Blood Canticle (14 page)

16

W
HY DID
I
LOVE HER
so much? Surely someone will read these pages and ask: What was so lovable about her? What was it that caused you, of all beings, so to love? You, a lover of men and women, a vampire, a destroyer of innocent souls, so to love? You, the focus of so much easy affection, and forever flaunting your hopeful stinging charm—why did you love her?

What should I say? I didn’t know her age. I can’t write it here. I can’t describe her hair other than to say it was clipped and turned-in on the ends, and her face was still smooth without the slightest trace of the furrows of age, and her figure boyish.

But one embraces such details in the boiling wake of the acknowledgement of such love. In and of themselves they are nothing. Or, if one believes that a woman so strong has shaped the lineaments of her face, the set of her brows, the straightness of her posture, the frankness of her gestures, the very way that her hair falls about her face, the length of her stride, the sound of her footfall—then perhaps they mean everything.

Beside the flaming red-haired Mona, she was the color of ashes, a woman drawn in charcoal, with a sexless and piercing gaze, and a soul so immense it seemed to fill every fiber of her frame and to emanate outwards into infinity, her knowledge of the world around her dwarfing that of everyone she’d ever known or would know.

Imagine it, such isolation.

She didn’t talk down to people. She simply didn’t talk to them. Only God knew the number of lives she’d saved. And only she knew the number of people she had murdered.

In the Mayfair Medical Center she had only just begun to fulfill her immense dreams. It was an engine of great and continuous healing. But what drew her through the world were projects yet unrevealed for which she had the wealth, the knowledge, the laserlike vision, the nerve and the personal energy.

What threatened this mammoth individual who had found for herself through tragedy and heritage the perfect goal? Her sanity. From time to time she gave in to madness as if it were strong drink, and when in her cups she fled from her sublime designs, drowning in memories and guilt, all judgment and sense of proportion lost, murmuring confessions of unworthiness and half-explored plots of escape that would seal her off forever from all expectations.

At this precious moment she regarded sanity as her State of Grace, and she saw me as the Demon who had brought her back to it.

For her I connected the two worlds. That meant that she could.

Blood Child.

She lusted for me. For the entirety of what I was—that is, for all she’d sensed in our three encounters, and what she knew to be true now, both from my profession and her apprehension.

She wanted me completely. It was a desire rooted in all her faculties, that overrode and obliterated her love of Michael. I knew it. How could I not? But she had no intention of yielding to it. And her will? It was iron. You can draw iron with charcoal too, can’t you?

17

T
HIS SECRET HAS TO BE KEPT
by you from anyone else,” Mona said. Her voice was quaking. She had a firm hold on Quinn’s hand. “If you keep it from everybody else, then in time I can come to be with them. I mean the rest of the family. I can know them for a little while. The way Quinn knows everybody at Blackwood Farm. I can have some time for my leave-taking. What did you mean when you called me Blood Child?”

Rowan looked at her across the round table. Then with sudden impersonal impatience, Rowan tore off the thick purple robe and stepped out of it, as if from a broken shell, a tense figure in a sleeveless white cotton nightgown.

“Let’s go out there,” she said, her soft deep voice more sure of itself, her head slightly bowed. “Let’s go where the other ones were buried. Stirling’s out there. I’ve always loved that place. Let’s talk in the garden.” She started walking, and only then did I notice she was barefoot. Her hem just skirted the floor.

Michael rose from the table and followed her. It seemed his eyes avoided ours. He caught up with Rowan and put his arm around her.

Immediately Mona led the way after them.

We passed through a classic butler’s pantry of high glass cabinets crammed full of vivid china, and then on through a modern kitchen, out French doors and down painted wooden steps onto a sprawling flagstone patio.

There ahead lay the huge octagonal swimming pool, shimmering with a wealth of submerged light and beyond that, a tall dignified cabana.

Long limestone balustrades enclosed the garden patches, which were bursting with tropical plants, and very suddenly the air was filled with the strong scent of the night jasmine.

Great arching branches of the rain tree poured over us from the left. And the cicadas sang loudly from the many crowding trees. There were no traffic sounds from the world beyond. The very air itself was blessed.

Mona gasped, and smiled and shook out her hair and turned for Quinn’s reassuring embrace, murmuring fast like a hummingbird beating its wings. “It’s all the same, so lovely, more lovely even than I remembered it. Nothing’s changed.”

Rowan stopped and looked up at the moving clouds as though allowing time for Mona to absorb it all. For one second she glared at me.
Blood Child. File folder of facts.
Then at Mona. Then at the clouds again. “Who would change such a place?” she asked gently in her low melodic voice, responding to Mona.

“We’re only the custodians,” said Michael. “Someday other Mayfairs will live here, long after we’re gone.”

We waited, clustered together. Quinn very anxious. Mona in bliss.

I scanned for the ghost of Julien. Nowhere around. Too risky with Michael able to see him.

From a black iron gateway to the left, Stirling came to meet us, ever the gentleman in crisp tailored linen, and strangely silent, and Rowan walked on, fearless in her bare feet, and pointed toward the garden from which Stirling had just come.

Stirling’s eyes locked on Mona for one quick intake of information, and then he went after Rowan and Michael back the way he had come.

We all followed into a different world, beyond the measurements of Italian balustrade and perfectly square flagstone.

It was all rampant elephant ear and banana trees back here, and a broad lawn beneath a huge old oak, and an iron table there and modern iron chairs, more comfortable I suspected than the relics of my courtyard. A high brick wall bounded the place opposite the gateway and a row of yews concealed it from the carport to the left, and an old two-story wooden servants’ quarters shut it off from the world to the right, the building itself mostly hidden from us by high thick ligustrum.

There was someone out there in the servants’ quarters. Sleeping. Dreaming. An elderly soul. Forget about it.

Wet earth, random flowers, mingling, rattling leaves in the wet summer air, all the night songs, scent of the river only eight blocks from here over the the Irish Channel, where a train whistle cut the night, leading the distant soft roar of box cars.

The cicadas died down suddenly, but the song of the tree frogs was strong, and there were the night birds, which only a vampire could hear.

Low lights along the cement path provided a very feeble illumination. And there were other such beacons scattered in the farthest reaches of the garden. Two floodlights fixed high in the oak spilled a soft luminescence over the scene. As for the moon, it was full but veiled behind the pink panoply of clouds, and so we were in a thin rosy and penetrable darkness, and all around us the garden was alive and balmy and seeking to feed upon us with countless tiny mouths.

As I stepped on the lawn I caught the faint scent of the alien species, the scent that Quinn had caught when he came here as a boy led by the ghost of Oncle Julien. I saw the scent hit Mona with her heightened gifts. She drew herself up as though revolted, and then took a deep breath. Quinn dipped down to kiss her.

Stirling played host with the gathering of the chairs about the table. He tried to disguise his amazement at the vision of Mona. The miracle of Quinn as vampire he’d seen in frightening circumstances, and then again, later, the night we went to tell him that Merrick Mayfair was no more. But Mona . . . he couldn’t quite keep it to himself.

Rowan’s snow white gown dragged in the mud. She didn’t care. She was murmuring or singing, I couldn’t tell which or catch any words or meaning to it. Michael stared at the oak as though talking to it. Then he took off his wrinkled white jacket. He put it over the back of a chair. But he stood staring at the tree as though finishing a soliloquy. He was a big chunk of a man, gorgeously made.

Stirling helped Mona to her chair, and bid Quinn to sit beside her. I waited for Rowan and Michael.

Suddenly Rowan turned and threw her arms around me. She fastened to me about as tight as a mortal woman could do it, so much divine silk and softness to me, whispering feverish words I couldn’t catch, eyes racing over me, while I stood stark still, my heart beating frantically. And then she began to touch me all over, open hands on my face, on my hair, then grabbing up my hands and slipping her fingers through my fingers. At last she thrust my hand between her legs and then drew back shuddering, letting me go and staring into my eyes.

I came quite close to losing my mind. Did anyone have a clue as to the crash and thunder inside me? I locked the casket of my heart. I punished it. I endured.

All this while, Michael never looked at us. He had sat down at some point, his back to the oak, facing Mona and Quinn, and he was talking to Mona, singing the fatherly chant again in a soothing voice as to how sweet and pretty she was, and that she was his darling daughter. I could see all that out of the corner of my eye, and then in sheer weakness, the lock inside me broke, and all was released. I gathered up Rowan’s supple limbs and I kissed her forehead, the hard sweet skin of her forehead, and then her soft unresisting lips, and let her loose arms go, watching her slip into the chair beside Michael. Silent. Done.

I went to the other side of the table and sat beside Mona. I was bitterly full of desire. It was unspeakable to need someone in this way. I closed my eyes and listened to the night. Ravenous, repulsive creatures singing magnificently. And working the soft fertile earth, creatures of such loathsomeness I couldn’t dwell on it. And the clatter of the riverfront train unendingly. And then the absurd song of the calliope on the riverboat that took the tourists up and down the waterway as they feasted and laughed and danced and sang.

“The Savage Garden,” I whispered. I turned away as if I hated them all.

“What did you say?” Rowan said. Her eyes broke from their feverish movement just for one moment.

Everyone went quiet, except the singing monsters. Monsters with wings and six or eight legs, or no legs at all.

“It’s just a phrase I used to use for the Earth,” I said, “in the old times when I didn’t believe in anything, when I believed the only laws were aesthetic laws. But I was young then and new to the Blood and stupid, expecting further miracles. Before I knew we knew more of nothing, and nothing more. Sometimes I think of the phrase again when the night is like this, so accidentally beautiful.”

“And now you do believe in something?” Michael asked.

“You surprise me,” I said. “I thought you’d expect me to know everything. Mortals usually do.”

He shook his head. “I suppose I have a sense,” he said, “that you’re figuring it all out step by step, like the rest of us.” He let his eyes wander over the banana trees behind me. He seemed preoccupied by the night, and deeply hurt by things I couldn’t hope to learn from him. He didn’t mean to show it off, this hurt. It simply became too great for him to conceal, and so his mind drifted, almost out of courtesy.

Mona was struggling not to cry. This place, this secret backyard, so well hidden from the world of the Garden District streets with its crowded houses, was obviously sacred to her. She slipped her right hand into my left. Her left hand was in Quinn’s hand, and I knew she held him as tight as she held me, pressing for reassurance over and over again.

As for my beloved Quinn, he was severely discomforted and unsure of everything. He studied Rowan and Michael uneasily. Never had he been with this many mortals who knew what he was. In fact, he had never been with more than one, and that was Stirling. He, too, sensed the presence of the old one in the back house. He didn’t like it.

And Stirling, who had correctly surmised that the disclosure had been made, that Rowan was now subdued and deep in thought, seemed frightened in a dignified way also. He was to my far left, and his eyes were on Rowan.

“What do you believe in now?” Mona asked me, her voice unsteady but insistent. “I mean, if the old resignation of the Savage Garden was wrong, what has replaced it?”

“Belief in The Maker,” I replied, “who put it all together with love and purpose. What else?”

“Amen,” said Michael with a sigh, “someone better than us, has to be—somebody better than every creature who walks the Earth, somebody who shows compassion. . . .”

“Will you show compassion to us?” Quinn asked. It was sharp. He looked directly at Michael. “I want my secret kept as well as Mona’s.”

“Trouble with you is you think you’re still human,” Michael replied. “Your secret’s utterly safe. It will be exactly the way you want it. Wait a safe period of time. Then Mona can return to the family. It’s not a difficult thing at all.”

“This seems amazingly easy for you,” Quinn replied suspiciously. “Why is that so?”

Michael gave a short bitter laugh. “You have to understand what the Taltos was, and what they did to us.”

Rowan said in a low voice, “And what I did to one of them too quickly, too foolishly.” Her eyes moved away into memory.

“I don’t know or understand,” said Quinn. “I think what Lestat had in mind was an exchange of secrets. There are things Mona simply can’t explain. They hurt her too much. They involve you. She becomes caught up in a web of loyalty, and she can’t be free. But one thing is clear. She wants to find her daughter, Morrigan.”

“I don’t know if we can help,” said Michael.

“I can look for Morrigan now myself,” Mona protested. “I’m strong again.” Her hand tightened on mine. “But you have to tell me all you know. For two years I lay in that bed confused and crazy. I’m still mixed-up. I don’t know why you haven’t found my daughter.”

“We’ll take you all through it again,” said Michael soothingly.

Rowan murmured under her breath, then came to the surface, eyes remote, uncertain, moving rapidly again over the table as over nothing.

“I knew about you,” she said. Her words were hushed and ran on smoothly, “I mean, what you are—Blood Children, Blood Hunters, Vampires. I knew. It wasn’t a simple matter. Michael knew. The knowledge came in stages.” She looked directly at me for the first time as she continued:

“I had seen one of your kind one time, walking, in the Quarter. It was a male with black hair, very handsome, and set apart from everything around him. He appeared to be searching for someone. I’d felt a paralytic conflict, an attraction to him, and a fear of him also. You know my powers. They’re not developed as they ought to be. I’m a witch who won’t be a witch, a Mad Scientist who won’t be Mad. I wanted to know
about
him. I wanted to follow him. It was a long time ago. I never forgot about it—knowing he wasn’t human, and that he wasn’t a ghost. I don’t think I told anyone about him.

“But then this woman disappeared from the Talamasca. Her name was Merrick Mayfair. I hadn’t known her, but I’d known of her—that she was a colored Mayfair, descended from a downtown branch of the family. I can’t remember. I think it was Lily Mayfair, yes, or was it Lauren—I despise Lauren, Lauren has an evil mind—Lauren who told me there were lots of colored Mayfairs, but this Merrick wasn’t very close to any of them. This Merrick, she had tremendous psychic powers. She knew about us, the First Street gang, but she really didn’t want contact. She’d spent most of her life in the Talamasca and we’d never even known of her. Mayfairs hate it when they don’t know about Mayfairs.

“Lauren said that she’d come once, this Merrick Mayfair, when the house was opened for a Holiday Tour, you know, a benefit for the Preservationists, after Michael had restored everything, after all the bad times were over, and before Mona was really sick. This person, Merrick, she’d gone through First Street with the tourists, imagine, just to see the nucleus. And we hadn’t been here. We hadn’t known.”

A sword went through me at these words. I glanced at Stirling. He too was suffering. I flashed back on Merrick climbing on the flaming altar, taking with her into the Light the spirit that had plagued Quinn all of his life. Don’t reveal. Don’t revive. Can’t help.

But Rowan was talking about a time long before the other night when Merrick disappeared forever. Rowan was talking about Merrick’s turning to us.

“Then she disappeared,” Rowan said, “and the Talamasca was thrown into confusion. Merrick gone. Whispers of evil. That’s when Stirling Oliver came South.” She looked at Stirling. He was watching her fearfully but calmly.