The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [83]
In a torrent of tumbling, laughing words I described it, the glittering green and yellow and blue spires that sparkled and wavered in the Heavenly light. “Do you see it?” I cried out.
“No. But you do,” said my Master. “And that is more than enough.”
In the dim chamber, we dressed in the black morn.
Nothing was difficult, nothing had its old weight and resistance. It seemed I only needed to run my fingers up the doublet to have it buttoned.
We hurried down the steps, which seemed to disappear beneath my feet, and out into the night.
To climb the slimy walls of a palazzo was nothing, to anchor my feet over and over in the chinks of the stone, to poise on a tuft of fern and vine as I reached for the bars of a window and finally pulled open the grate, it was nothing, and how easily I let the heavy metal grid drop into the glistening green water below. How sweet to see it sink, to see the water splash around the descending weight, to see the glimmer of the torches in the water.
“I fall into it.”
“Come.”
Inside the chamber, the man rose from his desk. Against the cold, he had wrapped his neck in wool. His dark blue robe was banded in pearly gold. Rich man, banker. Friend of the Florentine, not mourning his loss over these many pages of vellum, smelling of black ink but calculating the inevitable gains, all partners murdered by the blade and by poison, it seemed, in a private banquet room.
Did he guess now that we had done it, the red-cloaked man and the auburn-haired boy who came through his high fourth-story window in this frozen winter night?
I caught him as if he were the love of my young life, and unwound the wool from around the artery where I would feed.
He begged me to stop, to name my price. How still my Master looked, watching only me, as the man begged and I ignored him, merely feeling for this large pulsing, irresistible vein.
“Your life, Sir, I must have it,” I whispered. “The blood of thieves is strong, isn’t it, Sir?”
“Oh, child,” he cried, all resolve shattering, “does God send His justice in such an unlikely form?”
It was sharp, pungent and strangely rank this human blood, spiked with the wine he’d drunk and the herbs of the foods he’d eaten, and almost purple in the light of his lamps as it flowed over my fingers before I could lap them with my tongue.
At the first draught I felt his heart stop.
“Ease up, Amadeo,” whispered my Master.
I let go and the heart recovered.
“That’s it, feed on it slowly, slowly, letting the heart pump the blood to you, yes, yes, and gently with your fingers that he not suffer unduly, for he suffers the worst fate he can know and that is to know that he dies.”
We walked along the narrow quay together. No need anymore to keep my balance, though my gaze was lost in the depths of the singing, lapping water, gaining its movement through its many stonewalled connections from the faraway sea. I wanted to feel the wet green moss on the stones.
We stood in a small piazza, deserted, before the angled doors of a high stone church. They were bolted now. All windows were blinded, all doors locked. Curfew. Quiet.
“Once more, lovely one, for the strength it will give you,” said my Master, and his lethal fangs pierced me, as his hands held me captive.
“Would you trick me? Would you kill me?” I whispered, as I felt myself again helpless, no preternatural effort that I could summon strong enough to escape his grasp.
The blood was pulled out of me in a tidal wave that left my arms dangling and shaking, my feet dancing as if I were a hanged man. I struggled to remain conscious. I pushed against him. But the flow continued, out of me, out of all my fibers and into him.
“Now, once again, Amadeo, take it back from me.”
He dealt one fine blow to my chest. I almost toppled off my feet. I was so weak, I fell forward, only at the last grasping for his cloak. I pulled myself up and locked my left arm around his neck. He stepped back, straightening, making it