Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [41]
He was wearing something, I suppose. What was it? Oh, yeah, the de rigueur New Orleans white linen three-piece suit.
Suspicion. I caught it from both Michael and Rowan. And I knew that Michael was as strong a witch as she was, though in wholly different ways. I knew too that he had taken life. She’d done it with the force of her mind. He’d done it with the strength of his fist. It seemed that other invaluable secrets were going to slip right through his gaze when suddenly he closed himself off from me artfully yet completely naturally. And he began to speak.
“I saw you at the funeral for Miss McQueen,” he said. New Orleans Irish voice. “You were with Quinn and Merrick Mayfair. You’re Quinn’s friend. You have a beautiful name. It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I met Rowan yesterday at Blackwood Manor. I have news for you both. Mona’s doing well, but she doesn’t want to come home.”
“That’s not possible,” said Rowan before she could stop herself. “That simply can’t be.”
She was beyond exhaustion. She’d been crying and crying for Mona. I didn’t dare try to draw her in as I’d done yesterday, not in front of this man. The chills came again. A wild vision possessed me of snatching her up and away from this place, my teeth pressed to her tender neck, her blood mine, all the chambers of her soul yielding to me. I banished it. Michael Curry was watching me, but the man’s mind was on Mona.
“I’m happy for Mona,” he volunteered now, putting his hand over Rowan’s hand on the arm of the wicker chair. “Mona’s where she wants to be. Quinn’s strong. He always was. When that kid was eighteen, he had the poise of a full-grown man.” He laughed softly. “He wanted to marry Mona the first time he saw her.”
“She is doing better,” I insisted. “I swore I’d tell you if she needed you.” I gave Rowan my level gaze. “I will tell you. It makes her happy to be with Quinn.”
“I knew it would,” said Rowan, “but she can’t survive off dialysis.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what dialysis was. Oh, I’d heard the word, but I really didn’t know enough about it to bluff.
Standing behind her, indeed behind the cluster of flowers just over her shoulder, was the figure of Julien, with a grim smile on his lips, taking visible pleasure in my confusion.
A little shock went through me when my eyes met his, and suddenly Michael Curry turned and looked in that direction, but the figure had vanished. Hmmm. So this mortal sees ghosts. Rowan was unchanged. Rowan was examining me all too closely.
“Who is Stella?” I asked, looking again into Rowan’s eyes. My only hope was to keep her talking. She was staring at my hand. I didn’t like it.
“Stella? You mean Stella Mayfair?” she asked. Her low voice was sultry in spite of herself. She was feverish. She needed sleep in a cold room. Involuntary flash of the sorrow inside her, the knot of secrets. “What do you want to know about Stella Mayfair?”
Stirling was very uneasy. He felt deceitful but there was nothing I could do about it. So he was the confidant of the family, of course.
“A little girl,” I said, “who calls people Ducky, and has black wavy hair. Picture her in a little white sailor dress trimmed in blue, with high socks and Mary Janes. Does it ring a bell?”
Michael Curry let out a genial laugh. I looked at him.
“You’re describing Stella Mayfair all right. One time Julien Mayfair told me this story—Julien was one of the mentors of the Mayfair family—the story was all about Julien taking little Stella downtown with him, Stella and her brother Lionel Mayfair—he’s the one who shot and killed Stella—but in the story Stella was wearing a sailor dress and Mary Janes. Oncle Julien described it. At least I think he did. No. He didn’t describe it. But I saw her that way. Yeah, I saw her that way. Why in the world would you ask such a question? Of course I’m not referring to the living breathing Julien. But that’s another tale.”
“Oh, I know you’re not. You’re referring to his ghost,” I answered. “But tell me, I’m just curious,