Taltos by Anne Rice Page B

“Michael, I don’t want her to see both of us together, you know, standing side by side.”
    “Use a little of your own witchcraft, honey. She knows I am her slave till the day I die.”
    His expression changed again, very slowly. He was looking at her in a calm but almost cold fashion. And again there came over her a sense of how bereft he really was.
    “Yeah, bereft,” he said, and there was something almost mean in his smile. He didn’t say anything more. He picked up the glass and went out the door.
    “Let’s go talk to the lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s go read her mind together. Two heads, you know, and all that. Maybe we should do it again, Mona, on the grass, you know, you and me, and maybe she’d wake up.”
    Mona was shocked. Did he mean that? No, that wasn’t the question. The question was, How could he say that?
    She didn’t answer him, but she knew what he felt. Or at least she thought she did. On some level she knew she couldn’t really know, that things were painful for a man of his age in a different way from what they were for a young girl. She knew this in spite of so many people having told her this, more or less. It was a matter not of humility but logic.
    She followed him out onto the flagstones and along the pool and then into the rear gates. His jeans were so tight, she could hardly stand it. His natural walk was a seductive swagger.
This is nice, think sexy thoughts! No way!
And his polo shirt wasn’t exactly loose-fitting either. She loved the way it moved over his shoulders and back.
    Can’t stop it
. She wished he hadn’t made that bitter little joke. Do it on the grass! An awful restlessness took hold of her. Men were always complaining about how the sight of sexy women aroused them. Well, with her it was words as well as images. His tight jeans, and the sharp images that had invaded her mind after what he’d said.
    Rowan was seated at the table, the way she’d been when Mona left her; the lantana was still there, the sprigs scattered a little, as if the wind had stirred them with one finger and then let them alone.
    Rowan was frowning slightly, as if weighing something in her mind. Now that was always a good sign, Mona thought, but she would get Michael’s hopes up if she talked about it. Rowan didn’t seem to know that they were there. She was still looking at the distant flowers, at the wall.
    Michael bent to kiss her on the cheek. He set the glass on the table. There was no change in her, except the breeze caught a few strands of hair. Then he reached down and he lifted her right hand and he placed her fingers around the glass.
    “Drink it, honey,” he said. He used the same tone he’d used to Mona, brusque and warm. Honey, honey, honey means Mona, Rowan, or Mary Jane, or any female being perhaps.
    Would “honey” have been appropriate for the dead thing, buried in the hole with its father? Christ, if she had only laid eyes on one of them, for just a precious second! Yeah, and every Mayfair woman who laid eyes on him during his little rampage had paid with her life for it. Except Rowan….
    Whoa! Rowan was lifting the glass. Mona watched with a fearful fascination as she drank without ever moving her eyes from the distant flowers. She did blink naturally and slowly as she swallowed, but that was all. And the frown remained. Small. Thoughtful.
    Michael stood watching her, hands in his pockets, and then he did a surprising thing. He talked about her to Mona, as if Rowan couldn’t hear. This was the first time.
    “When the doctor spoke to her, when he told her she should go in for tests, she just got up and walked off. It was like a person on a park bench in a big city. You’d think someone had sat down beside her, maybe too close to her. She was isolated like that, all alone.”
    He collected the glass. It looked more disgusting than ever. But to tell the truth, Rowan looked like she would have drunk anything that he’d put in her hand.
    Nothing