by Anne Rice
What the others would have to understand at some point was that Mona had taken over. Pierce had just gotten to Amelia Street with the news that all the Mayfairs were being called; that cousins as far away as Europe were being contacted. He thought he had things pretty much under control; indeed there was a curious excitement to it all, the excitement that death brings when everything is disrupted. Pierce thought perhaps it was like that at the very beginning of a war, before suffering and death wore everyone into despair.
Whatever, when they’d called to say Mandy Mayfair was dead too, he had not been able to respond. Mona had been at his elbow. “Give me that phone,” she’d said.
Mandy Mayfair had died about twelve o’clock today. That was midway between Edith’s death and Alicia’s. Mandy had obviously been dressing for Gifford’s funeral. Her prayer book and her rosary had been on the bed. The windows of her French Quarter apartment were wide open to the little courtyard. Anyone could have come over that wall. There was no other sign of foul play, as they said, or forced entry. Mandy had been on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, arms locked around her waist. There were flowers scattered all around her. Even the police had figured out they came from the courtyard garden. Sprigs of lantana which had bloomed again in the warm months after Christmas. All those little orange and purple blossoms had been broken up on top of her.
Now, no one was going to call this a “natural death” or the result of some mysterious illness. But Pierce could get no further than that in his reasoning. Because if something came in and killed Edith, and Mandy, and Alicia, and Lindsay in Houston, and the other cousin whose name, shamefully enough, he could not even remember, well, then that something had come in on his mother.
And her last moments had not been tranquil, hand reached out to receive the sea, and all the other mythology he had laid upon it when he saw her dead body, and heard how it had been found, and how the blood was washing away even as they picked her up and put her on the stretcher.
No, that was not the way it was.
He drew the chair back for Mona, adjusted it for her as a gentleman should, and then he sat down. Somehow or other he was facing Randall. But then when Pierce saw the expression on his father’s face, he understood. Randall was at the head of the table because Randall was in charge. Ryan was in no condition anymore to do much of anything.
“Well, you know this is not what we thought,” said Mona.
To Pierce’s amazement, they all nodded, that is, those who bothered to do anything nodded. Lauren looked exhausted but otherwise calm. Anne Marie was the only one who seemed frankly horrified.
The biggest surprise perhaps was Lightner. Lightner was looking out the window. He was looking at the river down there and the lighted bridges of the Crescent City Connection. He seemed not even to have noticed that Pierce and Mona had come in. He did not look at Pierce now. Or at Mona.
“Aaron,’ Pierce said, “I thought you’d have some help for us, some guidance.” That just popped out of Pierce’s mouth before he could stop himself. It was the sort of thing he said which constantly got him into trouble. His father said, A lawyer does not speak what is on his mind! A lawyer keeps his own counsel.
Aaron turned towards the table, and then folded his arms and looked at Mona, and then at Pierce.
“Why would you trust me now?” Aaron asked in a quiet voice.
“The point is this,” said Randall. “We know this is one individual. We know that he is six and one-half feet tall. That he has black hair; that he is some form of mutant. We know now that Edith and Alicia suffered miscarriages. We know from the superficial autopsy results that this individual was the cause of them. We know that embryonic development in at least two cases was vastly accelerated, and that the mothers went into shock within hours of impregnation. We expect any minute to have Houston confirm similar findings in the cases of Lindsay and Clytee.”
“Ah, that was her name, Clytee,” said Pierce. He realized suddenly that they were all looking at him. He hadn’t meant to speak out loud.
“The point is, it is not a disease,” said Randall, “and it is an individual.”
“And the individual is seeking to mate,” said Lauren coldly. “The individual is seeking members of this family which may have genetic abnormalities which render them compatible with the individual.”
“And we also know,” said Randall, “that this individual is seeking his victims among the most inbred lines in the family.”
“OK,” Mona said, “four deaths here, two in Houston. The Houston deaths were later.”
“Several hours later,” said Randall. “The individual could easily have taken a plane to Houston in that time.”
“So there’s no supernatural agency involved in that,” said Pierce. “If it is ‘the man,’ the man is flesh like Mother said, and the man has to move like any other man.”
“When did your mother tell you it was the man?”
“Excuse me,” said Ryan quietly. “Gifford said that some time ago. She didn’t really know any more than any of us did. That was her speculation. Let’s stick to what we do know. As Randall said, this is an individual.”
“Yes,” said Randall, at once taking command again, “and if we put our information together with that of Lightner and Dr. Larkin from California, we have every reason to believe this individual had a unique genome. He has some ninety-two chromosomes in a double helix exactly like that of a human, but that is, very simply, twice the number of chromosomes in a human being, and we know that the proteins and enzymes in his blood and cells are different.”
Pierce could not stop thinking of his mother, could not escape the image of her lying in the sand, which he himself had not actually seen, and now was doomed to see in various forms forever. Had she been frightened? Had this thing hurt her? How did she get to the water’s edge? He stared down at the table.
Randall was talking.
“It is liberating to understand,” said Randall, “that it is one male, and one which can be stopped, that whatever the history of this being, whatever mysteries shroud its inception, conception or whatever we wish to call it, it is one and can be apprehended.”
“But that’s just it,” said Mona. She spoke as she always did, as if everybody were prepared to listen to her. She looked so different with her red hair pulled back from her face, both younger and older, cheeks so soft, and face so well contoured. “It clearly is trying to be more than one. And if these embryos develop at an accelerated rate, which I think is putting it mildly by the way, this thing could have a fullborn child any time.”
“That’s true,” said Aaron Lightner. “That’s exactly true. And we cannot begin to predict the growth rate of that child. It is conceivable the child will mature as rapidly as the individual did himself, though how that happened is still a mystery. It is conceivable the thing will then breed with the child. Indeed, I would think that would be the first step, since so many lives have been lost in other efforts.”
“Good Lord, you mean that’s what it’s trying to do?” asked Anne Marie.
“What about Rowan? Anyone hear even one word?” Mona asked.
Negative gestures and noises all around. Only Ryan bothered to mouth the word no.
“OK,” said Mona. “Well, I have this to tell you. The thing nearly got me. This is how it happened.”
She had told Pierce this story at Amelia Street, but as he listened now, he realized she was leaving out certain details-that she’d been with Michael, that she was naked, that she’d been asleep in the library without her clothes, that the Victrola had waked her, not the opening of the window. He wondered why she left those things out. It seemed to him that all his life he had been listening to Mayfairs leave things out. He wanted to say, Tell them that the Victrola played. Tell them. But he didn’t.
There seemed some grotesque clash between the mutant individual, as they called him, and the soft legends and miracles which had always hung in a vapor about First Street. The Victrola playing. It belonged to an
other realm than DNA and RNA and strange fingerprints found by the coroner in Mandy Mayfair’s French Quarter apartment.
Mandy’s was the first death to be seen as a murder. It was all those flowers sprinkled over her body, a cinch she couldn’t have done that herself, and then the bruises on her neck which indicated she had fought the thing. Gifford had not fought. No bruises. His mother must have been taken completely unawares. No fear. No suffering. No bruises.
Mona was explaining about the smell.
“I know what you’re saying,” said Ryan, and for the first time he looked even vaguely interested. “I know that smell. In Destin, I smelled it there. It’s not a bad smell. It’s almost…”
“It’s good, it’s sort of delicious. Makes you want to breathe it,” said Mona. “Well, I can still smell it all over First Street.”
Ryan shook his head. “It was faint in Destin.”
“Faint to you, and strong to me, but don’t you understand, that’s probably some marker of genetic compatibility.”
“Mona, what the hell do you know, child,” demanded Randall, “about genetic compatibility?”
“Don’t start in on Mona,” said Ryan quietly. “There isn’t time. We have to do something…specific. Find this creature. Figure out where it may appear next. Mona, did you see anything?”
“No, nothing. But I want to try to call Michael again. I’ve been calling up there for two hours. I don’t get any answer. I’m really worried. I think I’m going to go…”
“You’re not leaving this room,” said Pierce. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“That’s fine. You can take me up there.”
Lauren made her characteristic gesture for all to come to attention-the tapping of her pen against the table. Only two taps. Never enough to drive you crazy, Pierce thought.
“Let’s go through it again. There are no women who have not been notified.”
“Not that we know,” said Anne Marie, “and pray God if we don’t know who all the Mayfairs are, then the thing doesn’t either.”
“There are people about questioning potential witnesses all over New Orleans and Houston,” said Lauren.
“Yes, but no one saw this man leave or enter.”
“Besides, we know what he looks like,” said Mona. “That Dr. Larkin told you. So did the witnesses in Scotland. So did Michael.”
“Lauren, there isn’t anything we can do but wait,” said Randall. “We have done all we can. We must very simply stay together. The thing is not going to give up. It’s bound to surface. We simply have to be ready when this happens.”
“How are we going to do that?” asked Mona.
“Aaron,” said Ryan, his voice very soft, “can’t your people in Amsterdam and London help us? I thought this was your field, this sort of thing. I remember Gifford said over and over again, ‘Aaron knows,’ ‘Talk to Aaron.’ ” There was something sad and whimsical in his smile as he said this.
Pierce had never seen his father act or speak in this way.
“That’s just it,” said Aaron. “I don’t know. I thought I did. I thought I knew the whole story of the Mayfair Witches. But obviously there are things I do not know. There are people connected with our Order who are investigating this under an authority other than mine. I am getting no clear answer from the London office, except that I am to wait to be contacted. I am at a loss. I really don’t know what to tell you to do. I’m…disillusioned.”
“You can’t give up on us,” said Mona. “Forget about these guys in London. Don’t give up on us!”
“You have a point,” said Aaron. “But I don’t know that I have anything new to offer.”
“Oh, hell, come on,” said Mona. “Look, will somebody go in there and call Michael? I don’t understand why we aren’t hearing from Michael. Michael was going to change clothes and come up to Amelia Street.”
“Well, maybe he did,” said Anne Marie. She pressed the button on a small box beneath the table. In a subdued voice she said into the speaker, “Joyce, call Amelia Street. See if Michael Curry is there.” She looked at Mona. “That’s simple enough.”
“Well, if you want me to offer what I have,” said Aaron, “if you want me to speak up-”
“Yes?” Mona urged him on.
“I’d say the thing is most certainly looking for a mate. And if it does find that mate, if the child is conceived and born while the thing is still there to take the child away, then we have quite literally a monstrous problem.”
“I’d rather stick with catching the thing,” said Randall, “rather than speculating on-”
“I’m sure you would,” said Aaron. “But you must think back on everything Dr. Larkin said. On what Rowan said to him. This thing has an enormous reproductive advantage! Do you understand what that means? For centuries this family has lived with one simple story: that of the man, and the man wanting to be flesh. Well, we are now dealing with something far worse-the man is not merely flesh, he is a unique and powerful species.”
“Do you think this thing was planned?” Lauren asked. Her voice was cold and small and unhurried-Lauren when she was most unhappy, and most determined. “Do you think it was planned from the very beginning? That we would not only nourish this thing in our family but provide the women for it?”
“I don’t know,” said Aaron, “but I do know this. Whatever its superiority, it has to have some weaknesses.”
“The scent, it can’t hide that,” said Mona.
“No, I’m speaking of physical weaknesses, something of that sort,” Aaron said.
“No. Dr. Larkin was specific. So were the people in New York. The thing seems to have a powerful immunity.”
“Increase and multiply and subdue the earth,” said Mona.
“What does that have to do with it?” demanded Randall.
“That’s what it will do,” said Aaron quietly. “If we don’t stop it.”
Twenty-three
JULIEN’S STORY CONTINUES
AH, YOU CANNOT imagine the miracle of her voice, and how much I loved her, loved her completely whether she was Cortland’s child or not. It was a love we feel for those who are our own and like unto us, and yet too many years lay between us. I felt desperate and helpless and all alone, and when I sat down on the side of my bed, she sat beside me.
“Tell me, Evelyn, child, you see the future. Carlotta came to you. What did you see?”
“I don’t see,” Evelyn said in a voice as small as her round little face, her gray eyes appealing to me to accept and to understand. “I see the words and I speak the words, but I do not know their meaning. And long ago, I learned to keep quiet and let the words fade away unread, unspoken.”
“No, child. Hold my hand. What do you see? What do you see for me and my family? What do you see for all of us? Are we one clan with one future?”
Even through my tired fingers I felt her pulse, her warmth, the witches’ gifts, as we always said, and I saw that small, that evil sixth finger. Oh, I would have had it cut off, painlessly and with skill, if I had been her father. And to think that Cortland was-my own son. I meant to kill Cortland.
First things first. I held tight to her hand.
Something shifted in her perfect little circle of a face; her chin lifted so that her neck seemed all the more long and beautiful. She began to speak the poem, her voice soft and rapid, borne by the rhythm itself:
One will rise who is too evil.
One will come who is too good.
’Twixt the two, a witch shall falter
and thereby open wide the door.
Pain and suffering as they stumble
Blood and fear before they learn.
Woe betide this Springtime Eden
Now the vale of those who mourn.
Beware the watchers in that hour
Bar the doctors from the house
Scholars will but nourish evil
Scientists would raise it high.
Let the devil speak his story
Le
t him rouse the angel’s might
Make the dead come back to witness
Put the alchemist to flight.
Slay the flesh that is not human
Trust to weapons crude and cruel
For, dying on the verge of wisdom,
Tortured souls may seek the light.
Crush the babes who are not children
Show no mercy to the pure
Else shall Eden have no Springtime.
Else shall our kind reign no more.
For two nights and two days she stayed in this room with me.
No one dared to break in the door. Her great-grandfather Tobias came and threatened. His son Walker roared at the gate. I do not know how many others came or what they said, or even where all the quarrels took place. Seems I heard my Mary Beth screaming on the landing at her daughter Carlotta. Seems Richard knocked a thousand times, only to be told by me that all was well.
We lay together in the bed, the child and I. I did not want to hurt her. Nor can I blame on her what took place. Let me say we sank into the softest of caresses, and for a long time I cuddled her and sheltered her, and tried to drive away the deep chill of her fear and her loneliness. And fool that I was, I thought that in me, tenderness was now something safe.
But I was too much of a man still for anything so plain and simple. I gave her kisses till she knew she must have them, and opened herself to me.
Through the long night we lay together, musing when all the other voices had died away.
She said that she liked my attic better than her attic, and I knew in my sorrow that I would die in this room, very soon.
I didn’t have to tell her. I felt her soft hand on my forehead, trying to cool it. I felt the silken weight of her palm on my eyelids.
And the words of the poem, she said them over and over. And I with her, until I knew every verse.
By dawn, she did not need to correct me any longer. I didn’t dare to write it down. My evil Mary Beth will burn it, I told her. Tell the others. Tell Carlotta. Tell Stella. But my heart was so sick. What would it matter? What would happen? What could the words of the poem mean?
