Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [36]
Quinn had only been here once and only under the most lamentable circumstances, and he was suddenly enthralled by the Impressionist paintings, which were quite divine. But it was the new and slightly somber Gauguin which caught my eye for a moment. Now, that was my purchase and had only been delivered in the last few days. Quinn hooked into that one too.
I made my usual beeline for the front parlor over the street, peeking into each and every bedroom on the way, as though I really needed to, in order to know that no one was home. The place had too much furniture. Not enough paintings. Too many books. What the hallway needed was Emile Nolde. How could I get my hands on the German Expressionists?
“I think I should go after her,” Quinn said. He followed me, taking in everything reverently, mind on Mona, no doubt monitoring her every move.
Front parlor. Piano. There was no piano now. I should tell them to get a piano. Hadn’t we passed an antique piano in a window? I had a sudden urge to play the piano—to use my vampiric gift to rip at the keys. It was that Bartók concerto still assaulting my mind, and the picture of those two macabre dancers accentuating the music.
Oh, give me all things human.
“I think I should go get her,” Quinn said.
“Listen, I’m not one to talk much about gender,” I said, flopping down in my favorite of the velvet wing chairs and throwing one foot up on the chair before the desk, “but you have to realize that she’s experiencing a freedom you and I don’t appreciate as men. She’s walking in the darkness and she’s afraid of nothing, and she loves it. And just maybe, just maybe she wants to taste a little mortal blood and she’s willing to take the risk.”
“She’s a magnet,” he whispered. He stood at the window, his hand pulling gently at the lace. “She doesn’t know I’m tracking her. She isn’t that far away. She’s taking her time. I hear her idle thoughts. She’s walking too fast. Somebody’s going to notice—.”
“Why are you suffering, Little Brother?” I asked. “Do you hate me for bringing her over? Do you wish it hadn’t been done?”
He turned and looked at me as though I’d grabbed him by the arm.
“No,” he said. He walked away from the window and sort of tumbled into the chair in the far corner opposite me, diagonally, his long legs sprawling as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I would have tried it if you hadn’t come,” he admitted. “I couldn’t have watched her die. At least I don’t think so. But I am suffering, you’re right. Lestat, you can’t leave us. Lestat, why are those guards outside the house?”
“Did I say I would leave you?” I countered. “I hired those guards after Stirling came here,” I said. “Oh, it’s not that I think any of the Talamasca will come back here. It’s just that if Stirling could walk right in here, then somebody else might.”
(Flash on the Talamasca: Order of Psychic Detectives. Don’t know their own Origins. At least a thousand years old, maybe much older. Keep records on all sorts of paranormal phenomena. Reach out to the telepathically gifted and isolated. Know about us.)
Quinn and I had visited with Stirling at the Oak Haven Retreat House of the Talamasca right after the exorcism of Goblin, and the immolation of Merrick Mayfair. Merrick Mayfair had grown up in the Talamasca. Stirling had a right to know she was no longer one of the (sigh) Undead. The Retreat House was an immense square plantation house on the River Road just outside of town.
Stirling Oliver had not only been a friend of Quinn’s during his mortal years, but he was a friend of Mona’s as well. The Talamasca knew much more about the entire Mayfair family than they knew about me.
It gave me no pleasure to think of Stirling now, much as I admired him and liked him. Stirling was about sixty-five years old and very dedicated to the highest principles of the Order, which for all its avowed secularity might have been Roman Catholic with its strictures against meddling in the affairs of the world or using supernatural persons or forces for one’s own ends. If the Order hadn’t been so fabulously