Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [121]
I went out into the night, restless, hearing those other blood drinkers, a young pair, fearful of me and rightly so, yet very attentive to what I did, for what reason I was unsure. I sent a silent message to all the immortal trash that might perturb me: Do not come near me for I am in a grand passion and will not tolerate being interrupted now.
I crept into the Church of San Paolino and knelt down as I looked at The Lamentation. I ran my tongue against my sharp teeth. I hungered for blood as the beauty of the figures filled me. I could have taken a victim in the very church.
And then the most evil idea came to me. It was purely evil just as the painting was purely religious. The idea came to me unbidden as if there really were a Satan in the world and that Satan had come crawling along the stone floor towards me and put the idea in my mind.
“You love him, Marius,” said this Satan. “Well, bring him over to you. Give Botticelli the Blood.”
I shivered quietly in the church. I slipped down, sitting against the stone wall. Again I felt the thirst. I was horrified that I had even thought of it yet I saw myself taking Botticelli in my arms. I saw myself sinking my teeth into Botticelli’s throat. The blood of Botticelli. I thought of it. And my blood, my blood given to him.
“Think how you have waited, Marius,” said the evil voice of Satan. “All these long centuries you have never given your blood to anyone. But you can give it to Botticelli! You can take Botticelli now.”
He would go on painting; he would have the Blood and his painting would be unparalleled. He would live forever with his talent—this humble man of some forty years who was grateful for a mere purse of gold—this humble man who had done the exquisite Christ I stared at, his head thrown back in the hand of Mary, whose eyes were pressed to his mouth.
This was not something that would be done. No, this must never be done. I could not do it. I would not do it.
Yet I rose slowly to my feet and I left the church and began walking through the dark narrow street, towards Botticelli’s house.
I could hear my heart inside me. And my mind seemed curiously empty, and my body light and predatory and full of evil, an evil which I freely admitted and totally understood. A high excitement filled me. Take Botticelli in your arms. Forever in your arms.
And though I heard those other blood drinkers, those two young ones who followed me, I did not pay it any mind. They were far too fearful of me to come close to me. On I went for what I would choose to do.
It was no more than a few blocks and I was there at Sandro’s door and the lights were burning inside, and I had a purse of gold.
Drifting, dreaming, thirsting, I knocked as I had the first time.
No, this is something you will never do, I thought. You will not take someone so vital out of the world. You will not disturb the destiny of one who has given others so much to love and enjoy.
It was Sandro’s brother who came to the door, but this time he was courteous to me and he showed me into the shop where Botticelli was alone and at work.
He turned to greet me as soon as I entered the spacious room.
There loomed behind him a large panel, with a shockingly different aspect to it from any of his other work. I let my eyes drift over it for I thought this was what he wanted me to do, and I don’t think I could hide from him my disapproval or fear.
The blood hunger surged in me, but I put it away and stared only at the painting, thinking of nothing, not of Sandro, not of his death and rebirth through me, no, of nothing but the painting as I pretended to be human for him.
It was a grim and chilling painting of the Trinity,