Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [160]
I released him. I let him fall on his knees beside the bed, spilling his tears as he cried.
I sat at the desk.
“How long do you think I’ve wandered this Earth?” I asked. “Do you know how many times it had crossed my mind in carelessness and wanton temper to make another blood drinker? But I did not do it, Amadeo. Not until my eyes fell upon you. I tell you, Bianca is not to be what we are.”
“She’ll grow old and die!” he whispered. His shoulders moved with his sobs. “Are we to see it? Are we to watch this happen? And what will she think of us as the years pass?”
“Amadeo, stop with this. You cannot make all of them what we are. You cannot make one after another without conscience or imagination. You cannot! For everyone there must be preparation, learning, discipline. For everyone there must be care.”
Finally he dried his tears. He stood up and he turned to face me. There seemed an awful calm in him, an unhappy and grim calm.
And then there came a solemn question from his lips.
“Why did you choose me, Master?” he asked.
I was frightened at this question, and I think he saw it before I could hide it. And I marveled that I had been so unprepared to answer such a thing.
I felt no tenderness for him suddenly, for he seemed so strong as he stood there, so very certain of himself and of the question which he had just put to me.
“Did you not ask me for the Blood, Amadeo?” I responded, my voice cool. I was trembling. How deeply I loved him, and how I didn’t want him to know.
“Oh, yes, sir,” he responded in a small, calm voice, “indeed I did ask you but that was after many a taste of your power, was it not?” He paused, then continued. “Why did you choose me for those kisses? Why did you choose me for the final gift?”
“I loved you,” I said without further ado.
He shook his head.
“I think there’s more to it,” he answered.
“Then be my teacher,” I answered.
He came closer to me, and looked down at me as I remained seated at my desk.
“There’s a bitter cold in me,” he said, “a cold which comes from a distant land. And nothing ever really makes it warm. Even the Blood did not make it warm. You knew of this cold. You tried a thousand times to melt it, and transform it to something more brilliant, but you never succeeded. And then on the night that I came near to death—no, was, in fact, dying—you counted upon that cold to give me the stamina for the Blood.”
I nodded. I looked away, but he put his hand on my shoulder.
“Look at me, please, sir,” he said. “Isn’t it so?” His face was serene.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s so.”
“Why do you shrink from me as I ask this question?” he pressed.
“Amadeo,” I said, speaking firmly, “is this a curse, this Blood?”
“No,” he answered quickly.
“Think on it before you answer. Is it a curse!” I declared.
“No,” he said again.
“Then cease your questions. Don’t seek to anger me or embitter me. Let me teach you what I have to teach.”
He had lost this little battle and he walked away from me, looking once more like the child, though his full seventeen years as a mortal had rendered him more than that.
He climbed upon the bed, and curled his legs beneath him, sitting there motionless in the alcove of red taffeta and red light.
“Take me back to my home, Master,” he said. “Take me back to Russia where I was born. You can take me there, I know you can. You have that power. You can find the place.”
“Why, Amadeo?”
“I must see it to forget it. I must know for certain that it was . . . what it was.”
I thought on this for a long time before I answered.
“Very well. You will tell me all you remember and I will take you where you want to go. And into the hands of your human family you can place whatever wealth you wish.”
He said nothing to this.
“But our secrets will be kept from them, as our secrets are kept from everyone.”
He nodded.