The queen of the damned - Anne Rice [212]
“But what have I to do with such paltry things, my love?” she whispered. “And you would teach me of your world? Ah, such vanity. I am beyond time as I have always been.”
But she was gazing at me now with the most heartbroken expression. Sorrow, that’s what I saw in her.
“I need you!” she whispered. And for the first time her eyes filled with tears.
I couldn’t bear it. I felt the chills rise, as they always do, at moments of surprising pain. But she put her fingers to my lips to silence me.
“Very well, my love,” she said. “We’ll go to your brothers and sisters, if you wish it. We’ll go to Marius. But first, let me hold you one more time, close to my heart. You see, I cannot be other than what I would be. This is what you waked with your singing; this is what I am!”
I wanted to protest, to deny it; I wanted again to begin the argument that would divide us and hurt her. But I couldn’t find the words as I looked into her eyes. And suddenly I realized what had happened.
I had found the way to stop her; I had found the key; it had been there before me all the time. It was not her love for me; it was her need of me; the need of one ally in all the great realm; one kindred soul made of the same stuff that she was made of. And she had believed she could make me like herself, and now she knew she could not.
“Ah, but you are wrong,” she said, her tears shimmering. “You are only young and afraid.” She smiled. “You belong to me. And if it has to be, my prince, I’ll destroy you.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I knew what I had seen; I knew even as she couldn’t accept it. Not in all the long centuries of stillness had she ever been alone; had she ever suffered the ultimate isolation. Oh, it was not such a simple thing as Enkil by her side, or Marius come to lay before her his offerings; it was something deeper, infinitely more important than that; she had never all alone waged a war of reason with those around her!
The tears were flowing down her cheeks. Two violent streaks of red. Her mouth was slack; her eyebrows knit in a dark frown, though her face would never be anything but radiant.
“No, Lestat,” she said again. “You are wrong. But we must see this through now to the finish; if they must die—all of them—so that you cleave to me, so be it.” She opened her arms.
I wanted to move away; I wanted to rail against her again, against her threats; but I didn’t move as she came closer.
Here; the warm Caribbean breeze; her hands moving up my back; her fingers slipping through my hair. The nectar flowing into me again, flooding my heart. And her lips on my throat finally; the sudden stab of her teeth through my flesh. Yes! As it had been in the shrine, so long ago, yes! Her blood and my blood. And the deafening thunder of her heart, yes! And it was ecstasy and yet I couldn’t yield; I couldn’t do it; and she knew it.
8
THE STORY OF THE TWINS
CONCLUSION
WE FOUND the palace the same as we remembered it, or perhaps a little more lavish, with more booty from conquered lands. More gold drapery, and even more vivid paintings; and twice as many slaves about, as if they were mere ornaments, their lean naked bodies hung with gold and jewels.
“To a royal cell we were now committed, with graceful chairs and tables, and a fine carpet, and dishes of meat and fish to eat.
“Then at sunset, we heard cheers as the King and the Queen appeared in the palace; all the court went to bow to them, singing anthems to the beauty of their pale skin and their shimmering