Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(50)
Author: Anne Rice

It wasn’t until they were over the Atlantic that he tried to sleep. They’d eaten their gluttonous fill, and drunk a little too much, and talked for an hour about Aaron. Now the cabin was dark and silent, and they bundled beneath a loose half-dozen blankets.

They needed sleep, he figured. Aaron would advise them to sleep now, wouldn’t he?

They’d land in London after eight hours, and it would be early morning there, though it was really night to their bodies, and there would be Yuri, eager to hear and entitled to hear how Aaron had died. Pain. Grief. The inevitable.

He was slipping off, not certain whether he was going right straight into a nightmare or into something as bright and meaningless as a bad cartoon, when he felt her touch his arm.

He let his head roll on the leather seat as he turned to her. She lay back beside him, hand clasping his hand.

“If we see this through,” she whispered, “if you don’t back off from what I do, if I don’t shut you …”

“Yes …”

“Then nothing will ever come between us. Nobody ever will. And anything you might have with a girl bride will be forfeit.”

“I want no girl brides,” he said. “I never did. I didn’t dream of other women while you were gone from me. I love Mona in my own way, and always will, but that’s part of who we are, all of us. I love her and I want the child. I want the child so much I don’t even want to talk about it. It’s too soon. I’m too desperate. But I want only you, and that’s been true since the first day I was with you.”

She closed her eyes, her hand still warm and tight on his arm, and then it slipped away rather naturally, as if she’d gone to sleep. Her face looked serene and utterly perfect.

“You know, I’ve taken life,” he said in a whisper. But he wasn’t sure she was awake still. “I’ve taken life three times, and I’ve walked away from those deeds without regret. That changes anyone.”

No answer from her lips.

“I can do it again,” he said, “if I have to.”

Her lips moved.

“I know that you can,” she said softly, not opening her eyes, still lying there as if in deep sleep. “But you see, I’m going to do it whether I have to or not. I have been mortally offended.”

She drew in close and kissed him again.

“We’re not going to make it to London,” he said.

“We’re the only ones in the entire first-class cabin,” she said, raising her eyebrows, and then kissing him again. “I was once riding on a plane when a certain sort of love was made known to me. It was Lasher’s first kiss, you might say. It had a wild, electric quality to it. But I want your arms. I want your cock. I want your body! I can’t wait until London. Give it to me.”

Enough said, he thought. Thank God she’d opened the blazer, or he might have torn the buttons in proverbial romantic fashion.

Nine

IT WAS NOT so changed. It stood in its forest or park, without locked gates or dogs to protect it, a great manor house of fine arched windows and myriad chimneys, luxuriously large and luxuriously well cared for. One could imagine those times, looking at it. Their brutality and darkness, their particular fire—all this drew breath and hissed in the empty night.

Only the cars lining the gravel drive, the cars parked in the open garages in long rows, betrayed the modern age. Even the wires and cables ran underground.

He walked through the trees, and then up close to the foundations and along the stones, searching for the doors he remembered. He wore no suit or coat now, but only simple clothes, long workman’s pants of brown corduroy and a thick sweater made from wool, the favorite of seamen.

The house seemed to grow to immense size as he approached it. Sprinkled throughout were weak and lonely lights, but lights nevertheless. Scholars in their cells.

Through a series of small barred windows he saw a cellar kitchen. Two lady cooks in white were setting aside the kneaded bread to let it rise. And white flour covered their hands and the pale wood of the counter. The smell of coffee came up to him from this room—very rich and fresh. There had been a door … a door for deliveries and such. He walked along, out of the helpful illumination of the windows, feeling the stone wall with his hands, and then coming to a door, though it was one that had not been lately used, and it seemed quite impassable.

It was worth a try. And he had come equipped. Perhaps it was not wired with alarms as any door of his own would have been. Indeed, it looked neglected and forlorn and when he studied it, he saw that it had no lock at all, but merely old hinges, very rusted, and a simple latch.

To his amazement, it opened to his touch, and made a yawning creak that startled him and unnerved him. There was a stone passage and a small stairway leading upwards. Fresh foot tracks on the stairs. A gush of warm and faintly stale air, the indoor air of winter.

He entered and pushed the door closed. A light leaked down the stairs from above, illuminating a carefully written sign that said DO NOT LEAVE THIS DOOR OPEN.

Obediently, he made sure that it was shut and then turned and made his way upwards, emerging into a large, darkly paneled corridor.

This was the hall he remembered. He walked along, not trying to hide the sound of his tennis shoes or to conceal himself in the shadows. Here was the formal library he remembered—not the deep archive of priceless and crumbling records, but the daily reading room, with long oak tables and comfortable chairs, and heaps of magazines from throughout the world, and a dead fireplace, still warm beneath his foot, with a few scattered embers still glowing among its charred logs and ashes.

He had thought the room was empty, but on closer inspection he saw an old man dozing in a chair, a heavyset individual with a bald head and small glasses on the end of his nose, a handsome robe over his shirt and trousers.

It would not do to begin here. An alarm could be too easily sounded. He backed out of the room, careful to be silent this time and feeling lucky that he had not waked this man, and then he went on to a large stairway.

Bedchambers began on the third floor in olden times. Would it be the same now? He went all the way up. It was certainly likely.

When he reached the end of the corridor on the third floor, he turned down another small hall and spied light beneath a door, and decided upon that as his beginning.

Without knocking, he turned the knob and let himself into a small but elegant bedroom. The sole occupant was a woman with gray hair, who looked up from her desk with obvious but fearless amazement.

This was just what he had hoped for. He approached the desk.