The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [182]
“Stay alive, you don’t want to die, no, stay alive,” I crooned, rubbing my fingers up through his hair, feeling that they were fingers now, not the pterodactyl digits they’d been moments before. Oh, they were hot; it was the fire all over again, it was the fire blazing in my scorched limbs, this time death had to come, I couldn’t bear this any longer, but a pinnacle had been reached, and now it was past and a great soothing ache rushed through me.
My face was pumped and teeming, my mouth full again and again, and my throat now swallowing without effort.
“Ah, yes, alive, you’re so strong, so wonderfully strong …” I whispered. “Hmmm, no, don’t go … not yet, it’s not time.”
His knees buckled. He sank slowly to the carpet, and I with him, pulling him gently over with me against the side of the bed, and then letting him fall beside me, so that we lay like lovers entangled. There was more, much more, more than ever I could have drunk in my regular state, more than ever I could have wanted.
Even on those rare occasions when I was a fledgling and greedy and new, and had taken two or three victims a night, I had never drunk so deeply from any one of them. I was now into the dark tasty dregs, pulling out the very vessels themselves in sweet clots that dissolved on my tongue.
“Oh, you are so precious, yes, yes.”
But his heart could take no more. It was slowing to a lethal irretrievable pace. I closed my teeth on the skin of his face and ripped it open over his forehead, lapping at the rich tangle of bleeding vessels that covered his skull. There was so much blood here, so much blood behind the tissues of the face. I sucked up the fibers, and then spit them out bloodless and white, watching them drop to the floor like so much slop.
I wanted the heart and the brain. I had seen the ancients take it. I knew how. I’d seen the Roman Pandora once reach right into the chest.
I went for it. Astonished to see my hand fully formed though dark brown in color, I made my fingers rigid like a deadly spade and drove it into him, tearing linen and cracking breastbone, and then reaching his soft entrails until I had the heart and held it as I’d seen Pandora hold it. I drank from it. Oh, it had plenty of blood. This was magnificent. I sucked it to pulp and then let it fall.
I lay as still as he, at his side, my right hand on the back of his neck, my head bowed against his chest, my breath coming in heavy sighs. The blood danced in me. I felt my arms and legs jerking. Spasms ran through me, so that the sight of his white dead carcass blinkered in my gaze. The room flashed on and off.
“Oh, what a sweet brother,” I whispered. “Sweet, sweet brother.” I rolled on my back. I could hear the roar of his blood in my very ears, feel it moving over my scalp, feel it tingling in my cheeks and in the palms of my hands. Oh, good, too good, too lusciously good.
“Bad guy, hmmm?” It was Benji’s voice, far away in the world of the living.
Far away in another realm where pianos ought to be played, and little boys should dance, they stood, the two like painted cutout figures against the swimming light of the room, merely gazing at me, he the little desert rogue with his fancy black cigarette, puffing away and smacking his lips and raising his eyebrows, and she merely floating it seemed, resolute and thoughtful as before, unshocked, untouched perhaps.
I sat up and pulled up my knees. I rose to my feet, with only a quick handhold on the side of the bed to steady myself. I stood naked looking at her.
Her eyes were filled with a deep rich gray light, and she smiled as she looked at me.
“Oh, magnificent,” she whispered.
“Magnificent?” I said. I lifted my hands and pushed my hair back off my face. “Show me to the glass. Hurry. I’m thirsting. I’m thirsting again already.”
It had begun, this was