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

by Rice, Anne

  All was quiet with those poor muddled technicians and guards whom white-faced specters from another realm had gently spellbound as they went about their gruesome task.

  By morning, the theft and all the missing work would be discovered, and Dora’s miracle would suffer yet another dreary insult, receding ever more swiftly out of current time.

  I was sore; I wept a dry, hoarse weeping, unable even to muster tears.

  I think that once in the glimmering ice I saw my hand, a grotesque claw, more like a thing flayed than burnt, and shiny black as I had remembered it or seen it.

  Then a mystery began to prey upon me. How could I have killed the evil brother of my poor love? How could it have been anything but an illusion, that swift horrible justice, when I had been rising and falling beneath the weight of the morning sun?

  And if that had not happened, if I had not sucked dry that awful vengeful brother, then they too were a dream, my Sybelle and my little Bedouin. Oh, please, was that the final horror?

  The night struck its worst hour. Dim clocks chimed in painted plastered rooms. Wheels churned the crunching snow. Again, I raised my hand. There came the inevitable crack and snap. Tumbling all around me was the broken ice like so much shattered glass!

  I looked above on pure and sparkling stars. How lovely this, these guardian glassy spires with all their fast and golden squares of light cut in ranks run straight across and sharply down to score the airy blackness of the winter night, and here now comes the tyrant wind, whistling through crystalline canyons down across this small neglected bed where one forgotten demon lies, gazing with the larcenous vision of a great soul at the city’s emboldened lights on clouds above. Oh, little stars, how much I’ve hated you, and envied you that in the ghastly void you can with such determination plot your dogged course.

  But I hated nothing now. My pain was as a purgative for all unworthy things. I watched the sky cloud over, glisten, become a diamond for a still and gorgeous moment, and then again the white soft limitless haze took up the golden glow of city lamps and sent in answer the softest lightest fall of snow.

  It touched my face. It touched my outstretched hand. It touched me all over as it melted in its tiny magical flakes.

  “And now the sun will come,” I whispered, as if some guardian angel held me close, “and even here beneath this twisted little awning of tin, it will find me through this broken canopy and take my soul to further depths of pain.”

  A voice cried out in protest. A voice begged that it not be so. My own, I thought, of course, why not this self-deception? I am mad to think that I can bear the burning that I’ve suffered and that I could willingly endure it once again.

  But it wasn’t my voice. It was Benjamin, Benjamin at his prayers. Flinging out my disembodied eyes, I saw him. He knelt in the room as she lay sleeping like a ripe and succulent peach amid her soft tangled bedcovers. “Oh, angel, Dybbuk, help us. Dybbuk, you came once. So come again. You vex me that you don’t come!”

  How many hours is it till sunrise, little man? I whispered this to his little seashell ear, as if I didn’t know.

  “Dybbuk,” he cried out. “It’s you, you speak to me. Sybelle, wake up, Sybelle.”

  Ah, but think before you wake her. It’s a horrid errand. I’m not the resplendent being you saw who sucked your enemy dry of blood and doted on her beauty and your joy. It’s a monster you come to collect if you mean to pay your debt to me, an insult to your innocent eyes. But be assured, little man, that I’ll be yours forever if you do me this kindness, if you come to me, if you succor me, if you help me, because my will is leaving me, and I’m alone, and I would be restored now and cannot help myself and my years mean nothing now, and I’m afraid.

  He scrambled to his feet. He stood staring at the distant window, the window through which I had seen him in a dream glimpse me with his mortal eyes, but through which he could not possibly see me now, as I lay on a roof far far below the fine apartment which he shared with my angel. He squared his little shoulders, and now with black eyebrows in their perfect serious frown he was the very image off the Byzantine wall, a cherub smaller than myself.

  “Name it, Dybbuk, I come for you!” he declared, and made his mighty little right hand into a fist. “Where are you, Dybbuk, what do you fear that we cannot conquer together! Sybelle, wake up, Sybelle! Our Divine Dybbuk has come back and he needs us!”

  21

  They were coming for me. It was the building beside their own, a derelict heap. Benjamin knew it. In a few faint telepathic whispers I’d begged him to bring a hammer and a pick to break up the ice such as remained and to have big soft blankets with which to wrap me.

  I knew I weighed nothing. Painfully twisting my arms, I broke up more of the transparent covering. I felt with my clawlike hand that my hair had come back, thick and red-brown as ever. I held up a lock to the light, and then my arm could stand the scalding pain no more and I let it drop, unable to close or move my dried and twisted fingers.

  I had to throw a spell, at least when they first came. They could not see the thing that I was, this black leathery monster. No mortal could bear the sight of this, no matter what words came from my lips. I had to shield myself somehow.

  And having no mirror, how could I know how I looked or what I must do precisely? I had to dream, dream of the old Venetian days when I had been a beauty well known to myself from the tailor’s glass, and project that vision right into their minds even if it took all the strength I possessed; yes, that, and I must give them some instructions.

  I lay still, gazing up into the soft warm snowfall of tiny flakes, so unlike the terrible blizzards that had come earlier. I didn’t dare to use my wits to track their progress.

  Suddenly I heard the loud crash of breaking glass. A door slammed far below. I heard their uneven steps rushing up the metal stairs, clambering over the landings.

  My heart beat hard, and with each little convulsion, the pain was pumped through me, as if my blood itself were scalding me.

  Suddenly, the steel door on the roof was flung back. I heard them rushing towards me. In the faint dreamy light of the high towers all around, I saw their two small figures, she the fairy woman, and he the child of no more than twelve years perhaps, hurrying towards me.

  Sybelle! Oh, she came out on the roof without a coat, hair streaming, the terrible pity of it, and Benjamin no better in his thin linen djellaba. But they had a big velvet comforter to cover me, and I had to make a vision.

  Give me the boy I was, give the finest green satin and ruff upon ruff of fancy lace, give me stockings and braided boots, and let my hair be clean and shining.

  Slowly I opened my eyes, looking from one to the other of their small pale and rapt faces. Like two vagrants of the night they stood in the drifting snow.

  “Oh, but Dybbuk, you had us so very worried,” said Benjamin, in his wildly excited voice, “and look at you, you are beautiful.”

  “No, don’t think it’s what you see, Benjamin,” I said. “Hurry with your tools, chop at the ice, and lay the cover over me.”

  It was Sybelle who took up the wooden-handled iron hammer and with both hands slammed it down, fracturing the soft top layer of ice immediately. Benjamin chopped at it all with the pick as if he had become a small machine, thrusting to left and to right over and over, sending the shards flying.

  The wind caught Sybelle’s hair and whipped around into her eyes. The snow clung to her eyelids.

  I held the image, a helpless satin-clad child, with soft pinkish hands upturned and unable to help them.

  “Don’t cry, Dybbuk,” declared Benjamin, grabbing a giant thin slab of ice with both hands. “We’ll get you out, don’t cry, you’re ours now. We have you.”

  He threw aside the shining jagged broken sheets, and then he himself appeared to freeze, more solid than any ice, staring at me, his mouth a perfect O of amazement.

  “Dybbuk, you are changing colors!” he cried. He reached to touch my illusory face.

  “Don�
�t do it, Benji,” said Sybelle.

  It was the first time I’d heard her voice, and now I saw the deliberate brave calm of her blanched face, the wind making her eyes tear, though she herself remained staunch. She picked the ice from my hair. A terrible chill came over me, quelling the heat, yes, but sending the tears down my face. Were they blood? “Don’t look at me,” I said. “Benji, Sybelle, look away. Just put the cover into my hands.”

  Her tender eyes squinted as she stared, disobediently, steadily, one hand up to close the collar of her flimsy cotton bed gown against the wind, the other poised above me.

  “What’s happened to you since you came to us?” she asked in the kindest voice. “Who’s done this to you?”

  I swallowed hard, and made the vision come again. I pushed it up from all my pores, as if my body were one agency of breath.

  “No, don’t do it anymore,” said Sybelle. “It weakens you and you suffer terribly.”

  “I can heal, my sweet,” I said, “I promise I can. I won’t be like this always, not even soon. Only take me off this roof. Take me out of this cold, and take me where the sun can’t get to me again. It’s the sun that did this. Only the sun. Take me, please. I can’t walk. I can’t crawl. I’m a night thing. Hide me in the darkness.”

  “Enough, don’t say any more,” cried Benji.

  I opened my eyes to see a huge wave of brilliant blue settle over me as though a summer sky had come down to be my wrapping. I felt the soft pile of the velvet, and even this was pain, pain on the blazing skin, but it was pain that could be borne because their ministering hands were on me, and for this, for their touch, for their love, I would have endured anything.

  I felt myself lifted. I knew that I was light, and yet how dreadful it was to be so helpless, as they wrapped me.

  “Am I not light enough to carry?” I asked. My head had fallen back, and I could see the snow again, and I fancied that when I sharpened my gaze I could see the stars too, high above, biding their time beyond the haze of one tiny planet.

  “Don’t be afraid,” whispered Sybelle, her lips close to the covers.

  The smell of their blood was suddenly rich and thick as honey.

  Both of them had me, hoisted in their arms, and they ran together over the roof. I was free of the hurtful snow and ice, almost free forever. I couldn’t let myself think about their blood. I couldn’t let this ravenous burnt body have its way. That was unthinkable.

  Down through the metal stairwell we went, making turn after turn, their feet strumming the brittle steel treads, my body shocked and throbbing with agony. I could see the ceiling above, and then the smell of their blood, mingling together, overpowered me, and I shut my eyes and clenched my burnt fingers, hearing the leathery flesh crack as I did so. I dug my nails into my palms.

  I heard Sybelle at my ear. “We have you, we’re holding you tight, we won’t let you go. It isn’t far. Oh, God, but look at you, look what the sun’s done to you.”

  “Don’t look!” said Benji crossly. “Just hurry! Do you think such a powerful Dybbuk doesn’t know what you think? Be wise, hurry up.”

  They had come to the lower floor and to the broken window. I felt the arms of Sybelle lift me beneath my head and beneath my crooked knees, and I heard Benji’s voice from beyond, no longer echoing on enclosing walls.

  “That’s it, now give him to me, I can hold him!” How furious and excited he sounded, but she had come through the window with me, I could tell this much, though my clever Dybbuk’s mind was utterly spent, and I knew nothing, nothing but pain and the blood and the pain again and the blood and that they were running through a long dark alleyway from which I could see nothing of Heaven.

  But how sweet it was. The rocking motion, the swinging of my burnt legs and the soft touch of her soothing fingers through the blanket, all this was wickedly wondrous. It wasn’t pain anymore, it was merely sensation. The cover fell over my face.

  On they hurried, feet crunching in the snow, Benji sliding once with a loud cry, and Sybelle grabbing hold of him. He caught his breath.

  What labor it was for them in this cold. They must get out of it.

  We entered the hotel in which they lived. The pungent warm air rushed out to take hold of us even as the doors were pulled open and before they fell shut, the hallway echoing with the sharp steps of Sybelle’s little shoes and the quick shuffle of Benji’s sandals.

  With a sudden burst of agony through my legs and back, I felt myself doubled, knees brought up and head tipped towards them, as we crowded into the elevator. I bit down on the scream in my throat. Nothing could matter less. The elevator, smelling of old motors and tried and true oil, began its swaying jerking progress upwards.

  “We’re home, Dybbuk,” whispered Benji with his hot breath on my cheek, his little hand grasping for me through the cover and pushing painfully against my scalp. “We are safe now, we have captured you and we have you.”

  Click of locks, feet on hardwood floors, the scent of incense and candles, of a woman’s rich perfume, of rich polish for fine things, of old canvases with cracked oil paint, of fresh and overpoweringly sweet white lilies.

  My body was laid down gently into the bed of down, the blanket loosened so that I sank into layers of silk and velvet, the pillows seeming to melt beneath me.

  It was the very disheveled nest in which I’d glimpsed her with my mind’s eye, golden and sleeping in her white gown, and she had given it over to such a horror.

  “Don’t pull away the cover,” I said. I knew that my little friend wanted so to do it.

  Undaunted, he gently pulled it away. I struggled with my one recovering hand to catch it, to bring it back, but I couldn’t do any more than flex my burnt fingers.

  They stood beside the bed, gazing down at me. The light swirled around them, mingled with warmth, these two fragile figures, the gaunt porcelain girl, the bruises gone from her milk-white skin, and the little Arab boy, the Bedouin boy, for I realized now that that is what he truly was. Fearlessly they stared at what must be unspeakable to behold for human eyes.

  “You are so shiny!” said Benji. “Does it hurt you?”

  “What can we do!” said Sybelle, so muted, as if her very voice might injure me. Her hands covered her lips. The unruly wisps of her full straight pale hair moved in the light, and her arms were blue from the cold outside, and she could not help but shiver. Poor spare being, so delicate. Her nightdress was crumpled, thin white cotton, stitched with flowerets and trimmed with thin sturdy lace, a thing for a virgin. Her eyes brimmed with sympathy.

  “Know my soul, my angel,” I said. “I’m an evil thing. God wouldn’t take me. And the Devil wouldn’t either. I went into the sun so they could have my soul. It was a loving thing, without fear of Hellfire or pain. But this Earth, this very Earth has been my purgatorial prison. I don’t know how I came to you before. I don’t know what power it was that gave me those brief seconds to stand here in your room and come between you and death that was looming like a shadow over you.”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered fearfully, her eyes glistering in the dim lights of the room. “He would never have killed me.”

  “Oh, yes, he would!” I said, and Benjamin said the very same exact words in concert with me.

  “He was drunk and he didn’t care what he did,” said Benji in instant rage, “and his hands were big and clumsy and mean, and he didn’t care what he did, and after the last time he hit you, you lay still like the dead in this very bed for two hours without moving! Do you think a Dybbuk kills your own brother for nothing?”

  “I think he’s telling you the truth, my pretty girl,” I said. It was so hard to talk. With each word I had to lift my chest. In crazy desperation, suddenly I wanted a mirror. I tossed and turned on the bed, and went rigid with pain.

  The two were thrown into a panic.

  “Don’t move, Dybbuk, don’t!” Benji pleaded. “Sybelle, the silk, all the silk scarves, get them out, wind them around him.”

  “No!” I whispere
d. “Put the cover up over me. If you must see my face, then leave it bare, but cover the rest of me. Or …”

  “Or what, Dybbuk, tell me?”

  “Lift me so that I can see myself and how I look. Stand me before a long mirror.”

  They fell silent in perplexity. Sybelle’s long yellow hair lay flaxen and flat down over her large breasts. Benji chewed at his little lip.

  All the room swam with colors. Behold the blue silk sealed to the plaster of the walls, the heaps of richly embellished pillows all around me, look at the golden fringe, and there beyond, the wobbling baubles of the chandelier, filled with the glistering colors of the spectrum. I fancied I heard the tinkling song of the glass as these baubles touched. It seemed in my feeble deranged mind that I had never seen such simple splendor, that I had forgotten in all my years just how shining and exquisite the world was.

  I closed my eyes, taking with me to my heart an image of the room. I breathed in, lighting the scent of their blood, the sweet clean fragrance of the lilies. “Would you let me see those flowers?” I whispered. Were my lips charred? Could they see my fang teeth, and were they yellowed from the fire? I floated on the silks beneath me. I floated and it seemed that I could dream now, safe, truly safe. The lilies were close. I reached up again. I felt the petals against my hand, and the tears came down my face. Were they pure blood? Pray not, but I heard Benji’s frank little gasp, and Sybelle making her soft sound to hush him.

  “I was a boy of seventeen, I think, when it happened,” I said. “It was hundreds of years ago. I was too young, really. My Master, he was a loving one; he didn’t believe we were evil things. He thought we could feed off the badlings. If I hadn’t been dying, it wouldn’t have been done so soon. He wanted me to know things, to be ready.”

  I opened my eyes. They were spellbound! They saw again the boy I’d been. I had done it without intention.

  “Oh, so handsome,” said Benji. “So fine, Dybbuk.”

  “Little man,” I said with a sigh, feeling the fragile illusion about me crumble to air, “call me by my name from now on; it’s not Dybbuk. I think you picked up that one from the Hebrews of Palestine.”