by Anne Rice
I brought her up the steps with me. We left the small candle behind as if it would be a beacon for our return.
Before I opened the door I listened carefully for the sound of any of Santino's brood. I heard nothing.
We made our way silently through the narrowest canals of the most dangerous portions of the city. And there we found our victims again,
Struggling little, drinking much. Into the dirty water we released them afterwards.
Long after she was fragrant and warm from her many kills, a sharp observer of the dark and shining walls, I was still parched and burning. Oh, how dreadful was the pain. How soothing the blood as it flooded my arms and legs.
Near dawn we returned. We had encountered no danger. I was much healed but my lirnbs were still like sticks, and when I reached beneath my mask, I felt a face which seemed irreparably scarred.
How long would this take? I could not tell Bianca. I could not tell myself.
I knew that in Venice we could not reckon upon too many such nights. We would become known. Thieves and killers would begin to watch for us—the white-faced beauty, the man with the black leather mask-
I had to test the Cloud Gift. Could I carry Bianca with me towards the shrine? Could I make the full journey in one night or would I blunder and leave us scrambling desperately before dawn for some hiding place?
She went to her sleep quietly, with no fear of the coffin. It seemed she would show me her strength to comfort me, and though she could not kiss my face, she put a kiss on her slender fingers and gave it to me with her breath.
I had an hour then until the sunrise, and slipping out of the golden room, I went up and out over the rooftop and lifted my arms. Within moments I was high above the city, moving effortlessly, as though the Cloud Gift had never been harmed in me, and then I was beyond Venice, far beyond it, looking back at it with its many golden lights, and at the satin glimmer of the sea.
My return was swift and accurate, and I came down silently to the golden room with ample time to go to my rest.
The wind had hurt my burnt skin, But it was no matter. I was overjoyed with this discovery, that I could take to the air as well as I had ever done. I knew now that I could soon attempt the journey to Those Who Must Be Kept.
On the next night, my beauty did not wake screaming as she had before.
She was far more clever and ready for the hunt and full of questions.
As we made our way through the canals, I told her the old story of the Druid grove and how I'd been taken there. And how the magic had been given me in the oak. I told her of Mael and how I despised him still and how he had come once to visit me in Venice, and how very strange it had all seemed.
"But I saw this one," she said in a hushed voice, her whisper nevertheless echoing up the walls. "I remember the night that he came to you here. It was the night that I came back from Florence."
I could not think clearly of these things. And it was soothing to me to hear her talk of them.
"I had brought you a painting by Botticelli," she said. "It was small and very pretty and you later thanked me for it. This tall blond one was waiting upon you when I came, and he was ragged and dirty."
These things came clear to me as she spoke. The memories enlivened me.
And then came the hunt, the gush of blood, the death, the body dropped into the canal, and once more the pain rising sharp above the sweetness of the cure, and I fell back into the gondola, weak from the pleasure of it.
"Once more, I have to do it," I told her. She was satisfied, but on we went. And out of another house I drew yet another victim into my arms, breaking his neck in my clumsiness. I took another victim and another, and finally it was only exhaustion which stopped me, for the hurt in me would have no end of blood.
At last when the gondola was tethered, I took her in my arms and wrapping her close to my chest as I had so often done with Amadeo, I rose above the city with her, and flew out and high until I could not even see Venice at all.
I heard her small desperate cries against me, but I told her in a low whisper to be still and trust in me, and then bringing her back, I set her down on the stone stairs above the quais.
"We were with the clouds, my little princess," I said to her. "We were with the winds, and the purest things of the skies." She was shivering from the cold. I brought her down with me into the golden room.
The wind had made a wild tangle of her hair. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips bloodred.
"But what did you do?" she asked. "Did you spread wings like a bird to carry me? "
"I had no need of them," I said, as I lighted the candles one by one until we had many and the room seemed warm.
I reached up beneath my mask. And then I took it off and turned to look at her.
She was shocked, but only for a moment, and then she came to me, peering into my eyes, and she kissed my lips.
"Marius, I see you again," she said. "You are there."
I smiled. I went past her and lifted the mirror.
I couldn't see myself in this monstrosity. But my lips did cover my teeth at last, and my nose had taken some shape, and my eyes once again had lids. My hair was thick and white and full as it had been before and it hung to my shoulders. It made my face all the more black. I put aside the looking glass.
"Where will we go when we leave here?" she asked me. How steady she seemed, how unafraid.
"To a magical place, a place you would not believe if I told you of it," I answered. "Princess of the skies."
"Can I do this?" she asked. "Go up into the heavens?"
"No, darling one," I said, "not for centuries. It takes time and blood to make such strength. Some night however it will come to you, and you'll feel the strangeness, the loneliness of it."
"Let me put my arms around you," she said.
I shook my head.
"Talk to me, tell me stories," she said. "Tell me of Mael."
We made a place to sit against the wall, and we were warm together.
I began to talk, slowly I think, pouring out old tales.
I told her of the Druid grove again, and how I had been the god there and fled those who would have entrapped me, and I saw her eyes grow wide. I told her of Avicus and Zenobia, of our hunting in the city of Constantinople. I told her of how I cut Zenobia's beautiful black hair.
And telling these tales, I felt calmer and less sad and broken and able to do what I must do.
Never in all my time with Amadeo had I told such stories. Never with Pandora had it been so simple. But with this creature it seemed only natural to talk and to find consolation in it.
And I remembered that when first I had set eyes upon Bianca I had dreamt of this very thing, that she would be with me in the Blood and that we should speak together so easily.
"But let me tell you prettier stories," I said, and I talked of when I had lived in old Rome, and I had painted on the walls, and my guests had laughed and drunk their wine, and rolled about on the grass of my garden.
I made her laugh and then it seemed my pain was gone for a moment, gone in the sound of her voice.
"There was one I loved very much," I said.
"Tell me of him," she said.
"No, it was a woman," I replied. I amazed myself to speak of such a thing. Yet I went on speaking. "I knew her when we were mortals together. I was a young man and she was a child. In those times, as now, marriages were made when women were but children but her father refused me. I never forgot her.
"And then later, after the Blood was in me, we came together she and I.. . ."
"Go on, you must tell me. Where did you come together?"
"And the Blood went into her," I said, "and the two of us were together. We were together for two hundred years."
"Oh, such a long time," she said.
"Yes, it was a long time, though it did not seem so then. Every night was new and I loved her and she loved me, of course, and we quarreled so often...."
"But was it a good quarreling?" she ask
ed.
"Yes, it was, how very right of you to ask that question," I said. "It was a good quarreling until the last."
"What was the last?" she asked gently.
"I did a cruel and mistaken thing to her. I did a wrong thing. I left her without warning and without recourse, and now I can't find her."
"You mean you search for her even now?"
"I don't search because I don't know where to search," I said, lying just a little, "but I look always...."
"Why did you do it?" she asked. "Why did you leave her as you described?"
"Out of love and anger," I said. "And it was the first time that the Satan worshipers had come, you see. Those of the very same ilk that burnt my house and took Amadeo. Only it was centuries ago, can you understand? They came. Oh, not with my enemy, Santino. Santino didn't exist then. Santino is no ancient one. But it was the same tribe, the same ones who believe they are put here on Earth as blood drinkers to serve the Christian God."
I could feel her shock, though for a moment she said nothing, and then she spoke.
"So this was why they cried out about blasphemy," she said.
"Yes, and long long ago, they said similar things as they came to us. They threatened us, and they wanted, they wanted what we knew."
"But how did this divide you and the woman?"
"We destroyed them. We had to. And she knew that we had to do it, and afterwards, when I fell sullen and listless and would say nothing, she was angry with me, and I grew angry with her."
"I see," she answered.
"It didn't have to be, this quarrel. I left her. I left her because she was resolute and strong and had known that the Satan worshipers had to be destroyed. And I had not known and even now, all these many centuries later, I have fallen into the same error.
"In Rome, I knew they existed, these creatures; in Rome, this Santino came to me. In Rome, I should have destroyed him and his followers. But I would have no part of it, you see, and so he came after me, and burnt my house and all I loved."
She was shocked and for a long time said nothing.
"You love her still, this woman," she said.
"Yes, but you see, I never stop loving anyone. I will never stop
loving you."
"Are you certain of it?"
"Completely," I answered. "I loved you when first I saw you. Haven't I told you?"
"In all these years, you've never stopped thinking of her?"
"No, never stopped loving her. Impossible to stop thinking of her or loving her. Even the details of her remain with me. Loneliness and solitude have imprinted her most strongly on my mind. I see her. I hear her voice. She had a lovely clear voice." I mused. I went on.
"She was tall; she had brown eyes, with thick brown eyelashes. Her hair was long and rippling and dark brown. She wore it loose when she wandered. Of course I remember her in the softly draped clothes of those ancient times, and I cannot envision her as she might be in these years. And so she seems some goddess to me or saint, I'm not certain which. . . ."
She said nothing. Then finally she spoke.
"Would you leave me for her if you could?"
"No, if I found her, we would all of us be together."
"Oh, that's too lovely," she said.
"I know it can be that way, I know it can and it will be, all of us together, you and she and I. She lives, she thrives, she wanders, and there will come a time when you and I will be with her."
"How do you know that she lives? What if... but I don't want my words to hurt you."
"I have hope that she lives," I said.
"Mael, the fair one, he told you."
"No. Mael knows nothing of her. Nothing. I don't believe I ever spoke one sacred word of her to Mael. I have no love for Mael. I have not called out to him in these terrible nights of suffering to aid us. I would not have him see me as I am now."
"Don't be angry," she said soothingly. "Don't feel the pain of it. I understand. You were speaking softly of the woman...."
"Yes," I said. "Perhaps I know that she lives because I know that she would never destroy herself without first finding me and making certain that she had taken her leave of me, and not having found me, and having no proof that I am lost, she can't do it. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I do," she said. She crept closer to me, but she understood when with my gloved hand I touched her gently and moved her away.
"What was the woman's name?" she asked.
"Pandora," I said.
"I shall never be jealous of her," she said softly.
"No, you must never but how can you say such a thing so quickly? How do you know? "
She answered calmly, sweetly.
"You speak too reverently of her for me to be jealous," she said, "and I know that you can love both of us, because you loved Amadeo and me. I saw this with my own eyes."
"Oh, yes, you are so right," I said. I was almost weeping. I thought in my secret heart of Botticelli, the man himself standing in his studio staring at me, wondering helplessly what sort of strange patron I was, and never dreaming that my hunger and adoration were commingled, never dreaming of a danger which had come so close.
"It's almost dawn," she said. "I feel cold now. And nothing matters. Do you feel the same way?"
"Soon we will leave here," I said in answer, "and we will have golden lamps around us. And a hundred fine candles. Yes, one hundred white candles. And we'll be warm where there is snow."
"Ah, my love," she said softly. "I believe in you with my soul."
The next night we hunted once more and this time as if it were to be our last in Venice. There seemed no end to the blood I could imbibe.
And without confiding it to Bianca, I was eternally listening for Santino's brigands, quite certain that at any moment they might return.
Long after I had brought her back for safekeeping in the golden room, and seen her nestled there amid her bundles of clothes and soft burning candles, I went out to hunt again, moving swiftly over the rooftops, and catching the worst and strongest of the killers of the city.
I wondered that my hunger did not bring some reign of peace to Venice, so savage was I in cleaning out those bent upon evil. And when I was done with blood I went to the secret places in my burnt-out palazzo and gathered the gold which others hadn't been able to find.
Finally, I went to the very highest roof that I could discover and I looked out over Venice, and I said my farewell to it. My heart was broken and I did not know what would restore it.
My Perfect Time had ended for me in agony. It had ended for Amadeo in disaster. And perhaps it had ended for my fair Bianca as well.
At last I knew from my gaunt and blackened limbs—so little healed by so many kills—that I must press on to Those Who Must Be Kept, and I must share the secret with Bianca, for young as she was, I had no real choice.
It faintly excited me in my crushing misery that I could share the secret at last. Oh, what a terrible thing it was to put such a weight upon such tender shoulders, but I was weary of the pain and the loneliness. I had been conquered. And I only wanted to reach the shrine with Bianca in my arms.
27
AT LAST it was time for the journey. It was far too dangerous for us to remain in Venice, and I knew that I could carry us to the shrine.
Taking one bundle of clothing with us, and as much of my gold as I could carry, I wrapped Bianca tightly against me and in less than half of one night, crossed the mountains, in bitter winds and snow.
By now Bianca was accustomed to certain wonders, and to be set down in a snow-filled mountain pass did not alarm her.
But within moments we were both painfully aware that I had made a desperate error in judgment. I was not strong enough in my present state to open the door of the shrine.
It was I, of course, who had created this ironbound stone door to block any human assault, and after several pathetic attempts to open it, I had to confess that it was not within my power, and we must find some other shelter before dawn.<
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Bianca began to weep, and I became angry with her. I made another assault upon the door just to spite her, and then stood back and bid the door open with all the power of my mind.
