with the heavy framed paintings, saw my beautiful one herself, in a fleecy white gown with worn slippers, her fingers hard at work. How grand the sweep of the music. And Benjamin, the little worrier, frowning, puffing on a black cigarette, with hands folded behind his back, pacing in his bare feet and shaking his head as he mumbled to himself.

  “Angel, I have told you to come back!”

  I smiled. The creases in my cheeks hurt as if someone had made them with the point of a sharp knife. I shut my telepathic eye. I let myself slumber in the rushing crescendos of the piano. Besides, Benjamin had sensed something; his mind, unwarped by Western sophistication, had picked up some glimmer of my prying. Enough.

  Then another vision came to me, very sharp, very special and unusual, something that would not be ignored. I turned my head again and made the ice crackle. I held my eyes open. I could see a blur of lighted towers high above.

  Some immortal down there in the city was thinking of me, someone far away, many blocks from the closed-up Cathedral. In fact, I sensed in an instant the distant presence of two powerful vampires, vampires I knew, and vampires who knew of my death and lamented it bitterly as they went about some important task.

  Now there was a risk to this. Try to see them and they might catch much more than the glimmer of me which Benjamin had been so quick to catch. But the city was empty of blood drinkers save for them, for all I could figure, and I had to know what it was that caused them to move with such deliberation and such stealth.

  An hour passed perhaps. Sybelle was silent. They, the powerful vampires, were still at their work. I decided to chance it.

  I drew in close with my disincarnate vision, and quickly realized that I could see one through the eyes of the other, but that it did not work for me the other way around.

  The reason was plain. I sharpened my sight. I was looking through the eyes of Santino, my old Roman Coven Master, Santino, and the other whom I saw was Marius, my Maker, whose mind was locked to me for all time.

  It was a vast official building in which they made their careful progress, both dressed as gentlemen of the moment in trim dark blue clothes, even to starched white collars and thin silk ties. Both had trimmed their hair in deference to corporate fashion. But this was no corporation in which they prowled, clearly putting into harmless thrall any mortal who tried to disturb them. It was a medical building. And I soon guessed what their errand must be.

  It was the forensics laboratory of the city through which they wandered. And though they had taken their time in gathering up documents for their heavy briefcases, they were quick now with agitation as they pulled from refrigerated compartments the remains of those vampires who, following my example, had turned themselves over to the mercy of the sun.

  Of course, they were confiscating what the world now had on us. They were scooping up the remains. Into simple glistening plastic sacks they put the residue, out of coffinlike drawers and off shining steel trays. Whole bones, ashes, teeth, ah, yes, even teeth, they swept into their little sacks. And now from a series of filing cabinets they withdrew the plastic-wrapped samples of clothing that remained.

  My heart quickened. I stirred in the ice and the ice spoke back to me again. Oh, heart be still. Let me see. It was my lace, my very lace, the thick Venetian Rose Point, burnt at the edges, and with it a few shredded rags of purple-red velvet! Yes, my pitiful clothes which they took from the labeled compartment of the filing drawer and slipped into their bags.

  Marius stopped. I turned my head and my mind elsewhere. Do not see me. See me and come here, and I swear to God I will … I will what? I have no strength even to move. I have no strength to escape. Oh, Sybelle, please, play for me, I have to escape this.

  But then, remembering that he was my Master, remembering that he could trace me only through the weaker more muddled mind of his companion, Santino, I felt my heart go quiet.

  From the bank of recent memory, I took her music, I framed it with numbers and figures and dates, all the little detritus I had brought with me over the centuries to her: that Beethoven had written her sweet masterpiece, that it was Sonata No. 23 in F Minor, Opus 57. Think on that. Think on Beethoven. Think on a make-believe night in cold Vienna, make-believe for I knew nothing really about it, think on him writing music with a noisy scratchy quill, which he himself perhaps could not hear. Think on him being paid in pittances. And think with a smile, yes, a painful cutting smile that makes your face bleed, of how they brought him piano after piano, so powerful was he, so demanding, so fiercely did he bang away.

  And she, pretty Sybelle, what a fine daughter to him she was, her powerful fingers striking the keys with terrifying power that would surely have delighted him had he ever seen in the distant future, amid all his frenzied students and worshipers, just this particular maniacal girl.

  It was warmer tonight. The ice was melting. There was no denying it. I pressed my lips together and again lifted my right hand. A cavity existed now in which I could move my right fingers.

  But I couldn’t forget about them, the unlikely pair, the one who’d made me and the one who’d tried to destroy him, Marius and Santino. I had to check back. Cautiously I sent out my weak and tentative beam of probing thought. And in an instant, I’d fixed them.

  They stood before an incinerator in the bowels of the building and heaved into a fiery mouth all the evidence which they had brought together, sack after sack curling and crackling in the flames.

  How odd. Didn’t they themselves want to look at these fragments under microscopes? But then surely others of our kind had done this, and why look at the bones and teeth of those who have been baked in Hell when you can carve pale white tissue from your own hand, and place this on the glass slide while your hand heals itself miraculously, as I was healing even now?

  I lingered on the vision. I saw the hazy basement round about them. I saw the low beams above their heads. Grathering all my power into my projected gaze, I saw Santino’s face, so troubled, soft, the very one who had shattered the only youth I might have ever had. I saw my old Master gazing almost wistfully at the flames. “We’re finished,” Marius said in his quiet, commanding voice, speaking Italian perfectly to the other. “I cannot think of another thing that we should do.”

  “Break apart the Vatican, and steal the veil from them,” answered Santino. “What right have they to claim such a thing?”

  I could only see Marius’s reaction, his sudden shock and then his polite and poised smile. “Why?” he asked, as if he held no secrets. “What’s the Veil to us, my friend? You think it will bring him back to his senses? Forgive me, Santino, but you are so very young.”

  His senses, bring him back to his senses. This had to mean Lestat. There was no other possible meaning. I pushed my luck. I scanned Santino’s mind for all he knew, and found myself recoiling in horror, but holding fast to what I saw.

  Lestat, my Lestat—for he was never theirs, was he?—my Lestat was crazed and railing as the result of his awful saga, and held prisoner by the very oldest of our kind on the final decree that if he did not cease to disturb the peace, which meant of course our secrecy, he would be destroyed, as only the oldest could accomplish, and no one could plead for him on any account.

  No, that could not happen! I writhed and twisted. The pain sent its shocks through me, red and violet and pulsing with orange light. I hadn’t seen such colors since I’d fallen. My mind was coming back, and coming back for what? Lestat to be destroyed! Lestat imprisoned, as I had once been centuries ago under Rome in Santino’s catacombs. Oh, God, this is worse than the sun’s fire, this is worse than seeing that bastard brother strike the little plum-cheeked face of Sybelle and knock her away from her piano, this is murderous rage I feel.

  But the smaller damage was done. “Come, we have to get out of here,” said Santino. “There’s something wrong, something I sense that I can’t explain. It’s as if someone is right near us yet no
t near us; it’s as if someone as powerful as myself has heard my footfall over miles and miles.”

  Marius looked kindly, curious, unalarmed. “New York is ours tonight,” he said simply. And then with faint fear he looked into the mouth of the furnace one last time. “Unless something of spirit, so tenacious of life, clung still to his lace and to the velvet he wore.”

  I closed my eyes. Oh, God, let me close my mind. Let me shut it up tight.

  His voice went on, piercing the little shell of my consciousness where I had so softened it.

  “But I have never believed such things,” he said. “We’re like the Eucharist itself, in some measure, don’t you think? Being Body and Blood of a mysterious god only so long as we hold to the chosen form. What’s strands of reddish hair and scorched and tattered lace? He’s gone.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Santino confessed gently. “But if you think I never loved him, you are very very wrong.”

  “Let’s go then,” Marius said. “Our work’s done. Every trace of every one is now obliterated. But promise me in your old Roman Catholic soul, you won’t go seeking the Veil. A million pairs of eyes have looked on it, Santino, and nothing’s changed. The world is the world, and children die in every quadrant under Heaven, hungry and alone.”

  I could risk no more.

  I veered away, searching the night like a high beam, casting about for the mortals who might see them leave the building in which they’d done their all-important work, but their retreat was too secret, too swift for that.

  I felt them go. I felt the sudden absence of their breath, their pulse, and knew the winds had taken them away.

  At last when another hour had ticked, I let my eye roam the same old rooms where they had wandered.