Lasher by Anne Rice

terrible childhood!” But on he slept as if he’d been touched by the witch’s wand.
    Maybe this wasn’t the night for getting him into bed. No, she’d rather everything be perfect for the assault. And not only had she been with David, she was soiled from the ground in the cemetery. Why, there were even a few dead leaves snarled in her hair, very Ophelia, but probably not very sexy.
    Maybe it was the night for searching the attics. For finding the Victrola, and cranking it up. Maybe there were old records with it, that record that Ancient Evelyn used to play? Maybe it was time to meet Oncle Julien here in the shadows, and not time to be with Michael at all?
    But he was so luscious there, gorgeously imperfect, her high prole Endymion, with the slight bump to his nose, and the soft creases in his forehead, very Spencer Tracy, yes, the man of her dreams. And a man in the hand is worth two ghosts in a dream.
    And speaking of hands, look at it, his large, soft hand! Now that was a man’s hand. Nobody would say to him, “You have the fingers of a violinist.” And she used to find men like that sexy, the delicate kind, like Cousin David, with hairless chins, with eyes full of soul. Ah, her whole appreciation of masculinity was taking a turn for the rough and the deep and the better.
    She touched Michael’s jaw, and the edge of his ear, his neck. She felt his curly black hair. Oh, nothing softer and finer than curly black hair. Her mother and Gifford had such fine black hair. But Mona’s red hair would never be soft, and then she caught the fragrance of his skin, very subtle and nice and warm, and she bent down and kissed his cheek.
    His eyes opened, but it seemed he couldn’t see anything. She sank down beside him—just couldn’t stop herself, even though she knew this was an invasion of his privacy—and heturned over. What
was
her plan? Hmmm…She felt such a craving for him suddenly. It wasn’t even erotic. It was all a kind of swoony romance. She wanted to feel his arms around her; she wanted him to pick her up; she wanted him to kiss her; common things like that. A man’s arms, not a boy’s. They should dance. In fact, it was plain wonderful that there was no boy in him, that he was all wild beast in a way some men never would be, very jagged and roughened and overgrown, with skin-colored lips and slightly wild eyebrows.
    She realized he was looking at her, and in the even light from the street, his face was pale yet clear.
    “Mona!” he whispered.
    “Yes, Uncle Michael. I got forgotten. It was a mix-up. Can I spend the night?”
    “Well, honey, we have to call your father and mother.”
    He started to sit up, deliciously rumpled, black hair tumbling over his eyes. He really was drugged, though, no doubt of it.
    “Wrong, Uncle Michael!” she said quickly but gently. She put her hand on his chest. Ah, terrific. “My dad and mom are asleep. They think I’m with Uncle Ryan out in Metairie. And Uncle Ryan thinks I’m home with them. Don’t call anybody. You’ll just get everybody all excited, and I’ll have to take a cab home all alone and I don’t want to. I want to spend the night.”
    “But they’ll realize…”
    “My parents? You have it on good authority from me that they will not realize anything. Did you see my dad tonight, Uncle Michael?”
    “Yeah, I did, honey.” He tried to stifle a yawn and failed. He looked very concerned for her suddenly, as if it wasn’t appropriate to yawn while discussing her alcoholic father.
    “He’s not going to live very long,” she said in a bored voice. She didn’t want to talk about him either. “I can’t stand Amelia Street when they’re both drunk. Nobody there but Ancient Evelyn, and she never sleeps anymore. She’s watching them.”
    “Ancient Evelyn,” he mused. “Such a lovely name. Do I know Ancient Evelyn?”
    “Nope. She never leaves the house. She told them once to bring you up home, but they never did. She’s my