Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [37]
(I am also fabulously and mysteriously and undeniably wealthy, but who cares?)
I felt compelled to go see Stirling at the Retreat House and tell him what had happened with Mona. But why?
Stirling wasn’t Pope Gregory the Great, for the love of Heaven, and I wasn’t Saint Lestat. I didn’t have to go to Confession for what I’d done to Mona, but a terrible Contrition settled over me, a profound awareness that all my powers were dark powers and all my talents evil talents, and nothing could come from me but evil no matter what I did.
Besides, hadn’t Stirling told Quinn last night that Mona was dying? What had been the meaning of that information? Wasn’t he in some way in collusion with what had happened? No. He wasn’t. Quinn hadn’t left him last night to seek out Mona. Mona had come to Blackwood Manor on her own.
“Sooner or later, I’ll explain all this to Stirling,” I said under my breath. “It’s as though Stirling will absolve me but that just isn’t true.” I looked at Quinn. “Can you still hear her?”
He nodded. “She’s just walking, looking at things,” he said. He was distracted, the pupils in his eyes dancing slowly. “Why tell Stirling?” he asked. “Stirling can’t tell the Mayfairs. Why burden him with the secret?” He sat forward. “She’s wandering along Jackson Square. A man’s following her. She’s leading him. He senses something isn’t right with her. And she’s on to him. She knows what he wants. She’s luring him. She’s certainly having a great time in Aunt Queen’s high-heel shoes.”
“Stop watching her,” I said. “I mean it. Let me tell you something about your little girl. She’s going to make herself known to the Mayfairs very soon on her own. Nothing’s going to stop her. There are things she wants to know from the Mayfairs. I had a sense of it when—.”
The room was empty. No Quinn. I was talking to all the furniture.
I heard the back door open and close, it was that fast.
I stretched out and scrunched down and put my head back and drifted, eyes shut at once.
I was half dreaming. Why the Hell hadn’t I fed? Of course I didn’t need to feed every night or even every month, but when you work the Dark Trick, no matter who you are, you must feed afterwards, you’re giving from the very sap stream of your life. All is vanity. All is vanity under the sun and under the moon.
I’d been in a weakened state when I’d gone down to deal with Rowan Mayfair, that was my problem, that was why the creature obsessed me. Never mind.
Someone pushed my foot off the desk chair. I heard a woman’s piercing laugh; I heard dozens of people laughing. Heavy cigar smoke. Glass breaking. I opened my eyes. The flat was full of people! Both windows to the front balcony were open and it was jammed with people, women in long low-cut sparkling dresses, men in fine black dinner jackets with flashing black satin lapels, the roar of conversation and merriment almost deafening, but deafening to whom, and a tray went by, held high by a waiter in a white coat who all but tripped over my legs, and there sat a child on the desk, a rosy child, staring at me, a dainty girl with quick black eyes and beautifully waved black hair, seven or eight, enchanting, precious.
“Ducky, I’m sorry!” she said, “but you’re in our world now, I do hate to say it. We have you!” She was mocking up a British accent. She had on a little sailor dress, white with blue trim, and high white socks and little black Mary Janes. She drew up her knees. “Lestat,” she laughed. She pointed at me.
Then, down into the desk chair facing me, slipped Oncle Julien, dressed for the party, white tie, white cuffs, white hair. The crowd pressed in on him. Someone was shouting from the balcony.
“She’s right, Lestat,” Oncle Julien said in flawless French, “we have you in our world now, and I must say you have a divine apartment here, and I so admire the paintings which have only just come from Paris, you and your friends are so very clever, and the furniture, there is so much of it, yes, it seems you’ve crammed every nook and