Blood Canticle by Anne Rice Page B

There’ll come a time, but this isn’t it. Go back to the thirst.”
    She nodded. She didn’t fight me. I realized she hadn’t fought me on anything.
    But I knew she had heavy thoughts, more than usual links in the chain that bound fledglings to their living past. Something was catching hold of her, something to do with the warped images she’d shown me in the Blood—the Monstrous Offspring, the Woman Child. What had that been, that creature?
    I didn’t let Quinn pick this up from me. It was too soon to reveal all that. But he might well have caught it all in the room when I’d brought her over. I’d belonged to her during those moments, exclusively and dangerously. He might know all I’d seen. And he might be reading it from her now, though I knew she wasn’t ready to reveal it.
    The car was speeding across the lake. The lake looked like a huge dead thing rather than a body of living water. But the clouds rose in a triumphant mass beneath the emerging moon. When you’re a vampire you can see the clouds that others can’t see. You can live off things like that when faith is destroyed—the random shifting shapes of clouds, the seeming sentience of the moon.
    “No, I need to go there,” she said suddenly. “I have to see the house. I have to.”
    “What is this, a damned mutiny?” I answered. I was just congratulating you in my mind that you didn’t fight me.”
    “What? Do I get a merit badge for that?” she fired back. “We don’t have to go close to the house,” she went on, sob in her throat. “I just need to see those Garden District streets.”
    “Oh yeah, right,” I said under my breath. “You care that you’ll draw them right out of the house, right out of their peace of mind? You ready to follow up on that in some way? Of course I’m not saying you have to follow up. You understand, I’m just trying to respond to you and Mr. Quinn Blackwood as exemplary decent little people. I myself? I’m a scoundrel.”
    “Beloved Boss,” she said with a straight face, “let me just go as close as we can, as close as you can figure. No, I don’t want to rile them up. I hate the idea. But I was in solitary confinement for two years.”
    “Where
are
we headed, Lestat?” Quinn asked. “Will we hunt downtown?”
    “Back of town is what I like to call it,” I said. “No Creole like me is going to call it downtown. You know where the scum grows on the bricks. Listen for the city, Mona.”
    “I hear it,” she answered. “It’s like opening a floodgate. And then the discrete voices. Plenty of discrete voices. Bickering, threats, even the muffled snap of guns . . .”
    “The town’s full tonight in spite of the heat,” I said. “People are out on the streets, thoughts flooding me in sickening waves. If I was a saint, this is what I would have to listen to all the time.”
    “Yeah, like prayers,” she said. “All those petitions.”
    “Saints have to work,” I said, as if I really knew.
    And then with one fine blow it struck me.
Their presence.
    It hit Quinn at the same instant, and he said, “My God” under his breath. He was astonished.
    “Close in on them,” I said.
    “What is it?” Mona asked. “I can’t hear it.” Then she locked her eyes on Quinn.
    Oh, this was nothing short of providential! I was absolutely furious and deliriously happy at the same time. I closed my focus.
    Oh, yeah, right, killing at random as they fed, a pair of male and female vampires, constitutionally cruel, high-toned, style versus character, brilliant gold and brand-name leather, drunk on their powers, lapping up New Orleans as if it weren’t real, baiting the “great vampire Lestat,” in whom they didn’t really believe (who does?), prancing through my French Quarter streets to a lavish lair in a pricey hotel, key in the lock, blood full, laughter echoing to the ceiling, turn on the TV, done in for the night, innocent victims strewn in the back alleys, but not all of them, ready to groove on