Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [144]
I wanted this child—this boy who was now two years older than when I’d found him—and yet I wanted everything else for him, and my soul was torn, just as his heart was torn.
Never before had I wanted such a thing, to make a blood drinker for my own companionship, indeed to educate a mortal youth for this very purpose, and to groom him expertly that he might be the finest choice.
But I wanted it now and it filled my thoughts during every waking hour, and I found no consolation looking at my cold Mother and Father. I heard no answer to my prayer.
I lay down to sleep in the shrine and knew only dark and troubled dreams.
I saw the garden, the very one I had painted on the walls eternally, and I was walking in it as always, and there was fruit on the low-hanging trees. There came Amadeo walking near me, and suddenly there came from his mouth a chilling cruel laughter.
“A sacrifice?” he asked, “for Bianca? How can such a thing be?”
I woke with a start, and sat up, rubbing the backs of my arms, and shaking my head, trying to free myself from the dream.
“I don’t know the answer,” I whispered, as though he were there near me, as though his spirit had traveled to the place where I sat.
“Except she was already a young woman when I came upon her,” I responded, “educated and forced into life, indeed a murderess; yes, indeed, a murderess, a child woman guilty of dreadful crimes. And you, you were a helpless child. I could mold you and change you, all of which I’ve done.
“It’s true, I thought you were a painter,” I continued, “that you had the gift for painting, and I know that it’s still in you, and that did sway me, too. But when all is said and done, I don’t know why you distracted me, only that it was done.”
I lay back down to sleep once more, lying on my side rather carelessly, staring up at the glimmering eye of Akasha. At the harsh lines of the face of Enkil.
I thought back over the centuries to Eudoxia. I remembered her terrible death. I remembered her burning body as it lay upon the floor of the shrine in the very place where I lay now.
I thought of Pandora. Where is my Pandora? And then finally I drifted into sleep.
When I returned to the palazzo, coming down from the roof as was always my custom, things were not as I would have them, for all the company was solemn at supper, and Vincenzo told me anxiously that a “strange man” had come to visit me, and that he stood in the anteroom and would not come in.
The boys had been finishing one of my murals in the anteroom, and they had hastily left this “strange man” to himself. Only Amadeo had remained behind, doing some small work with little enthusiasm, his eyes upon this “strange man” in a manner which gave Vincenzo concern.
As if that were not enough, Bianca had been to visit, indeed to give me a gift from Florence, a small painting by Botticelli; and she had had “uneasy” conversation with this “strange man” and had told Vincenzo to keep watch on him. Bianca was gone. The “strange man” remained.
I went into the anteroom immediately, but I had felt the presence of this creature before I saw who it was.
It was Mael.
Not for a single second did I not know him. He was unchanged just as I am unchanged, and he had not paid much attention to the fashion of these times, any more than he had paid attention to the fashion of times in the past.
He looked dreadful in fact in a ragged leather jerkin and leggings with holes in them and his boots were tied with rope.
His hair was dirty and tangled but his face wore an amazingly pleasant expression, and when he saw me he came at once to me and embraced me.
“You’re really here,” he said in a low voice, as though we had to whisper under my roof. He spoke the old Latin. “I heard of it but I didn’t believe it. Oh, I’m so glad to see you. I’m glad you’re still . . .”
“Yes, I know what you mean to say,” I said. “I’m still the watcher of the years passing; I’m still the witness surviving in the Blood.”
“Oh, you put it far better than I could,” he answered. “But let me say it again,