Blackwood Farm by Anne Rice

nothing could part us, that I wanted it suddenly, yes, wanted him and me to be together always, yet I was saying something different.
    â€œGet away from me, Goblin. Goblin, you must listen. I was the one, the one who brought you into being. Listen to me.”
    But it was useless. The electric shivers wouldn’t stop, and I saw only images of the two of us as children, as boys, as men, all of it moving too fast for me to focus, to repudiate or confirm. Sunlight poured through an open doorway; I saw the flowered pattern of linoleum. I heard the laughter of toddlers, and I tasted milk.
    I knew I was falling or about to fall, that Lestat’s firm hands were holding me, because I wasn’t in the room with the sunlight, but it was all that I could see, and there was Goblin, little Goblin frolicking and laughing, and I too was laughing.
Love you, all right, need you, of course, yours, us together.
I looked down and saw my chubby childish left hand, and I held a spoon in it and was banging with the spoon. And there was Goblin’s hand on top of mine. And over and over came that bang of the spoon against wood, and the sunlight, how beautifully it came in the door, but the flowers on the linoleum were worn.
    Then, as violently as Goblin had come, he withdrew. I glimpsed the humanoid shape for no more than a second, the eyes huge, the mouth open; then his image expanded, lost its conformity and vanished.
    The draperies of the room swayed, and the vase of flowers suddenly toppled, and I heard dimly the dripping of the water, and then the vase itself hit the soft rug.
    In a fog, I stared at the wounded bouquet of flowers. Pink-throated lilies. I wanted to pick them up. The tiny wounds all over me stung me and hurt me. I hated him that he had made the vase fall over, that the lilies were spilt now on the floor.
    I looked at the women, first one and then the other. They appeared to be sleeping. There was no death.
    My Goblin, my very own Goblin. That verbless thought stayed with me. My familiar spirit, my partner in all of life; you belong to me and I belong to you.
    Lestat was holding me by the shoulders. I could barely stand. In fact, if he had let me go I would have fallen. I couldn’t take my eyes off the pink-throated lilies.
    â€œHe didn’t have to make the flowers fall,” I said. “I taught him not to hurt things that were pretty. I taught him that when we were small.”
    â€œQuinn,” said Lestat, “come back to me! I’m talking to you. Quinn!”
    â€œYou didn’t see him,” I said. I was shaking all over. I stared at the tiny wounds on my hands, but they were already healing. It was the same way with the pinpricks on my face. I wiped at my face. Faint traces of blood on my fingers.
    â€œI saw the blood,” said Lestat.
    â€œHow did you see it?” I asked. I was growing stronger. I struggled to clear my mind.
    â€œIn the shape of a man,” Lestat said, “a man faintly sketched in blood, sketched in the air, just for an instant, and then there was a swirling cloud of tiny drops, and I saw it pass through the open door as rapidly as if it were being sucked out.”
    â€œThen you know why I came looking for you,” I said. But I realized he couldn’t really see the spirit that Goblin was. He’d seen the blood, yes, because the blood was visible, but the spirit who had always appeared to me was invisible to him.
    â€œIt can’t really hurt you,” he said, his voice tender and kind. “It can’t take any real volume of blood from you. It took just a tiny taste of what you took from the woman.”
    â€œBut he’ll come again whenever he wants, and I can’t fight him, and each time, I could swear, it’s a little more.”
    I steadied myself, and he released me, stroking my hair with his right hand. That casual gesture of affection coupled with his dazzling appearance—the vibrant eyes, the exquisitely