Merrick - Anne Rice [17]
“What more?” I asked.
“Later on,” she said, her voice low and respectful, “when you disappeared quite completely, Aaron was certain that you’d been forcibly changed by Lestat. Nothing short of that could explain your sudden break in communication, coupled with the clear intelligence from your banks and agents that you were most definitely still alive. Aaron missed you desperately. His life had been consumed with the problems of the white Mayfairs, the Mayfair Witches. He needed your advice. He wrote many times in many ways that he was certain you never asked for the vampiric blood.”
For a long time I couldn’t speak to answer her. I didn’t weep because I don’t. I looked off, eyes roaming the empty café until they saw nothing, except perhaps the blur of the tourists as they crowded the street outside on their way to Jackson Square. I knew perfectly well how to be alone in the midst of a terrible moment, no matter where it actually occurred. I was alone now.
Then I let my mind drift back to him, my friend Aaron, my colleague, my companion. I seized on memories far larger than any one incident. I envisioned him, his genial face and clever gray eyes. I saw him strolling along the brightly lit Ocean Avenue in Miami Beach, looking wonderfully out of place and richly like a splendid ornament to the bizarre scenery, in his three-piece cotton pinstripe suit.
I let the pain have me. Murdered for the secrets of the Mayfair Witches. Murdered by renegade beings in the Talamasca. Of course he had not given up to the Order his report on me. It had been a time of troubles, hadn’t it, and he had ultimately been betrayed by the Order; and so my story would, within the fabled archives, remain forever incomplete.
“Was there more?” I asked Merrick finally.
“No. Only the same song with different rhythms. That was all.” She took another drink. “He was terribly happy at the end, you know.”
“Tell me.”
“Beatrice Mayfair, he loved her. He never expected to be happily married, but it had happened. She was a beautiful highly social woman, rather like three or four people rolled into one. He told me he’d never had so much fun in his life as he had with Beatrice, and she wasn’t a witch, of course.”
“I’m so very glad to hear it,” I said, my voice tremulous. “So Aaron became one of them, you might say.”
“Yes,” she answered. “In all respects.”
She shrugged, the empty glass in her hand. Why she waited to take more, I wasn’t certain; perhaps to impress me that she wasn’t the famous drunk that I knew her to be.
“But I don’t know anything about those white Mayfairs,” she said finally. “Aaron always kept me away from them. My work for the last few years had been in Voodoo. I’ve made trips to Haiti. I’ve written pages. You know I’m one of the few members of the Order who is studying her own psychic power, with a license from the Elders to use the damnable magic, as the Superior General calls it now.”
I hadn’t known this. It had never even occurred to me that she’d returned to Voodoo, which had cast its generous shadow over her youth. We had never in my time encouraged a witch to practice magic. Only the vampire in me could tolerate such a thought.
“Look,” she said, “it doesn’t matter that you didn’t write to Aaron.”
“Oh, doesn’t it?” I asked in a sharp whisper. But then I explained: “I simply couldn’t write to him. I simply couldn’t speak on the phone. As for seeing him, or letting him see me, it was out of the question!” I whispered.
“And it took five years,” she said, “for you to finally come to me.”
“Oh, right to the point!” I responded. “Five years or more to do it. And had Aaron lived on, who knows what I would have done? But the crucial factor was this: Aaron was old, Merrick. He was old and he might have asked me for the blood. When you’re old and you’re afraid, when you’re weary and you’re sick, when you’ve begun to suspect that your life means