Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [32]
But I’m not a saint. And that didn’t even take five minutes and you know it, so don’t complain. It’s just that I cannot forget my passion to be officially canonized.
Alas. Anon. Alors. Mais oui. Eh bien. Proceed to Chapter Eight directly.
8
SO, NOBODY EVER ACCUSED ME of acquiring any real wisdom in my two hundred years on this Earth. I know only one way to proceed.
Clem let us out in front of the hotel, a new one, quite luxurious, and most expensive, and in the thick of things, so to speak, with an address on Canal Street, the great shabby divide of New Orleans, and an entrance out back to the French Quarter, the little world I preferred.
Mona was in such a trance that we had to propel her to the elevator, I on her left and Quinn on her right. Naturally everyone in the lobby took note of us—not because we were blood-sucking immortals bent on destroying two of our kind on the fifteenth floor, but because we were exceedingly and severely gorgeous, especially Mona, wrapped in feathers and shimmering fabric and poised atop a pair of breakneck heels.
Quinn was thirsting now as strongly as Mona was, and it would see him through what we had to do.
But I wasn’t immune to the questions he’d raised in the car. Poetry, love. And me secretly aspiring to sanctity! What an everlasting life! And remember, honorary Children of the Night, what I said about telepathy. It ain’t the real thing, no matter how good it is.
As soon as we reached the suite, I pushed the door in fairly quietly, without breaking its hinges, since I intended to close it again, and the spectacle into which I plunged on feline feet astonished me.
Ah, the Savage Garden of this Earth that hath such creatures in it!
The mavericks were dancing in dim light to the most intense music—a Bartók concerto for violin and orchestra flooding the room at max volume. The music was sad, ripping, overpowering—a command to abandon all things cheap and tawdry, a full-blown engulfing majesty.
And though they themselves were infinitely more arresting than I had ever anticipated, these two, I spied beyond them on the long deep burgundy-colored couch a cluster of mortal children, bruised, unconscious and obviously being used at random as blood victims.
All three of us were in the room with the door closed, and the insurgents danced oblivious to us, their senses drenched in lustrous sound and rhythm.
They were absolutely spectacular in appearance, with tanned skin, rippling jet black hair to the waist—being both of Semitic or Arabic descent—very tall and with large facial features, including magnificent mouths, and they were inherently graceful. They danced with closed eyes, oval faces serene, in huge swaying and arching gestures, humming through closed lips to the music, and the male, who was on the surface almost indistinguishable from the female, every now and then shook out his immense veil of hair and swung it rapidly around him in a circle.
Their sleek black leather clothes were stunning and unisexual. Supple pants, sleeveless and collarless tops. They wore gold bracelets on their naked upper and lower arms. They embraced each other now and then and let each other go, and as we watched, the female dipped down into the cluster of mortal children and brought up to her lips a limp little boy, and drank from him.
Mona let out a scream at the sight of this, and at once the two vampires froze, staring at us. So similar were their movements, one would have thought they were grand automatons operated by a central system. The unconscious child was dropped to the couch.
My heart became a little knot inside me. I could scarcely breathe. The music flooded my brain, the ripping, sad, compelling voice of the violin.
“Quinn, shut it off,” I said, and scarcely had I spoken when the music stopped. The parlor was plunged into a ringing vibrant silence.
The pair drew together. The figure they made was statuesque.
They had exquisite arched black eyebrows, heavily lidded eyes with thick eyelashes. Arabic, yes, from