Blackwood Farm - Anne Rice [41]
He hesitated, shaking his head.
“I think it was the eye,” he said, “the eye which gave them the claim on me, the ability to reach down to me, in this realm, and take me—it was the eye, stolen in another dominion and then returned on Earth to its rightful socket. You might say that as they looked down from their lofty Heaven, if Heaven it is, they could see, through the mists of Earth, this bright and shining eye.”
He sighed as if he were suddenly miserable. He looked at me searchingly.
“This wounded eye, this tarnished eye,” he continued, “gave them their compass to find me, their opening, as it were, between the dominions, and down they came to enlist my spirit against my will.”
“Where did they take you? What did they do?”
“Oh, if I only knew that they were Heavenly beings,” he declared in a low passionate voice. “If I only knew that Memnoch the Devil and those who came after him had shown me truths! It would all be a different matter and I could somehow save my soul!”
“But you don’t know. They never convinced you,” I pushed.
“How can I accept a world full of injustice, along with their august designs?”
He shook his head again and looked off and then down, as though searching for some spot for his focus, and then back to me as he went on.
“I can’t entirely accept what I learned from Memnoch and those who came afterwards. I’ve never told anyone of my last spiritual adventure, though the others, the Blood Drinkers who love me—you know, my lusty troop of beloveds, I call them that now, the Troop of Beloveds—they know that something happened, they sense it only too well. I don’t even know which of my bodies was the true one—the body that lay on the floor of the chapel of St. Elizabeth’s, or the body that roamed with the so-called angels. I was an unwilling trafficker in knowledge and illusions. The story of my last adventure, my secret unknown adventure, the adventure I haven’t confided to anyone, weighs on my soul as if to make my spiritual breath die out.”
“Can you tell me now of this adventure?” I asked.
It took a great sense of power in him, I thought, to look so readily abject, to show me such affliction.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t the strength for the telling of that story yet, that’s the plain truth.”
He shrugged and shook his head and then continued:
“I need more than strength. I need courage for that confession, and right now my heart’s warm from being with you. You have a story to tell, yes, or we have a story to live together. Right now my greedy heart is fastened to you.”
I was overcome. I cried like a silent baby. I blew my nose and tried to remain calm. Blood on the handkerchief. Body of Blood. Mind of Blood. Flash of his eyes on me. Violet.
“I should take my good fortune,” I said, “and not question it, but I can’t resist. What’s kept you from destroying me, from punishing me for coming into your flat, for doing what I did to Stirling? I have to know.”
“Why do you have to know?” he asked, laughing softly. “Why is it so very important to know?”
I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. I wiped at my eyes again.
“Is it vanity in me to press the question?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said, grinning. “But shouldn’t I understand? I, the most vain of creatures?” He chuckled. “Didn’t you see me preening for your aunt downstairs?”
I nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Here comes the litany of reasons I didn’t kill you. I like you. I like that you have a woman’s lineaments and a man’s body, a boy’s curious eyes and a man’s large easy gestures, a child’s frank words and a man’s voice, a blundering manner and an honest grace.”
He smiled at me quite deliberately, and winked his right eye, and then went on.
“I like that you loved Stirling,” he said. “I like that you honor your glorious Aunt Queen so candidly.” He smiled mischievously. “Maybe I even like it that you went down on your knees and kissed her feet, though that