by Anne Rice
"I was told by the Elders."
"Told? Or paid?"
The man was silent. In a panic he looked to the woman. "Call for help," he said. He looked at Ash. "I said they were to bring you back. What happened was not my doing. The Elders said I was to come here and do what I had to do, at all costs."
Once again, the woman was visibly shocked. "Anton," she said in a whisper. She didn't move to pick up the phone.
"I give you one final chance," said Ash, "to tell me something that will prevent me from killing you." This was a lie. He realized it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but on the other hand, perhaps the man would say something.
"How dare you!" said the man. "I have but to raise my voice and help will come to me."
"Then do it!" said Ash. "These walls are thick. But you should try it."
"Vera, call for help!" he cried.
"How much did they pay you?" asked Ash.
"You know nothing about it."
"Ah, but I do. You know what I am, but very little else. Your conscience is decrepit and useless. And you're afraid of me. And you lie. Yes, you lie. In all probability you were very easy to corrupt. You were offered advancement and money, and so you cooperated with something you knew to be evil."
He looked at the woman, who was plainly horrified.
"This has happened before in your Order," he said.
"Get out of here!" said the man. He cried out for help, his voice sounding very big in the closed room. He cried again, louder.
"I intend to kill you," said Ash.
The woman cried, "Wait." She had her hands out. "You can't do things this way. There's no need. If some deliberate harm came to Aaron, then we must call the Council immediately. The house is filled this time of year with senior members. Call the Council now. I'll go with you."
"You can call them when I am gone. You are innocent. I don't intend to kill you. But you, Anton, your cooperation was necessary for what took place. You were bought, why don't you admit this to me? Who bought you? Your orders did not come from the Elders."
"Yes, they did."
The man tried to dart away. Ash reached out, easily catching hold of the man due to the uncommon length of his arms, and he wrapped his fingers very tightly around the man's throat, more tightly perhaps than a human being could have done. He began to squeeze the life out of the man, doing it as rapidly as he could, hoping his strength was sufficient to break the man's neck, but it wasn't.
The woman had backed away. She'd snatched up the telephone and was now speaking into it frantically. The man's face was red, eyes bulging. As he lost consciousness, Ash squeezed tighter and tighter until he was very sure the man was dead, and would not rise from the floor gasping for breath, as it sometimes happened. He let the man drop.
The woman dropped the telephone receiver.
"Tell me what happened!" she cried. It was almost a scream. "Tell me what happened to Aaron! Who are you?"
Ash could hear people running in the hallway.
"Quickly, I need the number through which I can reach the Elders."
"I can't give you that," she said. "That's known only to us."
"Madam, don't be foolish. I have just killed this man. Do as I ask you." She didn't move.
"Do it for Aaron," he said, "and for Yuri Stefano." She stared at the desk, her hand rising to her lips, and then she snatched up a pen, wrote something fast on a piece of white paper, and thrust it towards him.
There was a pounding on the double doors.
He looked at the woman. There was no time to talk further.
He turned and opened the doors, to face a large group of men and women who had only just come to a halt, to range round him and look at him.
Here were some who were old and others quite young, five women, four men, and a boy very tall, but still almost beardless. The old gentleman from the library stood among them.
He closed the doors behind him, hoping to delay the woman.
"Do you--any of you--know who I am?" Ash asked. Quickly he looked from face to face, eyes darting back and forth until he was certain he had memorized the features of each person. "Do you know what I am? Answer me, please, if you know."
Not a single one gave him anything but a puzzled expression. He could hear the lady crying inside the room, a thick, heavy sobbing rather like her speaking voice, roughened with age.
Alarm was now spreading through the group. Another young man had arrived.
"We have to go in," said one of the women. "We have to see what's happened inside."
"But do you know me? You!" Ash spoke to the latecomer now. "Do you know what I am and why I might have come here?"
None of them did. None of them knew anything. Yet they were people of the Order, scholars all, not a service person among them. Men and women in the prime of life.
The woman in the room behind him tugged at the knobs of the doors, then flung them open. Ash stepped to the side.
"Aaron Lightner's dead!" she cried. "Aaron's been murdered."
There were gasps, small cries of dismay and surprise. But all around, there was innocence. The old man from the library looked mortally wounded by this news. Innocent.
It was time to get away.
Ash pushed through the loose gathering quickly and decisively and made for the stairs, going down two by two before anyone followed. The woman screamed for them to stop him, to not let him escape. But he had too good a head start, and his legs were so much longer than theirs.
He reached the side exit before his pursuers found the top of the little stairway.
He went out into the night and walked fast across the wet grass, and then, glancing back, began to run. He ran until he had reached the iron fence, which he easily vaulted, and then he walked up to his car and made a hasty gesture for his driver to open the door for him and then take off out of here.
He sat back as the car moved faster and faster on the open highway.
He read the fax number written by the woman on a piece of paper. It was a number outside of England, and if memory served him right, it was in Amsterdam.
He pulled loose the phone hooked beside him on the wall of the car, and he punched in the number for the long-distance operator.
Yes, Amsterdam.
He memorized the number, or tried to, at least, and then he folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
When he returned to the hotel, he wrote down the fax number, ordered supper, then bathed at once, and watched patiently as the hotel waiters laid out for him a large meal on a linen-draped table. His assistants, including the pretty young Leslie, stood anxiously by.
"You're to find me another place of residence as soon as it's daybreak," he told Leslie. "A hotel as fine as this one, but something much larger. I need an office and several lines. Come back for me only when everything is arranged."
The young Leslie seemed overjoyed to be so commissioned and empowered, and off she went with the others in tow. He dismissed the waiters, and began to consume the meal of sumptuous pasta in cream sauce, lots of cold milk, and the meat of a lobster, which he did not like, but which was, nevertheless, white.
Afterwards he lay on the sofa, quietly listening to the crackling of the fire and hoping perhaps for a gentle rainfall.
He also hoped that Yuri would return. It wasn't likely. But he had insisted they remain here at Claridge's on the chance that Yuri would trust them again.
At last Samuel came in, so drunk that he staggered. His tweed jacket was slung over his shoulder, and his white shirt was rumpled. Only now did Ash see that the shirt was specially made, as the suit had been, to fit Samuel's grotesque body.
Samuel lay down by the fire, awkward as a whale. Ash got up, gathered some soft pillows from the couch, and put them beneath Samuel's head. The dwarf opened his eyes, wider than usual, it seemed. His breath was fragrant from drink. His breath came in snorts, but none of this repelled Ash, who had always loved Samuel.
On the contrary, he might have argued to any
one in the world that Samuel had a rocklike, carven beauty, but what would have been the use?
"Did you find Yuri?" Samuel asked.
"No," said Ash, who remained down on one knee, so that he could speak to Samuel almost in a whisper. "I didn't look for him, Samuel. Where would I begin in all of London?"
"Aye, there is no beginning and no end," said Samuel with a deep and forlorn sigh. "I looked wherever I went. Pub to pub to pub. I fear he'll try to go back. They'll try to kill him."
"He has many allies now," said Ash. "And one of his enemies is dead. The entire Order has been alerted. This must be good for Yuri. I have killed their Superior General."
"Why in the name of God did you do that?" Samuel forced himself up on his elbow and struggled to gain an upright position, but Ash had finally to help him.
Samuel sat there with his knees bent, scowling at Ash.
"Well, I did it because the man was corrupt and a liar. There cannot be corruption in the Talamasca that isn't dangerous. And he knew what I was. He believed me to be Lasher. He pleaded the Elders as his cause when I threatened his life. No loyal member would have mentioned the Elders to anyone outside, or said things that were so defensive and obvious."
"And you killed him."
"With my hands, the way I always do. It was quick. He didn't suffer much, and I saw many others. None of them knew what I was. So what can one say? The corruption is near the top, perhaps at the very top, and has not by any means penetrated to the rank and file. If it has, it has penetrated in some confused form. They do not know a Taltos when they see one, even when given ample opportunity to study the specimen."
"Specimen," said Samuel. "I want to go back to the glen."
"Don't you want to help me, so that the glen remains safe, so that your revolting little friends can dance and play the pipes, and kill unsuspecting humans and boil the fat from their bones in cauldrons?"
"You have a cruel tongue."
"Do I? Perhaps so."
"What will we do now?"
"I don't know the next step. If Yuri hasn't returned by morning, I suppose that we should leave here."
"But I like Claridge's," Samuel grumbled. He keeled over, eyes closing the moment he hit the pillow.
"Samuel, refresh my memory," Ash said.
"About what?"
"What is a syllogism?"
Samuel laughed. "Refresh your memory? You never knew what a syllogism was. What do you know about philosophy?"
"Too much," said Ash. He tried to remember it himself. All men are beasts. Beasts are savage. Therefore all men are savage.
He went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. For one moment, he saw again the pretty-haired witch, Yuri's beloved. He imagined that her naked breasts were pressed gently against his face, and that her hair covered them both like a great mantle.
Then he was fast asleep. He dreamed he was walking through the doll museum in his building. The marble tile had just been polished, and he could see all the many colors, and how colors changed depending upon what color was right beside them. All the dolls in their glass cases began to sing--the modern, the antique, the grotesque, the beautiful. The French dolls danced, and swung their little bell-shaped dresses as they did so, their round little faces full of glee, and the magnificent Bru dolls, his queens, his most treasured queens, sang high soprano, their paperweight eyes glistening in the fluorescent lights. Never had he heard such music. He was so happy.
Make dolls that can sing, he thought in his dream, dolls that can really sing--not like the old ones that were bad mechanical toys, but dolls with electronic voices that will sing forever. And when the world ends, the dolls will still sing in the ruins.
Ten
"THERE'S NO QUESTION," said Dr. Salter. She set down the manila folder on the edge of the desk. "But it didn't happen six weeks ago."
"Why do you say that?" said Mona. She hated this little examining room because it didn't have any windows. Made her feel she was going to smother.
"Because you're almost three months along, that's why." The doctor approached the table. "Here, you want to feel it yourself? Give me your hand."
Mona let the doctor lift her wrist and then place her hand on her own belly.
"Press hard. You feel that? That's the baby. Why do you think you're wearing that loose thing? You can't stand anything tight against your waist, now, can you?"
"Look, my aunt bought me these clothes. They were hanging there, or it was hanging there." What was it, damn it, oh yeah, linen, black for funerals, or for looking nifty with fancy high-heeled black-and-white string shoes. "I can't be that pregnant," said Mona. "That's just not possible."
"Go home and check your computer log, Mona. You are."
Mona sat up, and jumped down from the table, smoothing down the black skirt and quickly slipping into the fancy shoes. No need to lace or unlace, though if Aunt Gifford had seen her stuffing her foot like that into an expensive shoe, she would have screamed.
"I gotta go," she said. "I'm expected at a funeral."
"Not that poor man who married your cousin, the one killed by the car?"
"Yep, that poor man. Listen, Annelle. Can we do one of those tests where you see the fetus?"
"Yes, and it will confirm exactly what I've been telling you--that you're twelve weeks along. Now listen, you have to take all the supplements I'm giving you. A thirteen-year-old body is not ready to have a baby."
"Okay, I want to make an appointment for that test where we look at it." Mona started for the door, and had her hand on the knob when she stopped. "On second thought," she said, "I'd rather not."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know. Let's just leave it alone in there for a while. Tests can be scary, can't they?"
"My God, you're turning white."
"No, I'm not, I'm just going to faint like women in the movies."
She went out, passing through the small, carpeted outer office, and out the door, though the doctor was calling to her. The door swished shut heavily, and she hurried through the glass-enclosed lobby.
The car was waiting at the curb. Ryan stood beside it, arms folded. Dressed in dark blue for the funeral, he looked almost the same as always, except that his eyes were watery now, and he was plainly very tired. He opened the door for her.
"Well, what did Dr. Salter say?" he asked. He turned to look at her, up and down and with care.
She really wished everybody would stop looking at her.
"I'm pregnant all right," said Mona. "Everything's OK. Let's get out of here."
"We're going. Are you unhappy? Perhaps this has all begun to sink in."
"Of course I'm not unhappy. Why would I be unhappy? I'm thinking about Aaron. Has Michael or Rowan called?"
"No, not yet. They're probably asleep right now. What's the matter, Mona?"
"Ryan, chill, OK? People keep asking me what's the matter. Nothing's the matter. Things are just happening ... awfully fast."
"You have a very uncharacteristic look on your face," said Ryan. "You look frightened."
"Naw, just wondering what it's going to be like. My own child. You did tell everybody, didn't you? No sermons or lectures."
"It wasn't necessary," he said. "You're the designee. No one is going to say anything to you. If anyone were likely, it would be me. But I can't bring myself to make the requisite speeches, to issue the usual warnings and reservations."
"Good," she said.
"We've lost so many, and this is a brand-new life, and I see it rather like a flame, and I keep wanting to cup my hands around it and protect it."
"You're flipping out, Ryan. You're really tired. You need to rest for a while."
"Do you want to tell me now?"
"Tell you what?"
"The identity of the father, Mona. You do plan to tell us, don't you? Is it your cousin David?"
"No, it's not David. Forget about David."
"Yuri?"
"What is this? Twenty questions? I know who the father is, if that'
s what you're wondering, but I don't want to talk about it now. And the identity of the father can be confirmed as soon as the baby's born."
"Before then."
"I don't want any needles going into this baby! I don't want any threat to it. I told you I know who the father is. I'll tell you when it's ... when I think it's time."
"It's Michael Curry, isn't it?"
She turned and glared at him. Too late now to field the question. He had seen it in her face. And he looked so exhausted, so without the usual backbone. He was like a man on strong medicine, a little punchy, and more open than usual. Good thing they were in the limo, and he wasn't driving. He would go straight into a fence.
"Gifford told me," he said, speaking slowly, in the same druggy fashion. He looked out the window. They were driving slowly down St. Charles Avenue, the prettiest stretch of newer mansions and very old trees.
"Come again?" she asked. "Gifford told you? Ryan, are you OK?" What would happen to this family if Ryan went off his rocker? She had enough to worry about as it was. "Ryan, answer me."
"It was a dream I had last night," he said, turning to her finally. "Gifford said the father was Michael Curry."
"Was Gifford happy or sad?"
"Happy or sad." He pondered. "Actually, I don't remember."
"Oh, so that's great," said Mona. "Even now that she's dead, no one is paying attention to what she says. She comes in a dream, and you don't even pay attention."
This startled him, but only a little. He took no offense, as far as she could tell. When he looked at her, his eyes were remote and very peaceful.
"It was a nice dream, a good dream. We were together."
"What did she look like?" There was really something wrong with him. I'm alone, she thought. Aaron's been murdered. Bea needs our sympathy; Rowan and Michael haven't called in yet, we're all scared, and now Ryan is drifting, and maybe, just maybe, that is all for the best.
"What did Gifford look like?" she asked again.
"Pretty, the way she always looked. She always looked the same to me, you know, whether she was twenty-five or thirty-five, or fifteen even. She was my Gifford."
"What was she doing?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I believe in dreams. Ryan, please tell me. Think back--was Gifford doing anything?"
He shrugged, and gave a little smile. "She was digging a hole, actually. I think it was under a tree. I believe it was Deirdre's oak. Yes, that's what it was, and the dirt was piled high all around her."
