Blood Canticle by Anne Rice Page A

my life that way before.
    Had that long-ago boy, Lestat, fought hard enough, he could have become a monk.
    “Accursed!” whispered the ghost.
    “That’s not possible,” I said.
    “Not possible to see her!” Rowan said. “You can’t be serious.”
    I heard a soft laughter. I turned around in the chair.
    To my far right the ghost was laughing. “Now what are you going to do, Lestat?” he asked.
    “What is it?” asked Rowan. “What are you seeing?”
    “Nothing,” I insisted. “You can’t see her. I promised her. No one would come up. For God’s sakes, let her alone.” I threw all my conviction behind it. I suddenly felt desperate. “Let her die the way she wants, for the love of Heaven. Let her go!”
    She glared at me, glared at this display of emotion. An immense inner suffering was suddenly visible in her face, as if she could no longer conceal it, or as if my own outburst, muted as it had been, had ignited the dim fire inside of her.
    “He’s right,” said Fr. Kevin. “But you understand, we have to stay here.”
    “And it’s not going to be very long,” said Rowan. “We’ll wait quietly. If you don’t want us in the house . . .”
    “No, no, of course you’re welcome,” I said.
“Mon Dieu!”
    Again came the ghostly laughter.
    “Your hospitality is wretched!” said Oncle Julien. “Jasmine has not even offered them a cracker and glass of water. I am appalled.”
    I was bitterly amused by that, and I doubted the truth of it. I found myself worrying about it and became incensed! And at the same time I heard something, something nobody in the room could hear, except perhaps the laughing ghost. It was the sound of Mona crying, nay, sobbing. I had to go back to Mona.
    All right, Lestat, be a monster. Throw the most interesting woman you’ve ever met out of the house.
    “Listen to me, both of you,” I said, fixing Rowan in my gaze, and then flashing on Fr. Kevin. “I want you to go home. Mona’s as psychic as you are. It distresses her dreadfully that you’re down here. She senses it. She feels it. It adds to her pain.” (All this was true, wasn’t it?) “I gotta go back up there now and comfort her. Please leave. That’s what she wants. That’s what gave her the strength to drive here. Now I promise you I will contact you when it’s all over. Please go.”
    I rose, and I took Rowan’s arm and all but lifted her out of the chair.
    “You are a perfect lout,” said the ghost, disgustedly.
    Fr. Kevin was on his feet.
    Rowan stared at me, transfixed. I guided her into the hallway and to the front door, and the priest followed.
Trust in me. Trust that it’s what Mona wants.
    Could they hear Mona’s sobs now?
    Without taking my eyes off Rowan’s eyes, I opened the front door. Blast of summer heat, scent of flowers. “You go now,” I said.
    “But the oxygen, the morphine,” said Rowan. Whiskey voice, they called it. It was so seductive. And behind her delicate probing frown was this conflict, this unadmitted and sinful power. What was it?
    We stood on the front porch, like dwarves underneath the columns. The purple light was suddenly soothing and the moment lost its proportions. It was like eternal dusk here in the country. I could hear the birds of the night, the distant unquiet waters of the swamp.
    Fr. Kevin instructed the orderlies. They brought in the supplies.
    I couldn’t break away from this woman. What had I been saying to her? The ghost was laughing. I was getting confused.
    What is your secret?
    I felt a physical push, as though she had stretched out her two hands and laid them on my chest and tried to move me back from where I stood. I saw the ghost over her shoulder. It came from her, the push. It had to come from her.
    Her face was engraved with a hostile beauty.
    She tossed her hair just slightly, let it stroke her cheeks.
    She narrowed her eyes. “Take care of Mona for me,” she said. “I love her with all my heart. You cannot know what it means to me that I