Taltos

by Anne Rice

  "I have you, now you hold on to me. Are you in pain?"

  "Well, no more than anybody would be, with a nuclear explosion going on in her womb. Let's get out of here!"

  They crept out down the alley, Mary Jane steadying her when she needed it, but she was doing all right hanging on to the gate and to the fence, and then they were in the carport. And there was the big sleek limousine, and bless her heart, Mary Jane had started the engine, and the door was open. Here we go.

  "Morrigan, stop singing! I have to think, tell her about the gate-opener. You have to press the little magic twanger."

  "I know that! Get in."

  Roar of the engine, and the rusty, creaky sound of the gate rolling back.

  "You know, Mona, I've got to ask you something. I've got to. What if this thing can't be born without your dying?"

  "Shhhh, bite your tongue, cousin! Rowan didn't die, did she, and she gave birth to one and the other! I'm not dying. Morrigan won't let me."

  No, Mother, I love you. I need you, Mother. Don't talk of dying. When you talk of death, I can smell death.

  "Shhhhhh. Mary Jane, is the best place Fontevrault? You're sure? Have we considered all the possibilities, perhaps a motel somewhere ..."

  "Lissen, Granny's there, and Granny can be completely trusted, and that little boy staying with her will light out of there soon as I give him one of these twenty-dollar bills."

  "But he can't leave his boat at the landing, not for someone else to--"

  "No, he won't do that, honey, don't be silly, he'll take his pirogue up home to his place! He doesn't come by the landing. He lives up near town. Now just you sit back and rest. We've got a stash of things at Fontevrault. We have the attic, all dry and warm."

  "Oh yes, that would be wonderful."

  "And when the sun comes up in the morning, it will come into all the attic windows...."

  Mary Jane hit the brakes. They were already at Jackson Avenue.

  "Sorry, honey, this car is so powerful."

  "You're having trouble? God, I never sat up here before, with the whole damned stretch behind me. This is weird, like driving a plane."

  "No, I'm not having trouble!" Mary Jane took the turn onto St. Charles. " 'cept with these creepy drunken New Orleans drivers. It's midnight, you know. But this is a cinch to drive, actually, especially if you've driven an eighteen-wheeler, which I certainly have."

  "And where the hell did you do that, Mary Jane?"

  "Arizona, honey, had to do it, had to steal the truck, but that's another story."

  Morrigan was calling her, singing again, but in that rapid humming voice. Singing to herself, perhaps.

  I can't wait to see you, to hold you! I love you more for what you are! Oh, this is destiny, Morrigan, this eclipses everything, the whole world of bassinets and rattles and happy fathers, well, he will be happy eventually, when he comes to understand that the terms now have changed utterly ....

  The world spun. The cold wind swept down over the plain. They were dancing in spite of it, trying desperately to keep warm. Why had the warmth deserted them? Where was their homeland?

  Ashlar said, "This is our homeland now. We must learn the cold as well as we learned the warmth."

  Don't let them kill me, Mama.

  Morrigan lay cramped, filling the bubble of fluid, her hair falling around her and under her, her knees pressed against her eyes.

  "Honey, what makes you think anyone will hurt you?"

  I think it because you think it, Mama. I know what you know.

  "You're talking to that baby?"

  "I am, and it's answering me." Her eyes were closing when they hit the freeway. "Just you sleep now, darlin'. We're burning up the miles, honey, this thing does ninety and you can't even feel it."

  "Don't get a ticket."

  "Honey, don't you think a witch like me can handle a policeman? They never finish writing the ticket!"

  Mona laughed. Things couldn't have worked out better. Really, they couldn't have.

  And the best was yet to come.

  Twenty-one

  THE BELL TOLLING ...

  He was not really dreaming; he was planning. But when he did this on the edge of sleep, Marklin saw images vividly, saw possibilities that he could not see any other way.

  They would go to America. They would take with them every scrap of valuable information which they had amassed. To hell with Stuart and with Tessa. Stuart had deserted them. Stuart had disappointed them for the last time. They would carry with them the memory of Stuart, Stuart's belief and conviction, Stuart's reverence for the mystery. But that would be all of Stuart that they would ever need.

  They would set up some small apartment in New Orleans, and begin their systematic watch of the Mayfair witches. This might take years. But both of them had money. Marklin had real money, and Tommy had the unreal kind that expressed itself in multimillions. Tommy had paid for everything so far. But Marklin could support himself, no problem. And the families could chew on some excuse about an informal sabbatical. Perhaps they would even enroll in courses at the nearby university. Didn't matter.

  When they had their sights on the Mayfairs, the fun would begin again.

  The bell, dear God, that bell ...

  Mayfair witches. He wished he were in Regent's Park now, with the entire file. All those pictures, Aaron's last reports, still in Xerox typescript. Michael Curry. Read Aaron's copious notes on Michael Curry. This was the man who could father the monster. This was the man whom Lasher had chosen in childhood. Aaron's reports, hasty, excited, full of concern finally, had been clear on that point.

  Was it possible for an ordinary man to learn a witch's powers? Oh, if only it were a matter of mere diabolic pact! What if a transfusion of the witch's blood could give him the telepathic abilities? Sheer nonsense, more than likely. But think of the power of the two of them--Rowan Mayfair, the doctor and the witch; Michael Curry, who had fathered the beautiful beast.

  Who had called it the beautiful beast? Was that Stuart? Where the hell was Stuart? Damn you, Stuart. You ran like a ruptured duck. You left us, Stuart, without so much as a phone call, a hasty word of parting, a hint of where and when we might meet.

  Go on without Stuart. And speaking of Aaron, how could they get his papers from this new wife in America?

  Well, everything rested upon one thing. They had to leave here with an unblemished reputation. They had to ask for a leave of absence, without arousing the least suspicion.

  With a start, he opened his eyes. Had to get out of here. Didn't want to spend another minute. But there was the bell. It had to be the signal for the memorials. Listen to it, tolling, an awful, nerve-racking sound.

  "Wake up, Tommy," he said.

  Tommy was slumped over in the chair by the desk, snoring, a tiny bit of drool on his chin. His heavy tortoiseshell glasses had reached the very tip of his rounded nose.

  "Tommy, it's the bell."

  Marklin sat up, straightened his clothes as best he could. He climbed off the bed.

  He shook Tommy by the shoulder.

  For one moment Tommy had that baffled, annoyed look of the just-awakened, and then the common sense returned.

  "Yes, the bell," he said calmly. He ran his hands over his sloppy red hair. "At last, the bell."

  They took turns washing their faces. Marklin took a bit of Kleenex, smeared it with Tommy's toothpaste, and cleaned his teeth by hand. He needed to shave, but there was no time for it. They'd go to Regent's Park, get everything, and leave for America on the first flight out.

  "Leave of absence, hell," he said now. "I'm for leaving, just going. I don't want to go back to my own room to pack. I'm for heading out of here immediately. The hell with the ceremony."

  "Don't be so foolish," Tommy murmured. "We'll say what we have to say. And we'll learn what we can learn. And then we'll leave at the appropriate and less conspicuous time."

  Damn!

  A knock sounded at the door.

  "We're coming!" Tommy said, wit
h a little raising of his eyebrows. He straightened his tweed jacket. He looked both mussed and hot.

  Marklin's own wool blazer was badly rumpled. And he'd lost his tie. Well, the shirt looked all right with the sweater. Would have to do, wouldn't it? The tie was in the car, perhaps. He'd ripped it off when he was driving away the first time. He should never, never have come back.

  "Three minutes," came the voice through the door. One of the old ones. The place was going to be choked with them.

  "You know," said Marklin, "none of this was bearable even when I thought of myself as a dedicated novice. Now I find it simply outrageous. Being awakened at four in the morning ... Good God, it's actually five ... for a mourning ceremony. It's as stupid as those modern-day Druids, dressed up in sheets, who carry on at Stonehenge on the summer solstice, or whenever the hell they do it. I may let you say the appropriate words for us. I may wait in the car."

  "The hell you will," said Tommy. He took several swipes at his dry hair with the comb. Useless.

  They went out of the room together, Tommy stopping to lock the door. The hall was predictably cold.

  "Well, you can do that if you wish," said Marklin, "but I'm not coming back up to this floor. They can have whatever I've left in my room."

  "That would be perfectly stupid. You'll pack as if you were leaving for normal reasons. Why the hell not?"

  "I can't stay here, I tell you."

  "And what if you've overlooked something in your room, something that would blow the lid off the entire affair?"

  "I haven't. I know I haven't."

  The corridors and the staircase were empty. Possibly they were the last of the novices to hear the bell.

  A soft whisper of voices rose from the first floor. As they came to the foot of the steps, Marklin saw it was worse than he could have imagined.

  Look at the candles everywhere. Everyone, absolutely everyone, dressed in black! All the electric lights had been put out. A sickening gush of warm air surrounded them. Both fires were blazing. Good heavens! And they had draped every window in the house with crepe.

  "Oh, this is too rich!" Tommy whispered. "Why didn't someone tell us to dress?"

  "It's positively nauseating," said Marklin. "Look, I'm giving it five minutes."

  "Don't be a blasted fool," said Tommy. "Where are the other novices? I see old people, everywhere, old people."

  There must have been a hundred in small groups, or simply standing alone against the dark oak-paneled walls. Gray hair everywhere. Well, surely the younger members were here somewhere.

  "Come on," said Tommy, pinching Marklin's arm and pushing him into the hall.

  A great supper was spread on the banquet table.

  "Good Lord, it's a goddamned feast," Marklin said. It made him sick to look at it--roast lamb and beef, and bowls of steaming potatoes, and piles of shiny plates, and silver forks. "Yes, they're eating, they're actually eating!" he whispered to Tommy.

  A whole string of elderly men and women were quietly and slowly filling their plates. Joan Cross was there in her wheelchair. Joan had been crying. And there was the formidable Timothy Hollingshed, wearing his innumerable titles on his face as he always did, arrogant bastard, and not a penny to his name.

  Elvera passed through the crowd with a decanter of red wine. The glasses stood on the sideboard. Now that is something I can use, thought Marklin, I can use that wine.

  A sudden thought came to him of being free from here, on the plane to America, relaxed, his shoes kicked off, the stewardess plying him with liquor and delicious food. Only a matter of hours.

  The bell was still tolling. How long was that going to go on? Several men near him were speaking Italian, all of them on the short side. There were the old grumbly British ones, the friends of Aaron's, most of them now retired. And there was a young woman--well, at least she seemed young. Black hair and heavily made-up eyes. Yes, when you looked you saw they were senior members, but not merely the decrepit class. There stood Bryan Holloway, from Amsterdam. And there, those anemic and pop-eyed male twins who worked out of Rome.

  No one was really looking at anyone, though people did talk to each other. Indeed, the air was solemn but convivial. From all around came soft murmurs of Aaron this, and Aaron that ... always loved Aaron, adored Aaron. Seems they had forgotten Marcus entirely, and well they should, thought Marklin, if only they knew how cheaply Marcus had been bought out.

  "Have some wine, please, gentlemen," said Elvera softly. She gestured to the rows and rows of crystal glasses. Old stemware. All the old finery. Look at the antique silver forks with their deep encrustations. Look at the old dishes, dragged from some vault somewhere perhaps, to be loaded with fudge and iced cakes.

  "No, thank you," said Tommy, tersely. "Can't eat with a plate and a glass in my hands."

  Someone laughed in the low roar of whispers and murmurs. Another voice rose above the others. Joan Cross sat solitary in the midst of the gathering, her forehead resting in her hand.

  "But who are we mourning?" asked Marklin in a whisper. "Is it Marcus or Aaron?" He had to say something. The candles made an irritating glare, for all the swimming darkness around him. He blinked. He had always loved this scent of pure wax, but this was overpowering, absurd.

  Blake and Talmage were talking together rather heatedly in the corner. Hollingshed joined them. As far as Marklin knew, they were in their late fifties. Where were the other novices? No other novices. Not even Ansling and Perry, the officious little monsters. What does your instinct tell you? Something is wrong, very wrong.

  Marklin went after Elvera, quickly catching her elbow.

  "Are we supposed to be here?"

  "Yes, of course you are," said Elvera.

  "We're not dressed."

  "Doesn't matter. Here, do have a drink." This time she put the glass in his hand. He set down his plate on the edge of the long table. Probably a breach of etiquette, nobody else had done it. And, God, look at this spread. There was a great roasted boar's head, with the apple in its mouth, and the suckling pig surrounded by fruit on its steaming silver platter. The mingled fragrances of the meat were delicious, he had to admit it. He was getting hungry! How absurd.

  Elvera was gone, but Nathan Harberson was very close to him, looking down at him from his lofty mossback height.

  "Does the Order always do this?" Marklin asked. "Throw a banquet when someone dies?"

  "We have our rituals," said Nathan Harberson in an almost sad voice. "We are an old, old order. We take our vows seriously."

  "Yes, very seriously," said one of the pop-eyed twins from Rome. This one was Enzo, wasn't it? Or was it Rodolpho? Marklin couldn't remember. His eyes made you think of fish, too large for expression, indicative only of illness, and to think it had struck both of them. And when the twins both smiled as they were doing now, they looked rather hideous. Their faces were wrinkled, thin. But there was supposed to be some crucial difference between them. What was it? Marklin could not recall.

  "There are certain basic principles," said Nathan Harberson, his velvety baritone voice growing a little louder, a little more confident, perhaps.

  "And certain things," said Enzo, the twin, "are beyond question with us."

  Timothy Hollingshed had drawn near and was looking down his aquiline nose at Marklin, as he always did. His hair was white and thick, like Aaron's had been. Marklin didn't like the look of him. It was like looking at a cruel version of Aaron, much taller, more ostentatiously elegant. God, look at the man's rings. Positively vulgar, and every one was supposed to have its history, replete with tales of battle, treachery, vengeance. When can we leave here? When will all this end?

  "Yes, we hold certain things sacred," Timothy was saying, "just as if we were a small nation unto ourselves."

  Elvera had returned. "Yes, it isn't merely a matter of tradition."

  "No," said a tall, dark-haired man with ink-black eyes and a bronzed face. "It's a matter of a deep moral commitment, of loyalty."

  "And of rev
erence," said Enzo. "Don't forget reverence."

  "A consensus," said Elvera, looking straight at him. But then they were all looking at him. "On what is of value, and how it must be protected at all costs."

  More people had pressed into the room, senior members only. A predictable increase in soft chatter. Someone laughing again. Didn't people have the sense not to laugh?

  There is something just flat-out wrong with this, that we're the only novices, thought Marklin. And where was Tommy? Suddenly in a panic, he realized he had lost sight of Tommy. No, there he was, eating grapes from the table like some sort of Roman plutocrat. Ought to have the decency not to do that.

  Marklin gave a quick, uneasy nod to those clustered around him and pushed through a tight press of men and women, and, nearly tripping over someone's foot, landed finally at Tommy's side.

  "What the hell's the matter with you?" Tommy demanded. He was looking at the ceiling. "For God's sake, relax. We'll be on the plane in a few hours. Then we'll be in ..."

  "Shhh, don't say anything," said Marklin, conscious that his voice was no longer normal, no longer under his control. If he had ever been this apprehensive in his life, he didn't remember it.

  For the first time he saw that the black cloth had been draped everywhere along the walls. The two clocks of the great hall were covered! And the mirrors, the mirrors were veiled in black. He found these things totally unnerving. He had never seen such old-fashioned funeral trappings. When people in his family had died, they'd been cremated. Someone called you later to tell you that it had been done. That was precisely what had happened with his parents. He'd been at school, lying on his bed, reading Ian Herning, when the call came, and he had only nodded and gone on reading. And now you've inherited everything, absolutely everything.

  Suddenly he was thoroughly sick from the candles. He could see the candelabra everywhere, such costly silver. Some of them were even encrusted with jewels. God, how much money did this Order have stashed away in its cellars and its vaults? A small nation indeed. But then it was all the fault of fools like Stuart, who had long ago willed his entire fortune to the Order, and must surely have changed that will, all things considered, of course.

  All things. Tessa. The plan. Where was Stuart now--with Tessa?

  The talk grew louder and louder. There was the tinkling of glasses. Elvera came again and poured more wine into his glass.