4
I
UNLOCKED
the bedroom door.
Big Ramona stood there with an armful of white clothes.
Quinn and Mona had disappeared into the nearby bathroom.
“You’re wanting this for that poor child?” Big Ramona said. Small-boned woman, white hair, sweet-faced, starched white apron. (Grandmother of Jasmine.) Deeply troubled. “Now, don’t you just grab for all this, I’ve got it folded!”
I stood back to let her march into the room and lay the pile on the flower-strewn bed. “Now, there’s underwear and slips here, too,” she declared. She shook her head. The shower was running in the bath. She passed me as she went out, making her share of little grumbling noises.
“I can’t believe that girl is still breathing,” she said. “It’s some kind of miracle. And her family down there brought Fr. Kevin with the Holy Oils. Now, I know Quinn loves that girl, but where does it say in the Gospel that you have to let a person die in your house, and what with Quinn’s mother sick, you knew that didn’t you, and Quinn’s mother run off somewhere, did you know that, Patsy’s up and gone—”
(Flash on memory of Patsy, Quinn’s mother: country-western singer with poofed hair and painted fingernails, dying of AIDS in the bedroom opposite, no longer up to putting on her fringed leather outfits with the high boots and war paint makeup and going out, just pretty on the couch in white nightgowns when I had last seen her, lady full of irrational and overriding hate for Quinn, a twisted kind of sibling rivalry from a woman who’d been sixteen when Quinn was born to her. Now vanished.)
“—and leaving all her medicine behind, sick as she is. Oh Patsy, Patsy, and Aunt Queen just laid in the grave, and then this redheaded child coming here, I’m telling you!”
“Well, maybe Mona’s dead,” I said, “and Quinn’s washing her corpse in the bathtub.”
She broke into laughter, muffling it with her hand.
“Oh, you’re a devil,” she said. “You’re worse than Quinn,” she went on flashing her pale eyes at me, “but don’t you think I don’t know what they’re doing in that shower together. And what if she does die in there, what about that, are we going to be patting her dry with towels and laying her out like it didn’t happen and—”
“Well, she’ll be really clean,” I said with a shrug.
She shook her head, trying not to laugh out loud, and then shifted emotional gears as she headed back to the hall, laughing and talking to nobody as she went on, “. . . and what with his mother running off, and she sick as a dog, and nobody knows where she is, and those Mayfairs downstairs, it’s a wonder they didn’t bring the sheriff.” And into the back bedroom she went, The Angel of Hot Coffee, where Nash and Tommy talked in hushed voices, and Tommy cried over the loss of Aunt Queen.
It occurred to me with uncommon strength that I had grown too fond of all these people, that I understood why Quinn insisted on remaining here, playing the mortal as long as he could, why the entirety of Blackwood Farm had a hold on him.
But it was time to be a wizard. Time to buy some time for Mona, time to make her absence somehow acceptable to the witches below.
Besides, I was curious about the creatures in the double parlor, these intrepid psychics who fooled the mortals around them as surely as we vampires did, pretending to be wholesome and regular human beings while they contained a host of secrets.
I hurried down the circular stairs, grabbed up tiny Jerome with his big tennis shoes off the banister just in time to save his life as he nearly fell some ten feet to the marble tile floor below, and put him in the waiting arms of a very anxious Jasmine; and then, gesturing to her that everything would be all right, I went into the cooler air of the front room.
Dr. Rowan Mayfair, founder and head of Mayfair Medical, was seated in one of the mahogany chairs (picture nineteenth-century Rococo, black lacquer and velvet), and her head turned sharply as if jerked by a cord when I entered.
Now, we had seen each other before, as I noted, at Aunt Queen’s funeral Mass in St. Mary’s Assumption Church. In fact, I’d sat dangerously close to her, being in the pew right in front of her. But I’d been better camouflaged at the time by ordinary clothes and sunglasses. What she saw now was the Brat Prince in his frock coat and handmade lace, and I’d forgotten to put on my sunglasses, which was just a stupid mistake.
I hadn’t had a really good look at her at all. Now I found myself instantly fascinated, which wasn’t too comfortable since it was my role to fascinate as our conversation went on.
Her lean oval face was delicately sculpted and as clean as a little girl’s and needed nothing in the way of paint to make it remarkable, with its huge gray eyes and cold flawless mouth. She wore a severe, gray wool pants suit, with a red scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked down into her lapels, and her short ash blond hair appeared to curl under naturally just below the soft line of her jaw.
Her expression was intensely dramatic, and I sensed an immediate and sweeping probe of my mind, which I locked up tight. I felt chills down my backbone. She was creating this.
She had fully expected to read my thoughts and she couldn’t. And she was blocked from knowing what was going on upstairs. She didn’t like it. But to put it more Biblically, she was deeply grieved.
And being shut out, she tried to make sense of my appearance, not at all concerned with the superficial eccentricity of the frock coat and my messy hair, but of elements which were more purely vampiric—the subtle sheen of my skin and the electric blue of my eyes.
I had to start talking quickly, but let me fill you in first on my instantaneous take on the other Mayfair—Fr. Kevin—who was standing at the far mantel, the only other occupant of the room.
Nature had dealt him the same cards as Mona—deep green eyes and red hair. In fact, he could have been her big brother, the genes were so close, and he was my height, six feet, and well built. He wore clerical black with the white Roman collar. And he was not the witch Rowan was, but he was more than slightly psychic, and I could read him easily: he thought I was weird and he was hoping Mona was already dead.
I sparked off the memory of him at Mass in his Gothic robes holding the chalice in his hands.
This is my blood.
And for reasons I couldn’t possibly explain, I was taken slap back to my village childhood in France, to the ancient church and the village priest saying those very same words, chalice in hand, and for a moment I lost my perspective on everything. Other mortal memories threatened, perfected in color and lucidity. I saw the monastery where I’d studied, so happy, where I’d so wanted to be a monk. Oh, this was sickening.
And with another decided chill, I realized that Dr. Mayfair had caught these images out of my mind before I closed it up again.
I shook it off, annoyed for a moment that the double parlor was so crowded with shadow. Then my eyes latched on to the stark, don’t belong, figure of Oncle Julien, three-dimensional and exquisitely solid in a slim gray suit, standing in the far corner, arms folded, eying me with calculating opposition. He was fiercely actual, and fiercely bright.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dr. Rowan Mayfair asked. Her voice was deep, husky and sensual. Her eyes were still picking me apart.
“You don’t see any ghost in here, do you?” I blurted out without thinking, the ghost just standing there all the while as it came clear to me that of course they didn’t, neither of them. This shining and self-contained menace had it in for me.
“No, I don’t see anything,” Rowan answered promptly. “There’s a ghost in this room that I ought to see?”
Women with these husky voices have a miraculous advantage.
“You do have your ghosts here,” Fr. Kevin said acceptingly. Yankee accent. Boston. “As Quinn’s friend, I thought you’d know.”
“Oh, I do, yes,” I said. “But I never get used to them. Ghosts scare me. So do angels.”
“And didn’t you hold an exorcism to get rid of Goblin?” asked the priest, throwing me off guard.
“Yes, and it worked,” I said, glad of the distraction. “Goblin’s gone from this house, and Quinn’s free of him for the first time in his life. I wonder what it will mean to him.”
Oncle Julien didn’t budge.
“Where is she?” asked Rowan, meaning Mona, who else?
“She wants to stay here,” I said. “You know, it’s simple.” I crossed in front of her and sat down in a chair with its back to the floor lamp, putting myself in a bit of shadow, and so I could see everyone, even my nemesis. “She doesn’t want to die at Mayfair Medical. She managed to drive the limousine all the way over here. You know Mona. And she’s with Quinn upstairs. I want you to trust us. Leave her with us. We’ll take care of her. We can call Aunt Queen’s old nurse to help us.”
Rowan was staring at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Do you realize how difficult it’s going to be?” she asked. She sighed and a great weariness showed itself in her, but only for an instant. “Do you realize how difficult it can get?”
“You’ve brought the oxygen and morphine, haven’t you?” I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the ambulance out front. “Leave them. Cindy, the nurse, will know how to use them.”
Rowan raised her eyebrows. Same weariness again, but her strength was greater. She was trying to figure me out. Absolutely nothing about me frightened her or repelled her. I found her beautiful. There was a limitless intelligence behind her eyes.
“Quinn can’t possibly understand what he’s taking on,” she said gently. “I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want her to die in pain. Do you follow me?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “Trust me that we’ll call you when it’s time.”
She bowed her head, but only for a second.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she said, the husky voice so expressive of concern. “There’s no reasonable explanation for her being still alive right now.”
“It’s her will,” I countered.
I’m telling you the truth, there is no reason to be concerned for her.
“She’s resting, free of pain,” I said.
“That’s impossible,” Rowan whispered.
Something flickered in her expression.
“Who are you?” she asked, that deep voice underscoring her seriousness.
I was the one being spellbound. I couldn’t break loose of her. I felt the chills again. The room was too dim. I wanted to tell Jasmine to turn up the chandelier.
“My name doesn’t matter,” I said, but it was hard for me to speak.
What
was
it about this woman? Why was her stripdown beauty so provocative and threatening? I wanted to see into her soul but she was far too clever to let it happen. Yet I sensed secrets in her, a trove of them, and I felt an electric connection to the monster child that Mona had revealed to me when I made her, and other things.
I knew suddenly this woman was hiding something dreadful to her own conscience, that the dominant note of her character was this concealment and this conscience, and a great striving rooted in her brilliance and her guilt. I wanted it, whatever she was hiding, just to know it for a moment, just to know it in warmth with her. I would have given anything—.
She looked away from me. I had unwittingly stared her down and lost her, and she was fumbling silently, and I almost saw it:
a power over life and death.
Fr. Kevin spoke up:
“I have to see Mona before we go,” he said. “I must talk to Quinn, about the exorcism. I used to see Goblin, you understand. I’m concerned for both of them. You have to tell Mona we’re here—.”
He had taken a chair opposite me and I hadn’t even noticed. “Perhaps we should both see her,” he said to Rowan. “Then we can decide what to do.” His was a gentle voice, perfect for a priest, humble yet totally unaffected.
I locked eyes with him, and it seemed for an instant I caught hold of shared secrets, things that they all knew, these Mayfairs, things they couldn’t tell, things so profoundly connected to their wealth and their roots that they could never be outgrown or expurgated or overcome. With Fr. Kevin it was doubly hard because he was the confessor of this family, bound by that sacred oath, and also he’d been told things he could scarce believe and it had profoundly changed him.
But he too knew how to lock his mind. And again, all I got when I probed him was that aching memory of my own childhood schooling, of my wanting so badly to be good. An echo of my own mental voice coming back on me. I hated it. Away with it! It struck me, sharp and hard, that I had been given so many chances to save my soul that my entire life had been constructed around these chances! That was my nature—going from temptation after temptation, not to sin, but to be redeemed.
I’d never seen my life that way before.
Had that long-ago boy, Lestat, fought hard enough, he could have become a monk.
“Accursed!” whispered the ghost.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“Not possible to see her!” Rowan said. “You can’t be serious.”
I heard a soft laughter. I turned around in the chair.
To my far right the ghost was laughing. “Now what are you going to do, Lestat?” he asked.
“What is it?” asked Rowan. “What are you seeing?”
“Nothing,” I insisted. “You can’t see her. I promised her. No one would come up. For God’s sakes, let her alone.” I threw all my conviction behind it. I suddenly felt desperate. “Let her die the way she wants, for the love of Heaven. Let her go!”
She glared at me, glared at this display of emotion. An immense inner suffering was suddenly visible in her face, as if she could no longer conceal it, or as if my own outburst, muted as it had been, had ignited the dim fire inside of her.
“He’s right,” said Fr. Kevin. “But you understand, we have to stay here.”
“And it’s not going to be very long,” said Rowan. “We’ll wait quietly. If you don’t want us in the house . . .”
“No, no, of course you’re welcome,” I said.
“Mon Dieu!”
Again came the ghostly laughter.
“Your hospitality is wretched!” said Oncle Julien. “Jasmine has not even offered them a cracker and glass of water. I am appalled.”
I was bitterly amused by that, and I doubted the truth of it. I found myself worrying about it and became incensed! And at the same time I heard something, something nobody in the room could hear, except perhaps the laughing ghost. It was the sound of Mona crying, nay, sobbing. I had to go back to Mona.