Taltos

by Anne Rice

  Ash relaxed all over. He let his hands hang naturally at his sides, which he seldom did, due to the length of his arms. But they must see he concealed nothing. He walked back across Brook Street, very slowly, giving them time to run if they wanted it, though he prayed to God they would not.

  He moved towards them slowly on Spelling. They did not move. Suddenly one of the pedestrians bumped him accidentally and dropped an entire paper sack of small items to the pavement with a crash. The sack broke. The items were scattered.

  "Now of all times," he thought, but quickly he smiled, and dropped down on one knee and began to pick up everything for the poor individual. "I'm so very sorry," he said.

  It was an elderly woman, who gave him a cheery laugh now, and told him that he was too tall to bend down to do such things as this.

  "I don't mind at all. It was my fault," he said, shrugging. He was close enough to the witches, perhaps, for them to hear him, but he could not show fear.

  The woman had a large canvas bag over her arm. Finally he had gathered up all of the little bundles and deposited them in the canvas bag. And away she went, waving to him as he waved cordially and respectfully to her.

  The witches hadn't moved. He knew it. He could feel them watching him. He could feel the same power which caused the sheen to them in his vision, perhaps the same energy. He didn't know. There was now at most twenty feet between them.

  He turned his head and looked at them. He had his back to the traffic, and he could see them clearly in front of the plate-glass window full of dresses. How fearsome they both looked. The light emanating from Rowan had become a very subtle glow in his eyes, and now he did smell her--bloodless. A witch who could not bear. The scent of the man was strong, and the face was more terrible, filled with suspicion and perhaps even wrath.

  It chilled him, the way they looked at him. But everyone cannot love you, he thought with a small smile. Not even all witches can love you. That is far too much to ask. The important thing was that they had not run away.

  Again, he started to walk towards them. But Rowan Mayfair startled him. She gestured with a pointing finger, and a hand held close to her breast, for him to look across the street.

  Perhaps this is a trick. They mean to kill me, he thought. The idea amused him, but only partially. He looked as she had directed. He saw a coffee shop opposite. And the gypsy was just emerging, with an elderly man at his side. Yuri looked ill, worse than ever, and his haphazard jeans and shirt were far too light for the chilly air.

  Yuri saw Ash at once. He stepped clear of the busy entrance. He stared at Ash madly, or so it seemed. Poor soul, he is crazy, thought Ash, truly. The elderly man was talking very intently to Yuri, and did not seem to notice that Yuri was looking away.

  This elderly man. It had to be Stuart Gordon! He wore the somber, old-fashioned clothes of the Talamasca, wing-tip shoes and very narrow lapels, and the vest to match his coat. Almost precious. Yes, it was Gordon, surely, or another member of the Talamasca. There could be no mistake.

  How Gordon pleaded with Yuri, how distraught he seemed. And Yuri stood not one foot from this man. This man could at any moment kill Yuri in any of a half-dozen secret ways.

  Ash started across the street, dodging one car and forcing another to a hasty and noisy stop.

  Suddenly, Stuart Gordon realized that Yuri was being distracted. Stuart Gordon was annoyed. He wanted to see what distracted Yuri. He turned just as Ash bore down upon him, reaching the curb, and reaching out to grab Stuart Gordon's arm.

  The recognition was indisputable. He knows what I am, thought Ash, and his heart sank slightly for this man. This man, this friend of Aaron Lightner, was guilty. Yes, without question, the man knew him, and gazed up into his face with mingled horror and a deep secretive recognition.

  "You know me," said Ash.

  "You killed our Superior General," said the man, but this he had latched upon in desperation. The confusion and recognition went far beyond anything which had happened only last night. Gordon went into a panic and began to claw at Ash's fingers. "Yuri, stop him, stop him."

  "Liar," said Ash, "look at me. You know full well what I am. You know about me. I know you do, don't lie to me, guilty man."

  They had become a spectacle. People were cutting out into the street to get around them. Others had stopped to watch.

  "Get your hands off me now!" said Stuart Gordon furiously, teeth clenched, face coloring.

  "Just like the other," said Ash. "Did you kill your friend Aaron Lightner? What about Yuri? You sent the man who shot him in the glen."

  "I know only what I was told about these things this morning!" said Stuart Gordon. "You must release me."

  "Must I?" said Ash. "I'm going to kill you."

  The witches were beside him. He glanced to his right and saw Rowan Mayfair at his elbow. Michael Curry stood right beside her, eyes full of venom as before.

  The sight of the witches struck new terror in Gordon.

  Holding tight to Gordon, Ash glanced to the corner and quickly raised his left hand for his driver. The man was out of the car, and had been watching the whole proceedings. He slid behind the wheel at once, and the car was turning to come down the street.

  "Yuri! You're not going to let him do this to me, are you?" Gordon demanded. Desperate, brilliant, counterfeit indignation.

  "Did you kill Aaron?" Yuri asked. This one was almost insane now, and Rowan Mayfair moved to restrain him as he pressed in on Gordon. Gordon began to writhe in courageous fury, scratching again at Ash's fingers.

  The long Rolls-Royce jolted to a halt beside Ash. The driver stepped out immediately.

  "Can I help you, Mr. Ash?"

  "Mr. Ash," said the terrified Gordon, who stopped his vain struggling. "What sort of name is 'Mr. Ash'?"

  "Sir, there's a policeman coming," said the driver. "Tell me what you want me to do."

  "Let's get out of here, please," said Rowan Mayfair.

  "Yes, all of us, come." Ash turned and dragged Stuart, stumbling, off the sidewalk.

  As soon as the back door of the car was open, he flung the helpless Gordon into the backseat. He slipped in beside him, forcing him to the far side. Michael Curry had slipped in the front, beside the driver, and Rowan climbed in now across Ash, her skin burning him as it touched his leg, and took the jumpseat opposite, as Yuri collapsed beside her. The car lurched, then took off.

  "Where shall I take you, sir?" the driver called out. The glass panel was sliding down. Now it had vanished into the back of the front seat and Michael Curry had turned and was peering past Yuri, right into Ash's eyes.

  These witches, their eyes, thought Ash desperately.

  "Just get out of here," said Ash to the driver.

  Gordon reached for the door handle.

  "Lock the doors," said Ash, but he didn't wait for the familiar electronic click. He clamped his right hand on Gordon's right arm.

  "Let go of me, you bastard!" declared Gordon, with low, thundering authority.

  "You want to tell me the truth now?" asked Ash. "I'm going to kill you the way I killed your henchman Marcus. What can you tell me that will prevent me from doing it?"

  "How dare you, how can you ..." Stuart Gordon began again.

  "Stop lying," said Rowan Mayfair. "You're guilty, and you didn't accomplish this alone. Look at me."

  "I will not!" said Gordon. "The Mayfair witches," he said bitterly, all but spitting out the words. "And this thing, this thing you've conjured from the swamps, this Lasher, is it your avenger, your Golem?"

  The man was suffering exquisitely. His face was white with shock. But he was far from defeated.

  "All right," said Ash quietly. "I'm going to kill you, and the witches can't stop me. Do not think that they can."

  "No, you won't!" said Gordon, turning so that he might face Ash as well as Rowan Mayfair, his head back against the upholstered corner of the car.

  "And why is that?" asked Ash gently.

  "Because I have the female!" whis
pered Gordon.

  Silence.

  Only the sounds of traffic around them as the car moved speedily and belligerently ahead.

  Ash looked at Rowan Mayfair. Then at Michael Curry, peering back at him from the front seat. And finally at Yuri, across from him, who seemed unable to think or to speak. Ash let his eyes return to Gordon.

  "I've always had the female," said Gordon, in a small, heartfelt, yet sardonic voice. "I did this for Tessa. I did it to bring the male to Tessa. That was my purpose. Now let go of me, or you will never lay eyes on Tessa, any of you. Especially not you, Lasher, or Mr. Ash, whoever you may be. Whatever you call yourself! Or am I tragically mistaken, and do you have a harem of your own?"

  Ash opened his fingers, stretching them, letting them frighten Gordon, and then withdrawing them and laying his hand in his lap.

  Gordon's eyes were red and teary. Still stiff with outrage, he pulled out a huge, rumpled handkerchief and blew his tender-looking beak of a nose.

  "No," said Ash quietly. "I'm going to kill you now, I think."

  "No! You'll never see Tessa!" snapped Gordon.

  Ash leaned over him, very close to him. "Then take me to her, please, immediately, or I will strangle you now."

  Gordon was silent, but only for a moment.

  "Tell your driver to go south," he said. "Out of London, towards Brighton. We're not going to Brighton, but that will do for now. It's an hour and a half."

  "Then we have time to talk, don't we?" asked the witch, Rowan. Her voice was deep, almost husky. She made a dazzle in Ash's vision, glinting slightly in the dark car. Her breasts were small but beautifully shaped beneath the black silk lapels of the deep-cut jacket. "Tell me how you could do it," she said to Gordon. "Kill Aaron. You're a man like Aaron, yourself."

  "I didn't do it," said Gordon bitterly. "I didn't want it done. It was a stupid, stupid, and vicious thing to do. And it happened before I could stop it. Same with Yuri and the gun. I had nothing to do with it. Yuri, in the coffee shop, when I told you I was concerned for your life, I meant it. There are some things which are simply beyond my control."

  "I want you to tell us everything now," said Michael Curry. He looked at Ash as he spoke. "We really can't restrain our friend here. And we wouldn't even if we could."

  "I'm not telling you anything more," said Gordon.

  "That's foolish," said Rowan.

  "No, it isn't," said Gordon. "It's the only move I have. Tell you what I know before you reach Tessa, and when you have her, you'll do away with me at once."

  "I'll probably do it anyway," said Ash. "You are buying a few hours of life."

  "Not so quick. There are many things I can tell you. You have no idea. You'll need much more than a few hours."

  Ash didn't reply.

  Gordon's shoulders slumped. He took a deep breath, eyeing his captors one by one again, and then returning to Ash. Ash had drawn back until he too was in the corner. He did not wish to be near this human, this feisty and vicious human whom he knew that he would eventually kill.

  He looked at his two witches. Rowan Mayfair sat with her hand on her knee, much as Ash did, and she raised her fingers now in a rolling gesture, begging him, perhaps, to be patient.

  The snap of a lighter startled Ash.

  "Mind if I smoke, Mr. Ash, in your fancy car?" asked Michael Curry from the front seat. His head was already bowed over the cigarette and the tiny flame.

  "Please, do what you wish," said Ash with a cordial smile.

  To his amazement, Michael Curry smiled back at him.

  "There's whiskey in this car," said Ash. "There is ice and water. Would any of you care for a drink?"

  "Yeah," said Michael Curry with a little sigh, exhaling the cigarette. "But in the name of virtue, I'll wait till after six."

  And this witch can father the Taltos, Ash thought, studying Michael Curry's profile and his slightly crude but charmingly proportioned features. His voice had a lust in it that surely extended to many things, thought Ash. Look at the way he is watching the buildings as we pass them. He misses nothing.

  Rowan Mayfair continued to look only at Ash.

  They had just left the city proper.

  "This is the right way," said Gordon, in a thick voice. "Keep going until I tell you."

  The old man looked away as if he were merely checking their position, but then his forehead struck the window hard, and he began to weep.

  No one spoke. Ash merely looked at his witches. Then he thought of the photograph of the red-haired one, and when he let his eyes drift to Yuri, who sat directly opposite, beside Rowan, he saw that Yuri's eyes were closed. He had curled up against the side of the car, his head turned away from them, and he too was shedding tears, without making much of a sound.

  Ash leant forward to lay a comforting hand on Yuri's leg.

  Fourteen

  IT WAS ONE o'clock, perhaps, when Mona woke up in the upstairs front bedroom, her eyes turned towards the oaks outside the window. Their branches were filled with bright Resurrection ferns, once again green from the recent spring rain.

  "Phone for you," said Eugenia.

  Mona almost said, God, I'm glad someone's here. But she didn't like admitting to anyone that she'd been spooked in the famous house earlier, and that her dreams had been deeply disturbing to her.

  Eugenia looked askance at Mona's big, billowy white cotton shirt. So what was wrong? It was loungewear, wasn't it? In the catalogs, they called them Poets' Shirts.

  "Oughtn't be sleepin' in your pretty clothes!" declared Eugenia. "And look at those beautiful big sleeves all rumpled, and that lace, that delicate lace."

  If only she could say Buzz off. "Eugenia, it's meant to be rumpled."

  There was a tall glass of milk, frosty, luscious looking, in Eugenia's hand. And in the other, an apple on a small white plate.

  "Who's this from?" asked Mona, "the Evil Queen?"

  Of course, Eugenia didn't know what she was talking about, but it didn't matter. Eugenia pointed to the phone again. Mona was about to pick up the phone when her mind, veering back to the dream, discovered the dream was gone. Like a veil snatched away, it left nothing but a faint memory of texture and color. And the very strange certainty that she must name her daughter Morrigan, a name she'd never heard before.

  "And what if you're a boy?" she asked.

  She picked up the receiver.

  It was Ryan. The funeral was over, and the Mayfair crowd was arriving at Bea's house. Lily was going to stay there for a few days, and so would Shelby and Aunt Vivian. Cecilia was uptown, seeing to Ancient Evelyn, and was doing well.

  "Could you offer some old-fashioned First Street hospitality to Mary Jane Mayfair for a while?" asked Ryan. "I can't take her down to Fontevrault till tomorrow. And besides, I think it would be good if you got to know her. And naturally, she's half in love with First and Chestnut and wants to ask you a thousand questions."

  "Bring her over," said Mona. The milk tasted good! It was just about the coldest milk she'd ever tasted, which killed all the ickiness of it, which she had never much liked. "I'd welcome her company," she went on. "This place is spooky, you are right."

  Instantly she wished she hadn't admitted it, that she, Mona Mayfair, had been spooked in the great house.

  But Ryan was off on the track of duty and organization and simply continued to explain that Granny Mayfair, down at Fontevrault, was being cared for by the little boy from Napoleonville, and that this was a good opportunity to persuade Mary Jane to get out of that ruin, and to move to town.

  "This girl needs the family. But she doesn't need any more of this grief and misery just now. Her first real visit has for obvious reasons been a disaster. She's in shell shock from the accident. You know she saw the entire accident. I want to get her out of here--"

  "Well, sure, but she'll feel closer to everybody afterwards," said Mona with a shrug. She took a big, wet, crunchy bite of the apple. God, was she hungry. "Ryan, have you ever heard of the name Morrigan?"

&
nbsp; "I don't think so."

  "There's never been a Morrigan Mayfair?"

  "Not that I remember. It's an old English name, isn't it?"

  "Hmmm. Think it's pretty?"

  "But what if the baby is a boy, Mona?"

  "It's not, I know," she said. And then caught herself. How in the world could she know? It was the dream, wasn't it, and it also must have been wishful thinking, the desire to have a girl child and bring her up free and strong, the way girls were almost never brought up.

  Ryan promised to be there within ten minutes.

  Mona sat against the pillows, looking out again at the Resurrection ferns and the bits and pieces of blue sky beyond. The house was silent all around her, Eugenia having disappeared. She crossed her bare legs, the shirt easily covering her knees with its thick lace hem. The sleeves were horribly rumpled, true, but so what? They were sleeves fit for a pirate. Who could keep anything like that neat? Did pirates? Pirates must have gone about rumpled. And Beatrice had bought so many of these things! It was supposed to be "youthful," Mona suspected. Well, it was pretty. Even had pearl buttons. Made her feel like a ... a little mother!

  She laughed. Boy, this apple was good.

  Mary Jane Mayfair. In a way, this was the only person in the family that Mona could possibly get excited about seeing, and on the other hand, what if Mary Jane started saying all kinds of wild and witchy things? What if she started running off at the mouth irresponsibly? Mona wouldn't be able to handle it.

  She took another bite of the apple. This will help with vitamin deficiencies, she thought, but she needed the supplements Annelle Salter had prescribed for her. She drank the rest of the milk in one Olympian gulp.

  "What about 'Ophelia'?" she said aloud. Would that be right, to name a girl child after poor mad Ophelia, who had drowned herself after Hamlet's rejection? Probably not. Ophelia's my secret name, she thought, and you're going to be called Morrigan.

  A great sense of well-being came over her. Morrigan. She closed her eyes and smelled the water, heard the waves crashing on the rocks.

  *

  A sound woke her, abruptly. She'd been asleep and she didn't know how long. Ryan was standing beside the bed, and Mary Jane Mayfair was with him.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," said Mona, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and coming round to greet them. Ryan was already backing out of the room.