by Rice, Anne
We vampires don’t like witches. Can you guess why? Any self-respecting vampire, even if he or she is three thousand years old, can fool mortals, at least for a while. And young ones like Quinn pass, no question. Jasmine, Nash, Big Ramona—they all accepted Quinn for human. Eccentric? Clinically insane? Yes, they believed all that about him. But they thought he was human. And Quinn could live among them for quite a while. And as I’ve already explained, they thought I was human too, though I probably couldn’t count on that for too long.
Now, with witches it’s another story. Witches detect all kinds of small things about other creatures. It has to do with the lazy and constant exercise of their power. I’d sensed that at the funeral Mass, just breathing the same air as Dr. Rowan Mayfair and her husband, Michael Curry, and Fr. Kevin Mayfair. But fortunately, they were distracted by a multitude of other stimuli, so I hadn’t had to bolt.
So okay, where was I? Yeah, cool. Mona Mayfair was a witch, and one of supreme talent. And once the Dark Blood had come into Quinn about a year ago, he had forsworn ever seeing her again, dying though she was, for fear she might at once realize that evil had robbed him of life, and contaminate her he would not.
However, of her own free will and much to everyone’s amazement:
She’d come about an hour ago, driving the family stretch limousine, which she’d hijacked from the driver outside the Mayfair Medical Center where she’d been dying for over two years. (He’d been walking the block, poor unlucky guy, smoking a cigarette, when she’d sped off, and the last image in her mind of him was of his running after her.)
She’d then gone to florist after florist where the Mayfair name was good as gold collecting giant sprays of flowers, or loose bouquets, whatever she could get immediately, and then she’d driven across the twin span as they call the long lake bridge and up to the Blackwood Manor House, stepping out of the car barefoot and wrapped in a gaping hospital gown, a perfect horror—a wobbling skeleton with bruised skin hanging on her bones and a mop of long red hair—and had commandeered Jasmine, Clem, Allen and Nash to take the flowers to Quinn’s room, asserting that she had Quinn’s permission to heap them all over the four-poster bed. It was a pact. Don’t worry.
Scared as they all were, they did as they were told.
After all, everybody knew that Mona Mayfair had been the love of Quinn’s life before Quinn’s beloved Aunt Queen, world traveler and raconteur, had insisted Quinn go to Europe with her on her “very last trip,” which had somehow stretched into three whole years, and Quinn had come home to discover Mona in isolation at Mayfair Medical quite beyond his reach.
Then the Dark Blood had come to Quinn in venality and violence, and another year passed with Mona behind hospital glass, too weak even for a scribbled note or a glance at Quinn’s daily gift of flowers and—.
Now back to the anxious passel of attendants who rustled the flowers up to the room.
The emaciated girl herself, and we’re talking about twenty years old, that’s what I’m calling a girl, could not possibly make it up the circular staircase, so the gallant Nash Penfield, Quinn’s old tutor, cast by God to be the perfect gentleman (and responsible for a great deal of Quinn’s finishing polish), had carried her up and laid her in her “bower of flowers” as she’d called it, the child assuring him that the roses were thornless, and she had lain back on the four-poster twining broken phrases from Shakespeare with her own, to wit:
“Pray, let me to my bride bed, so bedecked, retire, and let them strew my grave hereafter.”
At which point, thirteen-year-old Tommy had appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, and had been so upset by the sight of Mona, in his raw grief for lost Aunt Queen, that he’d begun to shake, and so the amazed Nash had taken him out while Big Ramona had stayed to declare in a stage whisper worthy of the Bard:
“That girl’s dying!”
At which the little red-headed Ophelia laughed. What else? And asked for a can of cold diet soda.
Jasmine had thought the child was going to give up the ghost on the spot, which could easily have happened, but the child said No, she was waiting for Quinn, and asked everybody to leave, and when Jasmine had come running back with the cold soda in a bubbly glass with a bent straw, the girl would hardly drink it.
You can live all your life in America without ever seeing a mortal in this condition.
But in the eighteenth century when I was born it was rather common. People starved in the streets of Paris in those days. They died all around you. Same situation prevailed in nineteenth-century New Orleans when the starving Irish began to arrive. You could see many beggars of skin and bone. Now you have to go to “the foreign missions” or to certain hospital wards to see people suffering like Mona Mayfair.
Big Ramona had made a further declaration, that that was the very bed in which her own daughter died (Little Ida), and that it was no bed for a sick child. But Jasmine, her granddaughter, had told her to shush, and Mona had taken to laughing so hard she was in agony and began to choke. She had survived.
As I stood in the cemetery, monitoring all these marvelous mirrors of near immediate events, I reckoned Mona was five-foot-one or thereabouts, destined to be delicate, and once a famous beauty, but the sickness—set into motion by a traumatic birth which was despite all my power still unclear to me—had so thoroughly done its work on her that she was under seventy pounds in weight and her profuse red hair only heightening the macabre spectacle of her total deterioration. She was so dangerously close to death that only will was keeping her going.
It had been will and witchcraft—the high persuasion of witches—that had helped her get the flowers and to force so much assistance when she arrived.
But now that Quinn had come, now that Quinn was there with her, and the one bold idea of her dying hours was consummate, the pain in her internal organs and her joints was defeating her. There was also a terrible pain in the entire surface of her skin. Merely sitting amid all the precious flowers hurt her.
As for my brave Quinn renouncing every execration he had laid on his fate and offering her the Dark Blood, no big surprise, I had to admit, but I wished to Hell he hadn’t.
It’s hard to watch anyone die when you know you possess this evil paradoxical power. And he was still in love with her, naturally and unnaturally, and couldn’t abide her suffering. Who could?
However, as I have already explained, Quinn had received a theophany only last night, seeing Merrick and his doppelganger spirit both passing into the Light.
So why in the name of God had he not consented to merely holding Mona’s hand and seeing her through it? She certainly wasn’t going to live until midnight.
Fact of the matter, he didn’t have the strength to let her go. Of course Quinn never would have gone to her, I should add, he’d protected her from his secret valiantly, as noted, but she’d come here to Quinn, to his very room, begging to die in his bed. And he was a male vampire, and this was his territory, his lair, so to speak, and some male juices were flowing here, vampire or no, and now she was in his arms, and a monstrous possessiveness and high imaginative perception of saving her had taken hold of him.
And as surely as I knew all that, I knew he couldn’t work the Dark Trick on her. He’d never done it before, and she was too frail. He’d kill her. And that was no way to go. Shoot, the child, having opted for the Dark Blood, could go to Hell! I had to get up there. Vampire Lestat to the rescue!
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Lestat, is this a comedy? We don’t want a comedy.” No, it’s not!
It’s just that all the debasing subterfuge is falling away from me, don’t you see? Not the glamour you understand, keep your mind on the image, baby! We’re only losing those elements which tended to cheapen my discourse, and throw up a barrier of—artificial quaintness, more or less.
Okay. Onward. I went the human route, through the front door, clickity click, startling Clem, throwing him an ingratiating smile, “Quinn’s friend, Lestat, yeah, gotcha, he
y, and Clem, have that car ready, we’re going into New Orleans afterwards, okay, dude?” and headed up the circular stairs, beaming down at little Jerome as I passed him, and giving Jasmine a quick hug as she stood stranded in the hallway, then telepathically turned the lock on Quinn’s bedroom door and entered.
Entered? Why not went in? That’s the artificial quaintness that has to go. You see my point? Matter of fact, I barreled into the room, if you must know.
Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Nothing seen telepathically is ever one tenth as vivid as what a vampire sees with his own eyes. Telepathy is cool, no doubt about it, but our vision is almost intolerably vivid. That’s why telepathy doesn’t play much of a role in this book. I’m a sensualist anyway.
And the sight of Mona sitting on the foot of the big glowering four-poster was heartbreaking. The girl was in more pain than Quinn could conceivably realize. Even his arm around her was hurting her. I calculated without wanting to do it that she should have died about two hours ago. Her kidneys had shut down, her heart was sputtering and she couldn’t fill her lungs with enough air to take deep breaths.
But her flawless green eyes were wide as she looked at me, and her fierce intellect understood on some complete mystical level, quite truly beyond words, what Quinn was trying to tell her: that the progress of her death could be utterly reversed, that she could join with us, that she could be ours forever. The vampiric state; the Undead. Immortal killer. Outside life for all time.
I know you, Little Witch. We live forever. She almost smiled.
Would the Dark Trick undo the damage which had been done to her miserable body? You betcha.
Two hundred years ago in a bedroom on the Ile St.-Louis, I had seen old age and consumption drop away from the emaciated form of my own mother as the Dark Blood realized its full magic within her. And in those nights, I’d been a mere postulant, compelled by love and fear to do the transformation. It had been my first time. I hadn’t even known its name.
“Let me work the Dark Trick, Quinn,” I said immediately.
I saw the relief flood through him. He was so innocent, so confused. Of course, I didn’t much like it that he was four inches taller than me, but it really didn’t matter. I meant it when I called him my Little Brother. I would have done just about anything for him. And then there was Mona herself. Witch child, beauty, ferocious spirit, almost nothing but spirit with the body desperately trying to hold on.
They drew closer to each other. I could see her hand clasping his. Could she feel the preternatural flesh? Her eyes were on me.
I paced the room. I took over. I put it to her in grand style. We were vampires, yes, but she had a choice, precious darling that she was. Why hadn’t Quinn told her about the Light? Quinn had seen the Light with his own eyes. He knew the measure of Celestial Forgiveness more truly than I did.
“But you can choose the Light some other night, chérie,” I said. I laughed. I couldn’t stop myself. It was too miraculous.
She’d been sick for so long, suffered for so long. And that birth, that child she’d borne, it had been monstrous, taken from her, and I couldn’t see to the core of it. But forget that. Her conception of eternity was to feel whole for one blessed hour, to breathe for one blessed hour without pain. How could she make this choice? No, there was no choice here for this girl. I saw the long corridor down which she’d traveled inexorably for so many years—the needles that had bruised her arms, and the bruises were all over her, the medicines that had sickened her, the half sleep in agony, the fevers, the shallow ruminating dreams, the loss of all blessed concentration when the books and films and letters had been put aside and even the deep darkness was gone in the seasonless glare of hospital lights and inescapable clatter and noise.
She reached for me. She nodded. Dried cracked lips. Strands of red hair. “Yes, I want it,” she said.
And from Quinn’s lips came the inevitable words: “Save her.”
Save her? Didn’t Heaven want her?
“They’re coming for you,” I said. “It’s your family.” I hadn’t meant to blurt it. Was I under some sort of spell myself, looking into her eyes? But I could hear them clearly, the fast-approaching Mayfairs. Ambulance sans siren pulling into the pecan-tree drive, stretch limousine right behind it.
“No, don’t let them take me,” she cried. “I want to be with you.”
“Honey bunch, this is for always,” I said.
“Yes!”
Darkness eternal, yes, curse, grief, isolation, yes.
Oh, and it’s the same old beat with you, Lestat, you Devil, you want to do it, you want to, you want to see it, you greedy little beast, you can’t give her over to the angels and you know they’re waiting! You know the God who can sanctify her suffering has purified her and will forgive her last cries.
I drew close to her, pushing gently against Quinn.
“Let her go, Little Brother,” I said. I lifted my wrist, broke the inside skin with my teeth and put the blood to her lips. “It has to be done this way. I’ve got to give her some of my blood first.” She kissed the blood. Her eyes squeezed shut. Shiver. Shock. “Otherwise, I can’t bring her through. Drink, pretty girl. Good-bye, pretty girl, good-bye, Mona.”
3
She drew the blood from me as if she’d broken the circuit that kept me alive, as if she meant to kill me. A witch had me by the blood. I gasped and reached with my left hand for the post of the bed and missed it, falling gently back with her on the nest of flowers. Her hair was catching in the roses. So was mine.
In a blatant rush, I felt myself emptying my life into her—dank country castle, Paris, the boulevard theater, stolen, stone tower, made by Magnus, fire, alone, orphan weeping, treasure; did she laugh? I saw her teeth in my heart, my very heart. I pulled back, dizzy, and clung to the post, each one is unique, staring down at her.
Witchlet!
With glazed eyes she looked up at me. The blood was on her lips, just a touch, and all her pain was gone, and the moment had come, the moment of peace from pain, peace from struggle, peace from fear.
She simply couldn’t believe it.
In the twilight between human and vampire, she breathed deeply and slowly, hungry hybrid, doomed hybrid, her skin plumping exquisitely and the sweetness unfolding in her face as the cheeks formed and her lips filled out, and the flesh around her eyes grew firm, and then the breasts were rising beneath her cotton gown, and a roundness came to her arms, such a delectable roundness, I am such a fiend, and she sighed again, sighed as if ecstatic, looking at me, yeah, right, I’m gorgeous, I know, and now she could endure the Dark Trick. Quinn was stunned. So in love. Get away. I pushed him back. This is mine.
I snatched her up from the flowers. Vessel of my blood. Petals falling. Whispered poetry was tumbling from her lips, “Or like a creature native and indued unto that element.” I hugged her to me. I wanted my blood from her. I wanted her.
“Little Witch,” I hissed into her ear. “You think you know all I can do!” I crushed her to me. I heard her sweet soft laugh. “Come on, show me!” she said. I’m not dying. Quinn was afraid. He put his arms around her and touched my arms. He was trying to hold us both. It was so warm. I loved him. So what? I had her.
I grazed her neck with my teeth. “I’m coming to get you, Little Girl!” I whispered. “You’re playing in the big time, Little Girl!” Her heart was racing. Still on the brink. I sank my teeth and felt her body stiffen. Lovely paralysis. Slowly I drew on the blood, her salt mixed with my own. I knew her: child beauty, nymphet, schoolgirl scamp, the one on whom nothing was lost, pronouncements of genius, nursing drunken parents, freckles and smile, her life a romp, and always dreaming, restless at the computer keys, designée to the Mayfair billions, burying father and mother, no more worry there, lover of more men than she could count, pregnancy—now I saw it!—horror birth, monster child, Look at it: woman baby! Morrigan. “Walking Baby,” said Dolly Jean. Who are these people! What is this you are showing to me! “You think you’re
the only monsters I know?” Morrigan gone forever, monster child, What is this mutant that grows to be a full woman at its birth, wants your milk? Taltos! Gone, taken, ruined her health forever, made her start dying, have to find Morrigan, emerald around Mona’s neck, look at that emerald! Mona fastened to Quinn, so in love with Quinn, tell Quinn, no, poetry of Ophelia sustaining her soul, heart beat, catching breath, dying for too long, Don’t you realize what this is! I do, I do! Don’t stop! Don’t let me go! Who is that trying to take you from me? I knew that ghost! Oncle Julien!
He came at me. Angry phantom! In the midst of my vision! Was he in the room? This tall, white-haired man assaulting me, trying to wrench her from me! Who the Hell are you? I sent him flying back, receding so fast he became a tiny speck. Damn you, let her go!
We lay on the bower of flowers, she and I in each other’s arms, no time, look at him, he’s coming again, Oncle Julien! I was blind. I drew back, tore my wrist again, pushed my wrist to her mouth, clumsy, spilling blood, couldn’t see, felt her clamp hard, body lurch, Oncle Julien, you’re out! She drank and drank. Oncle Julien’s face furious. Faint. Vanish. “He’s gone,” I whispered. “Oncle Julien gone!” Did Quinn hear? “Make him go, Quinn.”
I swooned, giving her my life, see it, see it all, see the devastated core, move beyond regret, go on, her body growing stronger, the iron of her limbs, her fingers digging into my arm as she drank from my wrist, go on, take it, sink those teeth into my soul, do it, now I’m the paralyzed one, can’t escape, brutal little girl, go on, where was I, let her drink on and on, I can’t, I snuggled my face against her neck, opened my mouth, no power to—.
Our souls closing to each other, the inevitable blindness between Maker and Fledgling meaning she was made. Couldn’t read each other’s thoughts anymore. Drink me dry, beautiful, you’re on your own.
My eyes were shut. I dreamt. Oncle Julien wept. Ah, so sad, was it? In the realm of shadows, he stood with his face in his hands and he wept. What is this? An emblem of conscience? Don’t make me laugh.