Blood Canticle (29 page)

“Blackwood Farm,” said Quinn. “We three, we stick together.”

Rowan looked at me. No one has ever looked at me in quite the same way that Rowan does.

She nodded.

She turned to go, then turned back and put her arms around me, a warm bundle of life entrusted to me. Every barrier inside me collapsed.

We kissed as if no one was there to see it, over and over, until it was a little language of its own, her breasts very hot against my chest, my hands clutching her hips, my eyes closed, my mind mute for once as if my body had driven it back, or so inundated it with sensation that it could not tell me what to do. And at last, she pulled away, and I turned my back. The blood thirst was paralyzing me. The want was paralyzing me. And then there broke loose the love, the pure love.

I stood motionless, realizing it for what it was. Pure love. And connecting it suddenly and helplessly with the love I’d felt when I’d kissed Patsy’s phantom at the edge of the swamp: pure love.

And my mind cast back over the centuries, like the mechanism of conscience determined to ferret out sin, only it searched for moments of
pure love.
And I knew them, secret, silent, few, splendid. Splendid in their own power, whether the loved one ever knew it or not, splendid to have loved—.

Flash on the couple in each other’s arms, Ash and Morrigan, the white mist rising from them. Emblem of pure love.

The awareness dissolved. Quinn moved me away from the roar of the jet engines. We walked off the tarmac.

We were silent in the noise of the departing plane. At last it made its smooth ascent. And was gone into the clouds.

The age-old mystery of the Caribbean unfolded—another tiny island soaked in blood—that this most glorious part of the world should bear witness to so many tales of violence.

Mona stood looking out to sea. The breeze lifted her full red hair. Her eyes were beyond tears. She was the very picture of mourning.

Could she begin now? Really begin, my perfect one?

I drew close to her. I didn’t want to intrude on this bereavement. But she reached out with her left arm and brought me in, and let her weight rest against me.

“This was my search,” she said, eyes faraway, “this was my dream, my dream that overleapt the Dark Blood—the dream that carried me through all the pain that preceded it.”

“I know,” I said. “I understand you.”

“That I would find my Morrigan,” she said, “that I would find them living in happiness, that I would know her again with all her madness and we would talk the long nights away, exchanging kisses, our lives touching and then parting. And now . . . it’s all ruin.”

I waited, out of respect for what she’d said. Then I spoke:

“They did live in happiness for a very long time,” I said. “Oberon described it to us. They lived for years as the Secret People.” I reminded her as best I could of what Oberon had told us.

Slowly she yielded to a nod, her eyes on the placid and warm sea. It made no impression upon her. “They should have let us help!” she whispered. “Michael and Rowan would have helped! Oh, the folly of it! To think that Morrigan wouldn’t let him call Rowan. Because she was jealous! Oh, Rowan, Rowan.”

I held my thoughts to myself.

“Come home to Blackwood Farm,” said Quinn. “There’s time to mourn and time to know Miravelle and Oberon and even Lorkyn.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “These Taltos are not for me, not now. Miravelle is some pure and lithesome thing without my fire, without her mother’s fire. The link is broken. Morrigan went down in pain. They’ll care for Miravelle. Poor tender creature, salvaged from the ancient one and a mutant birth. I have nothing to give to Miravelle. As for Oberon, he’s too dark for me, and what can I give him? He’ll kill Lorkyn sooner or later, don’t you think? And how will Rowan justify the keeping of Lorkyn? It’s not my concern. It’s not my passion. I want to be with you, you are my people.”

“Don’t try to decide these things now,” I said. I felt so sorry for her. And in my heart I felt a burning concern for the tasks that lay ahead of Rowan.

“Maharet’s words are clear.” She went on in the same torn voice, her eyes never turning to me or to Quinn. “It was nature taking its course. It was inevitable.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Quinn. “But it is finished.”

I turned, and looked at the distant villa with all its lighted windows. I looked at the broad mass of rocky jungle rising behind the brashly illuminated beach. I scanned. I caught the small beasts of the wild place, the tamarinds, the birds, perhaps a wild boar deep in there. I couldn’t tell.

Yet I was reluctant to leave. I wasn’t sure why.

I wanted to move through the jungles. The jungles I had not searched, and they were thick. Only this was not the time.

We bid the island good-bye. Quinn took Mona in his arms, and they made for the clouds.

I went back for the statue of my beloved saint, and was soon on my way to the safe refuge of Blackwood Farm.

27

I
STOPPED
at the flat, stripped off the leather clothes, put on a lavender dress shirt, purple tie, black linen three-piece suit, new boots, cut out for Blackwood Farm, dived into Aunt Queen’s bed and went sound asleep.

(Saint Juan Diego was on the bedside table right beside me.)

Vague memory of Mona coming in before sunrise and telling me she’d E-mailed to “the mysterious Maharet” an account of the entire event. I said: “Bravo. I love you. Get out of here.”

At sunset, when I awoke, I went out into the house to discover Stirling Oliver had come. He’d had an early supper with Tommy and Nash, who had gone into New Orleans for the evening, and was now waiting for me on the “wicker terrace” on the east side of the house.

I was so comforted by every aspect of Blackwood Farm and its unsuspecting humans that I could have wept, but I didn’t. I made a little circuit of the big rooms. No sign of Julien’s ghost. Why was he letting me off the hook? I rejoiced, whatever his reasons. Here at Blackwood Farm, the island of St. Ponticus seemed remote, the horrors of last night imagined.

The Dazzling Duo had not risen yet.

I took the statue of Saint Juan Diego and I headed outdoors.

The wicker terrace had been created by Quinn out of all the antique wicker furniture he’d found in the attic of Blackwood Farm when he was still a teenager, and he’d had it all restored and put out here, and it was quite atmospheric and charming.

The floodlights weren’t on. There were just a couple of hurricane lamps flickering away, and Stirling, in a light tweed Norfolk jacket, was smoking a cigarette. His neatly trimmed gray hair was ruffled a bit by the breeze. But otherwise he was the picture of dignity. And the picture of a mortal with whom I could be at ease and talk as if I wasn’t a monster.

I sat down in the chair opposite him, with Saint Juan Diego out of sight at my side.

There was that Fall bite in the air. I resigned myself to it, and breathed in the pure freshness of the breeze, and let my eyes linger on the pearly clouds and the frightening and inevitable little stars that soon shone through them.

“So hit me with it, baby,” I said.

“Well,” he said, his youthful eyes at once alert. “A plane of our people descended on the island as swiftly as could be managed, and collected the laptops and every other computer they could find in the mezzanine library that Oberon described to us, remnants of the Secret People that Oberon wanted saved, and they were about to take their leave when a boatload of the unsavory characters arrived. We had an escort of five or six soldiers of fortune, you might call them, not members of the Talamasca you understand, but quite loyal in their work for us, so there was a parley of sorts. The unsavory individuals deemed it prudent to depart. Very quickly in fact. I would say that they surmised that their time on the island had ended. Our plane took off without mishap. Chalk it up to poise and persuasion on the part of our soldiers.

“Meanwhile, the firm of Mayfair and Mayfair traced the entire history of the island, finding a clear chain of title revealing the transfer from Lost Paradise Resorts to The Secret Isle Corp., only officer and stock holder Ash Templeton. Attorneys for the Corporation in New York notified other attorneys, who then notified other attorneys who were the true managers of Ash’s affairs.

“They flew down this afternoon. Saw his body at Mayfair Medical. Revealed Last Will and Testament executed four years ago, leaving everything to Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair, with some sort of trust arrangement for Ash’s children. That was years after Ash left New Orleans with Morrigan. There was a bundle of accompanying letters. ‘To be given to Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair should I die or become incapacitated.’ They’ve been given to Michael and Rowan.”

“I don’t quite get it,” I said.

“Ash was taking steps,” said Stirling. “He knew the Secret People were in trouble. He simply didn’t take the steps fast enough. Communication was always sporadic. The estate lawyers didn’t know the location of the Secret People or their name. Communication broke off two years ago. Ash should have given one of the firms a timetable and a course of action: ‘If you don’t hear from me every six months, etc.’ ”

“I see,” I answered. “Any clue as to what was in the letters?”

“From what Michael told me, the letters are full of polite warnings, observations and requests that Rowan and Michael and the Mayfair family care for his children. Ash was immensely wealthy. The money in essence passes to Rowan and Michael in trust for Oberon, Lorkyn and Miravelle.

“No problem there. I don’t know whether anyone’s ever made you aware of it, but Rowan and Mona both made immense profits for the Mayfair Legacy. Rowan sits on the boards who invest the funds of the Medical Center Endowments and she’s considered an incredibly shrewd moneymaker. I suppose what I’m struggling to say is that the Mayfair fortune continues to grow, in spite of the cost of Mayfair Medical, which is now the recipient of all sorts of grant money, and Ash’s Last Will and Testament will be observed with complete honor by Mayfair and Mayfair, have no doubt.”

“And you think you owe me this explanation?” I asked.

“In a way, yes,” he said. “You did rescue the Taltos. And of course you can tell all this to Mona when the subject arises. And I trust it will.”

I nodded.

“While we’re on the subject,” he said, “might I ask, how do you live yourself?”

“On blood,” I said.

“No, but I mean the financial part of it.”

“Stirling, look to the Chronicles and your own Talamasca files. Hand to mouth immortals are the stuff of B movies. I have more wealth than I know what to do with. It’s managed in Paris and in New York for me by mortals who know me by voice. When I do become ragged, it’s a matter of moral disposition, nothing more.”

“Fascinating,” he replied.

“Go on with what’s been happening,” I said.

“Well, Rowan is so busy in the laboratory with the two bodies, she’s scarcely looked at the letters. Michael is reading through them now. He’ll show them to me later.

“Of course, the Talamasca has turned over all the computers from the morning raid to the Mayfair family. The computers are the property of Michael and Rowan by force of Ash’s will. We had no choice but to do it. Perhaps they’ll allow us to study the material later on.”

“Has Mayfair and Mayfair taken any action about the island itself, to keep off the drug people?”

“They’ve contacted every form of authority policing that part of the World, I believe, but I gather that it’s rather complicated. We offered to send back the soldiers of fortune. They may take us up on it. A private security force of some type has been sent there. Also some kind of cleanup crew. Apparently the cabin cruiser, the plane—these things were Ash’s property. This Rodrigo whom you so obligingly destroyed was a major DEA target. This was made known to the family when they asked for protection for the island. The family has not cooperated with the DEA or invited them in. It’s all being handled privately.”

“Hmmm. . . .” I felt uneasy about the island. All that jungle. I wish I had taken the time to walk through that jungle. “Where are the Taltos?”

“You want the short answer, or the story?”

“You kidding?”

“Well, Miravelle and Oberon spent the morning and early afternoon at the First Street house in the company of Dolly Jean and Tante Oscar,” said Stirling. “It was quite amazing. At times, I thought I was hallucinating. Apparently Tante Oscar has not left her French Quarter apartment in years. You remember, she wears three and four dresses at a time?”

“Yes indeed I remember,” I said. “She spreads evil rumors about me. I’d set her right, but if she’s really over a hundred years old, I might give her a heart attack.”

“Good point. When Dolly Jean called her on the famous refrigerated telephone, she agreed to come to First Street if the car were sent, and she spent the afternoon with Dolly Jean and Michael regaling ‘the Walking Babies’ with stories, or with Miravelle or Oberon regaling them, I’m not quite sure which, but all of it has been recorded for posterity by me and by Michael. Miravelle was shocked by a great deal that the two old women had to say, but Oberon was in hysterics. He thought them the funniest human beings he’d ever met, and he was stomping his foot and slamming the table.

“Naturally I was enthralled merely watching this entire collection of beings, including Tante Oscar.” He drew on his cigarette. “She was indeed wearing some three or four dresses under her maroon fox-trimmed coat, and a black hat with roses on it and a little face veil, and she does have eyes like eggs. She entered the house making the Sign of the Cross over and over again, rosary beads running through her right hand, a battalion of exquisite twelve-year-old boys accompanying her up the marble steps and into the dining room. The boys soon discovered the swimming pool and were invited to swim and went to it with gusto. They might be still swimming now. Apparently they’d never been swimming in their lives before.”

Stirling stopped.

The Dazzling Duo had appeared. Both were tricked out in safari jackets and khaki slacks, Quinn with an open shirt, Mona with an olive green turtleneck—a startling contrast to the formal clothes they’d always worn before.

They were both pale and a little gaunt. They had no need to feed, thanks to last night’s repast, but apparently the dark adventure had taken their energy. Quinn appeared to be fasting. Mona looked wounded and frail.

Just for a moment, I saw in her the gaunt dying girl she’d been when I first laid eyes on her. It frightened me.

Kisses and hugs for Stirling, who rose to his feet to receive them.

I clasped her hand and she bent low to kiss me on the mouth. I felt a fever in her, as though her body were consuming her past dreams. And an ashen sadness clouded her vision.

She came right to the point, even before she flopped into a wicker chair and put her feet up on the table.

“Rowan has to know whether they’re alive or dead by now,” she said.

“Darling, they’re dead,” said Stirling, “there’s no question. They’ve been brought up to a temperature of perhaps forty degrees, and connected to every sort of monitor known to Rowan. There’s no life in them whatsoever. Only a gold mine of tissue and blood and bone which Rowan wants to examine.”

“Oh, yeah, oh of course,” said Mona in a low fast-running voice. She closed her eyes. She seemed so lost. “So the Mad Scientist must be overjoyed.”

“What about the poison?” I asked. “Oberon said that Ash and Morrigan had been slowly poisoned by the rebel children.”

Stirling nodded. “There were several compounds in their blood and tissue. Apparently they’d been given arsenic, Coumadin and some other rare chemical that strikes at the musculature. The doses would have been fatal to human beings. But it’s a tricky matter. There might have been other poisons which didn’t survive in the bodies. There were also huge amounts of benzodiazepines.”

“Evil Silas,” whispered Mona.

“Has either Miravelle or Oberon said any more about the life of the Secret People?” Quinn asked. “I think the more Mona hears about that the better she will feel.”

“To Hell with it,” said Mona in a low voice.

Stirling went on gently.

“Yes, they’ve both talked a lot. So did some of the New York lawyers who represented Ash. Their life was very good, and it lasted some four years before this villainous Rodrigo took over the island. Oberon enjoys describing their trips and their studies very much. Miravelle has reverted more and more to a childlike state. Oberon becomes impatient with her.”

“Where are they now?” asked Quinn.

“At Mayfair Medical. Rowan had them both admitted for tests earlier this evening.”

“Oh, splendid, and they agreed to it!” Mona said. “How could I not know that? The two dead ones are not enough! Lorkyn isn’t enough. She has to have the live ones immediately as well! That’s Rowan. Did she say the poor children looked a bit peaked? Or did she just shoot something into their veins and then throw them on the stretchers? I wish I could mount a conscientious opposition, but I haven’t the spirit for it. So let them disappear into the laboratories and secret rooms of Mayfair Medical. Good-bye, sweet Miravelle! Will I ever lay eyes on you again? Farewell, oh, acid-tongued Oberon, may you not alienate too many of the nurses with your withering wit, for they can make your life miserable. And who am I, the Blood Child, to seek such a privilege as to see these odd, out-of-time beings, except perhaps to turn them loose into the workaday world where they’d undoubtedly fall victim to some insidious human equivalent to Rodrigo the Drug Lord!”

“Mona, Miravelle and Oberon won’t be kept there,” Quinn said. “We can see to it ourselves. Rowan won’t make them prisoners. You’re making Rowan the enemy again for no reason. We can go to Mayfair Medical now and see them, very likely, if you wish. Nobody can prevent us.”

“Listen to you!” Mona said, with a faint affectionate smile. “You think you know Rowan, and you don’t know Rowan. And Beloved Boss here has fallen under her dark spell same as Ash Templeton apparently, who forswore her for his species and failed to save them for Morrigan’s jealousy of her, Oh, Darkness, Oh, Piteous Darkness; Lestat, how can you find her glacial heart!”

“You’re using Rowan as a lightning rod,” said Quinn calmly. “What’s the excuse now for hating Rowan? Because she pronounced Ash and Morrigan dead? Lestat told you they were dead. Let it go. Let it all go.”

Mona shook her head, words rushing. “Where’s the wake? Where’s the funeral? Where are the flowers? Where is the family with everyone kissing? Will they put Ash and Morrigan in the family tomb?”

I reached over and took her hand. “Ophelia,” I said softly, “what need have they for flowers now, or kissing? ‘Is’t possible a young maid’s wits should be as mortal as an old man’s life?’ Be still, my beauty.”

She answered me with Shakespeare:

“ ‘Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness.’ ”

“No, come back. Hold on.”

She shut her eyes. The silence lengthened. I felt her draw breath.